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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e4cc73b --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65583 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65583) diff --git a/old/65583-0.txt b/old/65583-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ea36fb5..0000000 --- a/old/65583-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5006 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, New Brooms, by Robert J. (Robert James) Shores - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: New Brooms - - -Author: Robert J. (Robert James) Shores - - - -Release Date: June 10, 2021 [eBook #65583] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW BROOMS*** - - -E-text prepared by Charlene Taylor, Charlie Howard, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images -generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/newbrooms00shoriala - - -Transcriber’s note: - - Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). - - - - - -NEW BROOMS - -by - -ROBERT J. SHORES - - -[Illustration] - - - - - - -Indianapolis -The Bobbs-Merrill Company -Publishers - -Copyright 1913 -The Bobbs-Merrill Company - -Press of -Braunworth & Co. -Bookbinders and Printers -Brooklyn, N. Y. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - I A PHILOSOPHICAL COOK 1 - - II A BACHELOR ON WOMEN 16 - - III ON PENSIONING WRITERS 20 - - IV A PURITAN IN BOHEMIA 27 - - V AN ARRAIGNMENT OF ORIGINALITY 42 - - VI A FLATTERING TRIBUTE 51 - - VII THE RIDDLE OF A DREAM 53 - - VIII BEDS FOR THE BAD 61 - - IX IS CHESTERTON A MAN ALIVE? 69 - - X FROM A HUNCHBACK 77 - - XI FROM A HOTEL SPONGE 89 - - XII FROM SARAH SHELFWORN 96 - - XIII FROM ANNA PEST 104 - - XIV FROM SETH SHIRTLESS 110 - - XV SARTOR-PSYCHOLOGY 118 - - XVI MR. BODY PROTESTS 126 - - XVII ON A CERTAIN CONDESCENSION IN FASHION WRITERS 138 - - XVIII OF LOOKING BACKWARD 146 - - XIX THE LITERARY LIFE 155 - - XX THE POETIC LICENSE 162 - - XXI THE NECESSITY FOR BEGGARS 168 - - XXII THE ABUSES OF ADVERSITY 173 - - XXIII THE SCIENCE OF MAKING ENEMIES 182 - - XXIV THE FATE OF FALSTAFF 192 - - XXV THE REWARD OF MERIT 202 - - XXVI THE BLESSINGS OF THE BLIND 212 - - XXVII A TALE OF A MAD POET’S WIFE 224 - - XXVIII THE LOCK-STEP 232 - - XXIX THE FRUIT OF FAME 250 - - - - -NEW BROOMS - - - - -A PHILOSOPHICAL COOK - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: Though I am not one of your subscribers I am, I believe, -one of your most faithful readers. I do not take your magazine, it is -true, but I am at present employed in a family some member of which is -evidently a subscriber, as the maid brings it out in the waste-paper -basket regularly, once a month, when, according to her custom, she -permits me to select from the month’s periodicals such journals as seem -to me to be worthy of my attention in my leisure hours. I shall not -conceal from you the fact that my fancy was first attracted to your -publication by the fact that I always found it fresh and clean, with -the leaves still uncut, and not soiled, bedraggled and often coverless -as are some of the others which suffer more usage before reaching me. -But having once cut the leaves with a convenient bread-knife and looked -through one of your numbers, I perceived at once that you are, in -your way, something of a philosopher, and I have ever been partial to -everything that smacked of philosophy. Could you step into my pantry at -the present moment you would find upon my shelves Plato and Aristotle -as well as the immortal Mrs. Rorer, for I am, in my humble fashion, a -philosopher as well as a cook. I do not at all agree with that learned -and talented French gentleman who declared that to study philosophy was -to learn to die; on the contrary, I hold that to study philosophy is -to learn to live, and I see no reason why the study of philosophy is -not as fitting an occupation for a cook as for a collegian. Therefore I -cook or philosophize according to my inclination, and if it seem to you -that I philosophize like a cook, my employer, I am proud to say, will -tell you that I cook like a philosopher. - -In youth I had the advantage of a grammar school education, and that -education I have supplemented with reading and observation. If, as -Pope has said, - - “The proper study of mankind is man,” - -then I have entered the right school for the completion of my -education; for the kitchen is, it seems to me, a natural observatory -for the study of human nature. Working away at my chosen profession -in the seclusion of my kitchen, I can, without ever having laid eyes -upon him, give you a complete character of the head of the household. I -can not with certainty say whether he is a large or small man, because -the appetite is sometimes deceptive in this respect, and I have known -a small man to eat as much as would suffice for two stevedores, and -I have known an athlete to peck at a meal that would leave a child -hungry. It is not, then, by his physical character that I judge him, -but by his mental and psychological symptoms. I do not gage him by -how much he eats, but by what he eats. I can not tell you whether he -is large or small, but I can tell you whether he is voluptuous or -esthetic, good-natured or crabbed, rich or poor, wise or foolish. - -It is really remarkable the knowledge I come to have of this person -whom I have never seen, or it would be if the method by which I reach -my conclusions were not so simple. If he keeps fast days and eats only -fish upon Fridays, I know, of course, that he is a churchman. If he -persistently eats food which is bad for any man’s digestion, I know -that he is both irritable and obstinate, for no man can continue to -eat what does not agree with him without becoming irritable, and no -man will continue such a course in the face of his better judgment -unless he is obstinate. If he eats only of rich food and shows a -constant preference for _taste_ over _nutrition_, I know that he is a -voluptuary; it is seldom that a man indulges himself in a passion for -over-eating who does not indulge himself in other passions as well, -and even though his one indulgence be eating, he is none the less a -voluptuary by nature. If he eats little and that in an abstracted -manner, sometimes overlooking a favorite dish or allowing his soup -to grow cold so that it is returned half-eaten, I know that he is -absent-minded and eats merely because he has to, not because he loves -eating for its own sake. If he insists upon having his toast an exact -shade of brown and his coffee at a given degree of temperature, I know -that he is exacting and particular as to details; that he thinks well -of himself and thinks of himself often. - -So, as you see, there are hundreds of these moral symptoms which are -as familiar to me as physical symptoms are to a physician. Thus I -supplement my theoretical knowledge of philosophy by my observation of -life. - -When I was casting about me for an occupation I had, being an orphan, -a perfectly free choice. Had I followed my first impulse, I think I -should have gone to live in a tub like Diogenes, and have resolved to -spend my life, like Schopenhauer, in thinking about it. But a little -observation soon convinced me that the man who lives in the fashion of -Diogenes is not held in high favor in these days and that philosophy, -as a profession, would be likely to prove unremunerative. Now I am not -one who desires riches or who can not be happy without wealth, but I -soon decided that I must be possessed of a certain amount of money in -order to indulge my taste for personal cleanliness. I soon gave over -the tub of Diogenes, but I was loath to forego all intercourse with the -ordinary domestic tub. - -Having determined, therefore, to enter upon some profession in which -I could make a reasonable amount of money without requiring a great -preliminary outlay, I looked about me for a vocation which might supply -my physical needs, and at the same time, afford me some mental and -spiritual satisfaction. I dismissed the study of the law or medicine as -beyond my means, and I did not find myself sufficiently religious to -permit me to enter the ministry with a clear conscience. For trade I -had your true philosopher’s distaste, and I confess no sort of manual -labor, except as cooking may be so described, held any attraction for -me. I shuddered at the thought of becoming a barber, chiropodist or -hair-dresser, and my pride would not permit me to suffer the rebuffs -which fall to the lot of a pedler, book agent or commercial traveler. - -It was then that I was struck with my happy inspiration. I would become -a member of an old and honorable profession--I would become a cook. -If I could not be a philosopher and nourish men’s minds, I would be a -cook and nourish their bodies. I would make dishes so delicious and -enticing that men upon the brink of suicide would turn back to life -with new hope in their hearts. I would impart energy to the weary, -peace to the troubled in mind and happiness to the discontented. I -would become such a cook as might have won the praise of Lucullus; I -would become an artist worthy to take the hand of Epicurus. Such were -the extravagant hopes I hugged to my breast when I matriculated at the -best cooking-school of my native state. It is true that my achievements -have fallen far short of my ambitions, but I have never swerved from my -allegiance to my ideal of the Perfect Dinner. - -Upon finishing my course at cooking-school, I utilized my savings in -indulging myself in a post-graduate course abroad. I went to Paris, and -there I made the acquaintance of the immortal Frederick of the Tour -d’Argent, he of the famous pressed ducks, and of other masters of the -culinary art. - -This, then, was my preparation for a life of cooking. Possibly you will -think that I took my profession too seriously; possibly you do not -hold the same high opinion of the art of cooking that I have always -held--there are many so minded. It is a never-failing source of wonder -to me that men are so quick to recognize the services of those who feed -their minds and so slow to acknowledge the debt they owe to those who -feed their bodies. I have never regarded cooking in the light of mere -manual labor. Labor, it seems to me, is work that is distasteful and -only performed from necessity; a “labor of love” seems to me to be a -paradox. Work, on the contrary, may be as keen a source of pleasure -as recreation. Work may be the striving of an artist to attain his -ideal. The very word “labor” suggests pain and exhaustion. We speak of -an author’s “works,” but who would think of referring to them as his -“labors”? - -I do not believe, as many seem to believe, that any man or woman who -can juggle a skillet or wield an egg-beater is a cook. Merely to follow -a formula in a cookery book does not make one a cook any more than the -compounding of a prescription makes one a physician. Cooking is an art -as well as a science. The violinist can not express his personality -in the strains of his instrument more fully than can the cook in his -cooking. The favorite dishes of a race are characteristic of that -race. The Spaniard, like his _chili con carne_ and his tamale, is hot, -peppery and economical. The Frenchman, like his many concoctions, is -full of spice, imagination and extravagance. The Italian is indolent -and averse to exertion, as is evidenced by his macaroni and spaghetti. -The Englishman is red and hearty like his roast beef. The German is fat -and fair like his sausages. The Russian is odd and interesting like -his caviar. The American, like his diet, is cosmopolitan. And as the -cooking of a nation or race is characteristic of that nation or race, -so the cooking of an individual is characteristic of that individual. -Coarse people do not prepare dainty dishes. A cook may strike a discord -as surely as a musician. - -To be a good cook, a cook worthy of one’s calling, one must have the -soul of an artist. One must be clean, self-respecting, industrious, -ambitious, earnest, quick to learn and trained to remember. Do other -professions require more? - -The cook wields a tremendous influence for good or for evil. Over a -good dinner the most cynical or the most brutal man must relax into -something like human kindness. It is indeed true that - - “All human history attests - That happiness for man,--the hungry sinner!-- - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner!” - -If there be even the feeblest spark of charity in a man’s breast, a -good dinner will fan it into flame. A bad dinner, on the other hand, -will bring to the surface all that is mean and ignoble in his nature. -Indigestion, I surmise, has been the cause of most of the cruelty of -men. Viewing history in this light, it is easier to understand the -apparently wanton slaughter among barbarians. Fed upon ill-conditioned -food, the barbarian is attacked in his most sensitive part--his -stomach. He is upset, distrait; his nerves are set upon edge and he -knows not what ails him. He grows irritable and quick to anger, and -he wrecks his unreasoning and unreasonable spleen upon the first -convenient victim. It is to be observed that the science of cookery and -the progress of civilization advance together. Well-fed men are slow to -wrath and easily appeased. At the height of the Roman civilization the -Romans became epicures and ceased to be warriors. War has no charms for -the man who is at peace with his own stomach. - -It may be urged by some that cooking, in rendering a man unwarlike, -does him an ill service because it makes him effeminate. But the same -may be said of all the cardinal virtues except, perhaps, bravery. -Forbearance, loving kindness, gentleness, faith--all these and many -others are essentially feminine virtues. Nay, civilization itself is a -feminizing influence. Under our modern civilization, which as far as -we know is the highest the world has ever experienced, men are reduced -to the condition of dependents. Men no longer rely upon their personal -prowess and valor for redress for their injuries or the defense of -their natural rights. The law has become the protector of men, just as -men were once the protectors of women. And this feminizing influence -of civilization is, I take it, a wise provision of Providence for the -benefit of cookery. The less men are concerned with battle, murder and -sudden death, the more they are concerned with their dinners; and the -more solicitous they become for their dinners, the more they desire -the safety of the home, the peace of nations and the prosperity of -mankind--all things, in short, which help to make possible the Perfect -Dinner, perfectly chosen, perfectly cooked and perfectly eaten. - -I say “perfectly eaten” because it seems to me that there is an art -of eating as well as an art of cooking. It is said that a musician -does his best when playing before an appreciative audience; and so -the cook is at his best when cooking for an appreciative diner. It -is a discouraging thing for an actor to peep out from behind the -drop-curtain and see the pit all but empty of spectators; but it is -a heart-breaking experience for a cook to peep through the swinging -doors of his sanctum sanctorum and to behold the diners distant and -indifferent, this one idly chattering and that one buried in a late -edition of a newspaper, while his delicious soups, his super-excellent -omelets, his heart-warming coffee, his inspiring steaks and his -magnificent pâtés grow cold and unpalatable upon the unregarded plates! -To see one’s chef-d’œuvres treated as hors-d’œuvres--that is a tragedy -of the soul! - -To attain the Perfect Dinner we must attain the Perfect Civilization. -The diner must be as free to enjoy his dinner as the cook is to -prepare it; and, in like manner, the Perfect Dinner is the concomitant -of the Perfect Civilization. Man is civilized when he is well-fed and -uncivilized when he is ill-fed. This is a truth which you need not -accept upon my unsupported authority; any housewife will tell you as -much. If the earth were to be visited by a plague which attacked only -those who could cook and carried them off all at one time, I believe -that the world would relapse into anarchy in the space of thirty days. - -It seems to me that the profession of cooking is not at all -incompatible with the study of philosophy. As I apply my philosophy -to my cooking, so I apply my cooking to my philosophy. Some of my -philosophers I take raw, some I boil down to the very juice and some I -season; for philosophy, I believe, is often more digestible when taken -_cum grano salis_. - -I may be wrong, and it may seem egotistical in me to say it, but -really, Mr. _Idler_, I believe that if more people were of my mind -to mix their philosophy and their cooking, there would be many more -intelligent cooks and not a few more palatable philosophers. - - I am, Sir, your humble servant, - BARTHOLOMEW BATTERCAKE. - - - - -A BACHELOR ON WOMEN - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I have lately been the subject of many animadversions upon -the part of literary critics because of a novel of mine, recently -published, which these critics have been pleased to term “a study in -feminine psychology.” My story has been criticized severely and my -observations upon the female character mercilessly condemned, and in -every one of these adverse criticisms which has been brought to my -attention, the reviewer has taken occasion to say, in substance, “This -book was evidently written by a bachelor.” - -Now, the fact of my bachelorhood I have no wish to deny, nor could I if -I would, for it is well known to my many friends and acquaintances that -I am a single man. But is the fact that I am a bachelor conclusive, -or even _prima facie_, evidence of my incompetency to discourse upon -feminine psychology? I do not see why it should be so considered. It is -plain that a great many people are of the opinion that the man who has -married a woman must know more of women in general than the man who has -not. But, after all is said, Mr. _Idler_, why should the married man -know more of women than the bachelor knows? He is married only to one -woman--not to all womankind. - -No man becomes an expert entomologist through the study of one insect. -There is no one insect which can furnish him with a general knowledge -of entomology. Nor is there any one woman who can furnish us with a -general knowledge of women. There is no one woman so typical of her -sex that all other women may be judged by her. Yet the only advantage -which the married man enjoys over the unmarried man is his intimate -knowledge of one particular woman. The married man has not the same -liberty of observing women which is the perquisite of the bachelor. The -only time when a married man has an opportunity to observe women other -than his wife is when his wife is not with him, and then, for a short -time, he possesses the same degree of liberty which the bachelor enjoys -all of the time. The bachelor observes, not one woman, but many. It is -true that his knowledge of women differs from that of the married man -in one particular: if he has any intimate knowledge of woman at her -worst it is likely to be a knowledge of Judy O’Grady, rather than of -the colonel’s lady. The bachelor sees good women at their best and bad -women at their worst. The married man sees one good woman at her best -and at her worst. - -The question, then, is, which sort of knowledge is more likely -to enable a man to form a just estimate of the female character? -Personally, I think the bachelor has all the best of it. And, Sir, -if none of these arguments has weight with you, there remains one -supreme argument which proves that the bachelor knows more of women -than the married man, and that, Sir, is the simple fact that he _is_ a -bachelor, as - - I am, Sir, - FORTUNATAS FREEMAN. - -N. B. The editor disclaims all responsibility for the sentiments -expressed in the above communication. - - - - -ON PENSIONING WRITERS - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I observe by the daily press that the English government -has just issued a list in full of such authors as have been selected -for the receipt of a pension. In this list I find the names of a -number of widows and orphans of authors as well as the names of living -authors, and this is no doubt as it should be. I have heard certain -hypercritical persons object to the late project of the “Dickens stamp” -upon the ground that no man is entitled to anything which he has not -earned and that literary heirs are entitled to no more consideration -than monetary heirs. Now, personally, I can not understand what is -so objectionable about the inheritance of money. It seems to me that -a man’s heirs are quite as much entitled to receive the benefits of -his fortune or the fruits of his industry after his death as they -are during his life; and no one has yet gone so far as to say that -a man may not, with perfect propriety, bestow upon his heirs and -relatives such pecuniary gifts and benefits as he may see fit during -his lifetime. It seems to me that the heirs of an author inherit as -great an interest in his work as the heirs of a banker or broker. But, -however this may be, there is one feature about this pensioning of -authors which convinces me that the British government has gone about -the matter in a very wrong fashion. - -I find in looking over the list that pensions have been granted -because of writings upon ornithology, Elizabethan literature, poetry, -socialism, philosophy and so on. While I must confess that I am -unfamiliar with the majority of the names which appear upon the list, -I assume from the manner in which they have been selected that the -British government considers their work to have been of really great -value, although not popular. The British government, in fact, appears -to be offering encouragement, in the shape of pensions, to such writers -as can not hope to please the general public with their work. The -government is supplying a pension in lieu of popular appreciation. - -Now, this is all very well if the government is merely going into the -business of being philanthropic and is willing to extend its system -of pensions to include worthy shoemakers who have been unable to -secure a sufficient custom to keep them in food and clothing because -of the inroads made upon the cobbler’s trade by the manufacturers -of machine-made shoes; lawyers who are learned in the law, but who -have been unable to secure the business of the great corporations; -doctors who are efficient, but who chance to live in unusually healthy -neighborhoods; ministers of the Gospel who are unfortunately assigned -to meager or irreligious parishes; music teachers who are excellent -instructors, but who find formidable foes to business in the automatic -piano and the phonograph. If the British government is bent upon making -up for public indifference to such authors as are willing to benefit -mankind, but who can not make mankind take note of their efforts in -that direction, then, I say, the British government shows a kindly and -courteous disposition, but it should not stop with authors; it should -carry on the good work in every walk of life. - -But if, as I suspect to be the case, the British government is -establishing this system of pensions in the hope that the system will -result in more and better books, then I must say I think the system is -more likely to fail than to succeed. - -One has but to glance back at the history of literature to be convinced -that poverty has never been an effective check upon literary genius. -Poets have starved and philosophers have gone about clad in shabby -raiment rather than forsake their chosen work. Herbert Spencer did not -go clad in rags, to be sure, but where mediocre writers were reaping -fortunes from their literary labors, he was expending fortunes in the -effort to bring his philosophy to the attention of the world. Doctor -Johnson never wrote so prolifically or so well as when he was starving -in a Grub Street garret. - -An empty stomach does not mean an empty head where authors are -concerned. The fact of the matter is, it is easier for men to write -great poetry and to think deeply when they are poor than when they -are well-to-do. A wealthy and famous man has to suffer innumerable -distractions from the work he has in hand; his time and attention -are not his own to command. At every turn he is harassed by the -responsibilities of his position. In obscurity and poverty, on the -other hand, a man is not only brought more closely in touch with life, -but he is absolute master of his own time and effort. Providing he be -not married, and so responsible for others, the obscure and poor author -is absolutely his own master. Whether he drop his greater work for the -sake of earning a meal is a matter which is entirely optional. He does -not have to eat if he does not care to do so. The rich and successful -author, on the contrary, is expected to observe certain social duties -and to return courtesy for praise and patronage. If he treats his -public cavalierly and refuses to admit himself bound by the amenities -of ordinary life, he is in grave danger of losing both his popularity -and his eminence. - -“O Poverty,” wrote Jean Jacques Rousseau, “thou art a severe teacher. -But at thy noble school I have received more precious lessons, I have -learned more great truths than I shall ever find in the spheres of -wealth.” - -Had Louis the Little actually taken up François Villon from his squalor -and wretchedness, his stews and taverns, his thieves and slatterns, and -made him the Grand Marshal of France, as he is made to do in Justin -Huntley McCarthy’s romance, _If I Were King_, he would have spoiled a -good poet to make a poor courtier. When poor and writing for posterity, -the author is at his best; when rich and writing for more money, he -is usually so anxious to make hay while the sun shines that his work -suffers in proportion to his output. No, poverty has never spoiled a -good poet--even the youthful Chatterton might have lost his magic with -the disillusionment which follows on the heels of affluence. - -And since the really great authors can not be kept from writing in any -case, it would seem to me that a much better scheme would be to pension -those who were better idle. Let the British government pension, not -the good authors, but the bad. Let the penny-a-liner be retired in -comfort where he will never need to write another poem, novel, play or -philosophic treatise. Since the inspiration which moves him to labor is -the desire for money, when he has the money he will no longer have any -temptation to write. But for the great authors, who will write whether -or no, let them be kept on their mettle, stung to action by “the slings -and arrows of outrageous fortune,” inspired by their faith in their -work and close to the hearts of humanity, so that they may continue to -pour out the riches of literature, philosophy and science, unimpeded -by the obligations and worries attendant upon the possession of a bank -account! - - I am, Sir, - A LOVER OF LITERATURE. - - - - -A PURITAN IN BOHEMIA - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: You will often hear it asserted by those who assume to speak -with authority, that there is no longer any such thing as Bohemia in -New York; that the Bohemians are scattered hither and thither and that -their haunts are given over to seekers after sensation, sight-seers and -the like. The seeming sophistication of those who speak thus is, more -often than not, entirely _sham_, and is assumed by pert reporters for -the daily press who wish, by appearing worldly, to divert attention -from their patent callowness and youth. - -There _is_, Sir, such a thing as Bohemia, and there _are_ such people -as Bohemians, and this I know to my sorrow, and the way in which I -discovered this I shall presently relate. Bohemia, as I have found -it, is not a place, but a state of mind and a manner of life. The -Bohemians have a fixed abode no more than the Arabs of the desert or -the wild tribes of Tartary. If one of their citadels is wrested from -them by the invasion of the Philistines, they fall back upon another, -and being, for the most part, unencumbered with Lares and Penates, -they have no difficulty in finding another retreat in which they are -soon as happy and content as in the one which they formerly occupied. -They may be said to be a people without attachments (if we except -the writs so called by those of the legal profession), and if they -pay devotion to any god, I know not whom it may be, unless, indeed, -Bacchus, who was always a roving deity, as like to be found in one spot -as another, whose chief attributes are liberty and license, and whose -rites, therefore, may be celebrated wherever his devotees are given the -liberty of a place that has a license. - -But do not let me, by the use of these terms, lead you to fall into the -vulgar error that these Bohemians are people without conventions and -who observe no rules of conduct, but act solely according to the whim -of the moment, for indeed the contrary is the case. The Bohemians, -Sir, are as jealous of their customs and conventions as any class of -people, and they even have certain ideas of caste to which they adhere -as rigidly as the most fanatical of the Hindus. To lose caste in -Bohemia is like losing one’s “face” among the Chinese and results in -ostracism quite as surely. - -The customs and conventions of the Bohemians, as I shall presently -show, are, in truth, very different from the customs and the -conventions of what is known as “good society”; so that it is not -surprising that those who have only, so to speak, touched upon the -frontiers of this country of the imagination, should declare it to -be a land of absolute freedom and of individualistic philosophy. -Myself, when I first came among them, was as astonished and confused -as Gulliver among the Houyhnhnms, for here I found everything turned -about from the manner in which I was used to seeing it. That which I -had been accustomed to consider worthy, I found here to be unworthy, -and that which I had been taught to hold a fault I found here to be a -virtue. I had been taught to admire thrift, but here I found it held to -be the meanest of qualities. The Beau Ideal of a Bohemian I discovered -to be the young man who is free with his purse and careless of his -obligations. I found it a humorous thing to defraud one’s creditors but -a shameful thing to deny one’s purse to a fellow Bohemian. I had been -taught to be circumspect in my conversation with the ladies, but here -I found them conversing upon all subjects with utter freedom and an -entire lack of embarrassment. I had been used to admire innocence, but -here I found that innocence was considered as ignorance and a subject -for mirth or censure. Religion, patriotism, respect for established -customs, reverence for those in power--all those things, in short, -which had been so carefully impressed upon me at home, I found to be -nowhere admired among these people. - -To acquaint you briefly with the manner of my coming among these -citizens: I fell among them by design and not, as you may have -supposed, by accident. Possessed of some talent in a musical way and -having something of a turn for original composition, I had secured -a position in an orchestra in one of the local theaters. Though I -had been brought up in the most orthodox manner by my father, who -was a professor in a small New England college, I chafed under the -restrictions of social life in my native village, where intellectual -attainments were held in such high repute as to overshadow completely -all natural talent and genius, and where a man was more respected -for knowing Boethius than for knowing beans. I had neither taste -nor inclination for pedagogy, but yearned with all my heart for the -artistic life. I had, in short, a somewhat exaggerated attack of what -is known as the _artistic temperament_, and finding that my own people -considered music as a parlor accomplishment rather than a serious art, -I was more than ever impatient of their narrow-minded Puritanism and -more than ever determined to leave the little college town and all that -it stood for, and to go out into the world to seek companionship with -those who shared my own ideals and ambitions. - -The final rupture with my people came when I announced to my father my -intention of becoming a professional violinist, and he replied that -if I were determined to disappoint his hopes of my future I might at -least have hit upon something respectable, and not brought upon him the -reproach of having a fiddler in the family. “I can only hope,” said he, -“that you will be a total and abject failure in your misguided efforts, -for if you were to succeed and I were to come upon your name flaunted -in shameless fashion from the boards of some play-house, I should -certainly die of mortification.” With these good wishes ringing in my -ears, I packed my meager belongings, tucked my violin case under my -arm and turned my back upon my native village and respectability, as I -thought, forever. - -A few weeks of playing in the orchestra at a theater convinced me -that I had yet to seek the intellectual sympathy for which I left -home. My fellow players, with one exception, were all phlegmatic -Germans who played well enough, to be sure, but who appeared to be as -devoid of spiritual aspirations and artistic appreciation as so many -day-laborers. They worked at their music as a barber works at his -trade, and when the evening’s task was done, they retired to a corner -saloon where they drank beer, ate Limburger and talked politics like -so many grocers. There was, as I have said, one exception; a young man -like myself, who seemed to scorn the middle-class ideas and ideals -of our companions and who never joined in the beer-drinking or the -political discussions at the corner. This young man, said I to myself, -has been here for some time, and he, if any one, should be able to -direct me to the haunts of the true friends of art; he, of all these, -is the only one fitted to act as my guide, philosopher and friend. - -Timidly I approached him upon the subject nearest to my heart, and -heartily he replied that not only could he introduce me into the -free-masonry of art, but that he would do so the very next night. -Accordingly, when the curtain fell the following evening, we set off at -once and arrived shortly at a restaurant and café, upon the East Side, -which was situated in a basement. A large wooden sign proclaimed it to -be “Weinstein’s Rathskeller,” but my companion assured me that it was -known to the _elect_ as the “Café of the Innocents,” because those who -came there were yet young and comparatively unknown in the world of art -and letters. - -To describe my sensations upon that evening, Sir, would require the -pen of a Verlaine. My own poor efforts can never do them justice. I -can make shift to express emotion upon the strings of my instrument, -but when I exchange my bow for a pen my fingers become as thumbs and -my emotions defy expression, so that I am as helpless as a six weeks’ -infant plagued by a pin, and can no more make clear my meaning than a -sign-painter could imitate Rubens. - -Suffice it to say that I was overcome, charmed, enchanted! In stepping -through the portals of that dingy East Side resort, I seemed to have -stepped over the border-line that divides the world of the dull and the -practical from the world of romance and desire. I had entered the land -of dreams, the country of magnificent distances! I was as astonished -as William Guppy would have been had he stumbled unwittingly into the -rose garden of Hafiz. Here were men and women after my own heart; men -and women who saw the world as a whole, unbounded by the petty lines of -counties, states and nations. Here the names of the masters of art and -literature were bandied about as familiarly as the names of our local -professors were at home. Here were lights, here music, and here the -good glad laughter of youth! Here were women--not the slim spinsters -and prim matrons that I had known, but hearty healthy women who seemed -to be _alive_. Ah, that was it--they were all, all of them, so much -alive! Between their fingers they held, not knitting-needles, but -dainty cigarettes! Here was wine, wit and winsomeness--a dangerous, a -deadly combination for such as I! - -Well, Sir, to be brief, I was enthralled. I grew so greedy of that -atmosphere that I began to begrudge my work the hours that it called -me away from such good company. Finally I exchanged my place at the -theater for a position in the orchestra at the café. And so I came to -live among the Bohemians and become one of them. - -From the first I was enamored of the conversation of these stepchildren -of Genius, and I soon began descending from the platform and mingling -with the _habitués_ of the place; for at Weinstein’s the only snobbery -is of the Bohemian variety, and those who would blush to be seen dining -with a prosperous bourgeois, were not at all averse to drinking with -an humble member of the orchestra--for was not I, too, an artist? It -was not long before I began to care more for talking of my art than for -practising it, and all the time that I was playing I was impatient to -be down among the tables enjoying the praise which my performance, or, -as I am now inclined to suspect, the subsequent order for drinks, never -failed to secure. Thus I ceased to practise and played no more except -when I was at work. - -Of course I did not come to realize all this in a moment. - -It was some months before I woke from the daze into which I fell at -the first. It came to me gradually as I began to make unpleasant -discoveries. It was disconcerting to find that I had fled my own world -to escape conventions only to come upon others, or rather upon the same -lot, turned topsy-turvy. It annoyed me to find that to be accounted -a true Bohemian one must hold only certain views, and those always -opposed to the views of acknowledged authorities; that one must not -dress too well, eat too well or drink too well. Which was not at all -the same thing as saying _too much_. But this was by no means the most -shocking of my disillusions. I soon learned that while the Bohemians -are forever talking and thinking of success and wishing success for -their friends, the moment one of them really succeeds he is no longer a -member of the company; and for this reason it is said, with some truth, -that there are no successful Bohemians. When one of them who has made -a marked success intrudes himself into the old gathering place, he is -given such a cold shoulder that he never ventures there again. A small -triumph furnishes the occasion for a feast of congratulation, but a -real “arrival” excites the whole company to sneers and innuendoes, so -that such felicitations as are offered are bitter with envy. They have -a sort of optimism of their own, but it is all a personal optimism. -Each one hopes and believes that he will succeed, but each one believes -and secretly hopes that the others will not. A cynical smile and a -shrugging of shoulders is the tribute to the absent artist. - -Well, Mr. _Idler_, the longer I remained among these people, the more I -came to be of the mind of _Alice in Wonderland_, that though some may -be marked off from the pack and may look like kings and queens, they -are nothing but playing-cards after all. - -But there was one young woman who held my waning interest and who bound -me by sentimental ties to the life of which I now began to be somewhat -weary. If I had not made her acquaintance I believe that I should long -ago have left Bohemia and shaken the sawdust of Weinstein’s from my -feet. She was a demure young person, a newcomer from the West, who was -studying art. She seemed so different from the others, so fresh, so -ingenuous, that I could not but believe her to be genuine. She smoked -her cigarette and drank of the _table d’hôte_ wine, it is true (she -could do no less in the face of Bohemian convention), but she did -it all with such a pretty air of youth and innocence as touched me -greatly. For I was by now as strongly attracted by a quiet woman as I -had formerly been by a lively one. - -To spare you a tedious recital of my passion, I determined to ask her -to marry me, thinking that she might arouse in me the old ambition to -become a great musician--the ambition which my long sojourn in the -Lotus land of Bohemia had all but killed. And so one night I put the -question gently over our cups of black coffee, asking her, “Would -you--could you--share with me my career?” Then, Sir, that happened -which you will scarce believe. Yes, she said, she would be glad to -share my career with me, but I must be under no misapprehension; she -could not marry me; she already had a husband in the West; but inasmuch -as she had not seen him in three years and had never found him very -congenial in any case, he need not in any way interfere with our plans. - -As you may imagine, I was thunderstruck. I concealed my confusion as -best I might by pretending to choke upon a bit of cheese, and at the -first opportunity I made my escape and sought the seclusion of my -chamber where I faced my problem. I had striven to become a Bohemian, -but I had been born a Puritan and there was a limit to my acquired -unconventionality. I could not confess my prudery to the lady; could -not ignore the incident. Therefore I have determined to accept the one -course left open to me. I shall fly. I am now going out to pawn my -fiddle and with the money I get I shall buy me a ticket to that little -New England town where I first saw the light of day. - -Others may seek for inspiration at the Café of the Innocents, but as -for me, I am going where a modest young man may live in the protection -of the old-fashioned conventions. I am going where I can be moral -without being queer. _I_ am going home. And so, Sir, - - Farewell, - TIMOTHY TIMID. - - - - -AN ARRAIGNMENT OF ORIGINALITY - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I am, I doubt not, one of your most devoted readers, and -the reason of my devotion, if I may say so, is because you so seldom -say anything original. Nay, Sir, this is not said in jest, but in -very earnest, for in truth I am vastly wearied of originality in all -its forms. We are so beset upon all sides by “originals” of one sort -or another, that it is a positive relief to open a book or pick up a -magazine which is decently dull and warranted harmless. To sit down for -a quiet evening with one of our sensational monthlies is like lighting -one’s self to bed with a giant cracker--there is no peace or quiet to -be had with ’em. - -From my earliest youth it has been my ambition to keep myself well -informed of the affairs of the day, and to this end I have made it a -practise to glance at least through the monthly numbers of our popular -magazines. I regret to say that I have been compelled to break off -this lifelong habit, as my physician has strongly advised me against -continuing it. The startling and alarming articles which make up the -bulk of the month’s offerings in these periodicals have a very bad -effect upon my heart and my imagination. More than once in the last two -or three years I have been troubled with evil dreams and nightmares -brought on by reading these publications shortly before going to bed. -More than this, I am by nature somewhat irritable and short of temper, -and I have been thrown into a very fury of indignation upon reading -the recital of my wrongs in these magazines; so much so, indeed, that -I have narrowly escaped apoplexy, a disease to which, my doctor says, -I am peculiarly liable. And since I had rather be swindled upon every -hand, as long as it is in happy ignorance, than to die of indignation, -I have left off reading them altogether. - -I can say without dissimulation that I do not miss them greatly. -To say the truth, I have small fondness for the originality which -is everywhere urged upon us in these days. I have small patience -with the spirit which drives us on from one extravagance to another -until there is no telling to what base uses the human intellect may -eventually fall. Sir, I have taken it upon myself to raise my voice in -protest against the prevalent craze for originality and to say a word, -which needs to be said, in defense of imitation. If in so doing I am -unintentionally original, I can only crave your indulgence. - -If I read the signs of the times aright, we are in imminent danger of -falling into the ways of the Greeks, “ever seeking some new thing”; -considering in our art, music and literature not the qualities of -beauty, sense and melody, but only the quality of _newness_, which is -to say, novelty. We do not ask of a musician, is his work harmonious? -But only, is it _different_? We do not ask of a painter, is he -artistic? But only, is he _clever_? We do not ask of an author, is he -sound? But only, is he _witty_? Is it not a sad commentary upon our -insane desire for change, Mr. _Idler_, that our artists, musicians and -authors should urge only these claims upon our consideration, that they -are different, clever and witty? Sir, the music of an Ojibway Indian -is different; a sign-painter may well be clever; and the most ignorant -street urchins are often witty. Are these, then, the only qualities we -should seek in those who presume to instruct and elevate the human mind -and soul? Are we to pass by sound sense for the sake of empty wit? Are -we to forsake harmony for the novelty of a mad jumble of absurd sounds? -Are we to value cartoons above masterpieces? - -For a convenient example of the depths to which we have sunk, let me -cite you, Sir, the case of dancing. Dancing was, I believe, originally -a religious exercise. Like music, it was employed to express the nobler -emotions of the soul. I confess that it may have been sensuous, even -at a very early date, but the most sensuous dance of the ancients, -the bacchante, was, nevertheless, performed in honor of a god. In the -minuet of our grandfathers there was both dignity and grace. There, -Sir, was such a dance as might enhance the noble bearing, the beauty -and the gentility of those who danced it. There was a dance fit for -ladies and gentlemen, a dance which had in it nothing incompatible with -innocent womanliness or manly dignity. Who, let me ask you, can say as -much for the unspeakable modern _original_ dances, the kangaroo, the -grizzly bear, and the bunny hug? Sir, can you bring yourself for one -moment to think upon the spectacle of George Washington dancing the -kangaroo? Can you conceive of such an unthinkable thing as Henry Clay -performing the grizzly bear? Can you, by any force of imagination, -picture Abraham Lincoln lost in the mazes of the bunny hug? God forbid! - -As it is with dancing, so it is with art. The poster insanity has -hardly passed away and we are already overwhelmed with a horde of -symbolists of one sort or another, who appear to agree upon one -point only--that pictures should not in any way resemble nature. -These ambitious daubers, Sir--I can not bring myself to call them -artists--have the impertinence to assume that they can express life -more fully and clearly upon their hideous canvases than the Author of -the Universe has expressed it in nature. As to the absurdity of their -pretensions, I need say nothing; it is apparent to all who can lay -claim to even the most ordinary degree of intelligence. But as to the -effect this nonsense has upon the weak, the easily impressed, I could -never say enough. This insanity has spread like a plague from painting -to poetry, and from poetry to all the arts that are known. Originality, -like charity, is made to cover a multitude of sins. The creative artist -who has not the strength or the patience to win distinction along -recognized lines produces something that is grotesque and defies us -to criticize his work, saying, “There is no standard by which you can -measure this, for it is absolutely new. Nobody ever did anything just -like this before.” The obvious retort to this would be that nobody ever -wanted to do anything like it before, but this would be lost upon the -artist, for the “original” of to-day is as impervious to ridicule as he -is to criticism. - -That music is better for being original, I do not believe. Such an -assumption is without warrant in nature. There is no purer sweeter -melody than that of the birds. What says the poet? - - “Hark! that’s the nightingale, - Telling the self-same tale - Her song told when this ancient earth was young: - So echoes answered when her song was sung - In the first wooded vale.” - -Year after year, century after century, these natural musicians -continue to ravish and delight all mankind with those same songs they -warbled on creation morn. It is no care of theirs to mingle melody with -horrid sounds; to weld their notes into a dagger of discord wherewith -to stab men through the ear. They do not strive to produce those -damnable gratings, shriekings and rumblings which so often pass for -music in these days. Where, Sir, is the originality of the nightingale, -or of the mocking-bird? Sir, all music may be noise, but that all noise -is music I do deny with all my heart. That a noise is new does not -recommend it to my ear. - -Sir, I lay it down as a proposition not to be refuted, that a good -imitation is better than a poor original, and while many men may create -passable imitations, very few can produce anything which is both -original and good. I do not hold it against an author that he is not -wholly original. On the contrary, if he imitate good models, I regard -his imitation as an evidence of sound sense. And, what is more, Sir, I -believe that most people are no more enamored of originality than I am. - -Here is a secret, Mr. _Idler_, known to only a few: We never grow -tired of the things we really like, but only of the things which have -appealed to us momentarily because of their novelty. When we really -like an author, we like another author who is like him. When we really -like a melody, we like another melody which is like it. When we really -like a place, we have no desire to leave it. Early in life we form -attachments for certain things--our homes, our parents, _Mother Goose_ -and the like. This fondness we never entirely outgrow. We like the -books we used to like, the pictures, the songs and the places. I am -speaking now, Sir, of normal human beings. There are some, ever seeking -new things, who never learn to like anything. To them, old books are -wearisome, old pictures are uninteresting, old tunes insipid. To them, -all places are places to go from or go to, but never to stay in. For -them, the past is closed and history is out of date. - -“Beware of imitations!” say the advertisements. “Beware of -originality!” say I. If we were all original, there would be no -living with us. The original genius is well enough when we wish to be -entertained, but it is the old-fashioned reliable imitator who makes -this world the pleasant place it is. And let us not forget, Sir, that -the most original thing in the world is sin. - - I am, Sir, - DAVID DUPLEX. - - - - -A FLATTERING TRIBUTE - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: Some months ago I read in your magazine an article in which -you advocated the keeping of a journal or diary, saying that by this -means one might always keep one’s self well informed as to what -progress one might be making spiritually, morally and mentally upon -the journey through life. This suggestion struck me very forcibly; so -much so, indeed, that I straightway determined to act upon your advice -and to begin forthwith such a record of my intimate life as would -enable me, at any time when the spirit moved me, to inform myself in -this respect. Up to the time when I read the article of which I speak, -I had always considered the writing of a diary as rather a senseless -occupation, since I could not see why one need put down that which -was already well known to one’s self; but when I had read your advice -upon the subject, I soon came to see that there is much which will -inevitably escape, not only the memory, but the attention as well, -unless committed to paper. - -Convinced, then, of the usefulness of such an intimate record, I set -myself to writing down with great particularity all that I saw, heard, -said, did or read; so that I may now look back at the end of the year -and review each day in all its details. As you may suppose, I was much -surprised to find myself given to habits of which I had formerly been -quite unaware. I discovered that much of my reading, for instance, -was of a decidedly frivolous and unprofitable sort. After considering -this for some time, I have come to the conclusion that it is time for -me to mend my ways and to abandon my habit of indiscriminate and idle -reading, and I therefore request that you will cancel my subscription -to _The Idler_. - -Thanking you for the article on diaries, which will, I am sure, prove a -most valuable suggestion to me, I am, Sir, - - Truly yours, - LUCY LACKWIT. - - - - -THE RIDDLE OF A DREAM - - “Set a beggar on horseback and he will ride a gallop.” - --_Shakespeare._ - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I have had a curious dream and I am at a loss to account for -it. I have consulted an old dream book, which I have in my possession, -and which was formerly the property of my old nurse, Aunt Betty S., but -for all my diligent searching therein, I have failed utterly to find -anything which might serve as an interpretation of my vision. I called -at the public library of our village and asked for the latest and most -up-to-date work of this character, but the librarian only laughed at -my request and assured me that she possessed no such work and that as -far as she knew there had never been any such work upon her shelves. -To my protest that no library could be complete without at least a -few volumes of this character, she retorted that only fools and old -fogies any longer had any faith in the meaning of dreams, and that if I -was troubled with nightmare the best thing I could do would be to stop -lying on my back or be more careful of what I ate before going to bed. - -It would seem that I am a bit old-fashioned in my faith in the meaning -of dreams, though I do not see how any one who pretends to a belief in -the Christian faith can scoff at the interpretation and significance of -them in the face of the many notable instances cited in the Bible, as, -for example, the vision of Jacob and the dream which caused Joseph to -flee into Egypt. I suppose, however, that I should not be surprised at -the light and irreverent fashion in which the young people of to-day -treat this subject, when I reflect that a Christian clergyman has -recently suggested a revision of the Ten Commandments. Notwithstanding -the apparently widespread heresy concerning the futility and emptiness -of dreams, I trust that I am not the only Christian gentleman now -living who clings to the faith of his fathers and who has sufficient -faith in the inspiration of the Gospels to believe that a dream is -something more than a result of injudicious eating. It is in the hope -that some such person may be a reader of your journal and that the -result may be a correct interpretation of my own dream, that I am -writing this to you. I observe that your journal is somewhat behind the -times in many respects and therefore I assume that some of your readers -are likely to be as old-fashioned and as “superstitious” as myself. - -The dream which I am about to relate came to me in the following -circumstances. I had been out rather late the night before and had -partaken of a number of fancy dishes such as I am not in the habit of -eating at my own table, but which my daughter, who is just back from a -young ladies’ finishing school, assures me are much more pleasing if -not more nourishing than the ham and eggs which I was upon the point -of ordering for our supper after the theater. It was in the morning -of the next day and we were out in our new automobile which had only -come from the factory the day before. The automobile, or “car” as my -daughter calls it, is of rather expensive make and luxurious to a -degree. Being somewhat fagged by my unaccustomed dissipation of the -night before, I leaned back upon the cushions and presently I fell -asleep. - -It appeared to me that I was no longer in the automobile, but trudging -along the road as I was in the habit of doing in my younger years. As I -came to a turn in the road I was confronted with a troop of horsemen, -who were by all odds the strangest company it has ever been my lot -to behold. All of them were splendidly mounted on magnificent horses -which were caparisoned like the mounts of the knights in some rich and -gorgeous medieval tapestry. Their bridles were of chased leather with -bits and buckles of solid gold; their stirrups were of platinum and -silver, and their saddles were of silver and gold, upholstered in plush -and velvet. Silk and satin ribbons floated from the bridles of the -horses and flaunted in the wind in gay and beautiful streamers. But -with the horses and their trappings the magnificence came to a sudden -end. The riders themselves were the most incongruous riders for such -noble animals that one could imagine. They were, without exception, -tattered and bedraggled to the last degree of unkempt frowsiness. Their -faces were gaunt and drawn as with hunger and their hair hung unbrushed -and uncombed upon their frayed collars. In more than one instance a -foot was thrust through a silver stirrup while the toes of the rider -came peeping through the broken ends of his boot. A more wretched -company mounted upon more beautiful chargers it would be difficult to -imagine. - -At sight of me the whole company came to a sudden halt, checking their -mounts as at the command of a leader, though no word was spoken. The -leader of the cavalcade, who bestrode a handsome gelding, rode out a -little in advance of his fellows, and removing his crownless hat, swept -me a bow, leaning low over the pommel of his saddle. And when I had -returned his salutation, he addressed me in these words: “I give you -good morrow, gentle sir, and I beg you in the name of Christ and this -our company that you spare us a few coins of silver or of gold that we -may partake of food and drink, for the way is long and weary and we can -not travel without meat and wine to sustain us on our journey.” - -Now this speech greatly astonished me, as I had never seen so large a -company of beggars journeying together, and I was the more astounded -that men mounted in such splendid fashion should be asking alms. - -“What!” I cried in amazement, “are you begging then, while you ride -upon such fine horses, and your bridles and saddles are worth a king’s -ransom?” - -“Even so,” replied the leader, “and much as I loathe discourtesy, I -must remind you that our time is short, so pray give us what funds -you can spare and let us be on our way, for we hope to reach our -destination by nightfall.” - -“And what is your destination?” I asked. - -“The City of Vain Display,” he replied. “But we dally.” - -“But if you need money,” I protested, “why do you not sell your horses -and trappings?” - -At this the whole company cried out in protest, and the leader -answered: “Sell our mounts? Never! Look at them. Are they not -beautiful?” - -And truly they were. And as I looked at them I was seized with a great -desire to feel a horse of like magnificence between my knees, and I -cried, “I wish that I, too, had a horse like that!” - -“Give me all the money that you have,” said the leader, “and you shall -have one.” - -So I gave him the money. Presently I found myself riding with them and -my clothes were as tattered and torn as the clothes of the others. -And we set off at a furious pace, faster and faster, until the horses -panted with exertion, and after a time one stumbled and fell, sending -his rider over his head to the hard road. But nobody stopped, and -looking back, I saw the unfortunate fellow sprawling in the roadway -with his neck broken. On, on we went, one horse after another giving a -final gasp and falling down in the road, and as each one fell we who -were left urged our mounts to greater exertions, plying whip and spur -without ceasing, until finally only the leader and I were riding on. -Then his horse stumbled to its knees and rolled over on its side, and I -rode on alone. Lashing my horse I strained onward till the poor beast -came crashing down with a jar that threw me headlong upon the highway, -where I fell so heavily that I woke. - -I have pondered over this dream ever since, but I confess I can make -nothing of it. I must draw this letter to a close now, for my daughter -informs me that the automobile is waiting, and I have not mortgaged my -house to secure the thing for the purpose of letting it stand idle. - -I hope, Sir, that if you or any of your readers can read me the riddle -of this dream they will be good enough to forward the solution to - - Your humble servant, - TIMOTHY TINSELTOP. - - BLUFFTOWN, NEW YORK. - - - - -BEDS FOR THE BAD - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: It was Sancho Panza, if my memory serves me right, who -invoked a blessing upon the head of the man who first invented sleep; I -think he had done better to bestow his blessings upon the man who first -invented beds. I think it extremely doubtful if sleep can be classed as -an invention of man; it is, rather, a function, like breathing, and I -doubt not that Adam fell a-nodding before ever he knew the meaning of -sleep at all. The bed, upon the contrary, is without question of human -origin, for no other living thing has constructed anything resembling -it except the bird, who makes his nest serve him as both bed and house, -and certainly no deity could have occasion to use such an article, -seeing that eternal wakefulness is a necessary attribute of godhood. - -The bed, in my opinion, is the greatest of all human inventions, -without which sleep were robbed of half its pleasure. Nowhere do we -enjoy such delicious refreshing repose as when snugly ensconced in a -proper bed, and for my part, there is no other luxury which I could -not spare better than my bed. Napkins, tablecloths, knives, forks, -spoons--even the table, I could forego without great loss of appetite, -but I can rest nowhere else than in a bed, and I can rest well in no -bed but my own. So strong is my regard for this article of household -furniture, that, were I a poet, I should ask no greater glory than to -be the author of those beautiful lines of Thomas Hood-- - - “O bed! O bed! delicious bed! - That heaven upon earth to the weary head!” - -No truer words were ever spoken than those of Isaac De Benserade when -he said: - - “In bed we laugh, in bed we cry, - And, born in bed, in bed we die; - The near approach a bed may show - Of human bliss to human woe.” - -A man may be without land or money and still be happy; he may endure -the loss of friends and fortune, and he may preserve his courage even -in the face of shame and disgrace; but, Sir, a man who has not a good -bed is no more than half a man. Without this refuge from the trials and -troubles of the world, a man is robbed of the one consolation which it -should be the right of every man to enjoy. Without a bed, his vitality -is sapped, his courage is broken down and his moral sense is impaired. -I maintain, Sir, that no man can go bedless without becoming a menace -to the community, and this brings me to the subject I had in mind when -I sat down to write this letter. - -I have observed, Mr. _Idler_, that though a great many people of -excellent intentions devote themselves to the task of reforming and -reclaiming members of the criminal class, the result of their labors -is very far from being satisfactory. In spite of the great number -of reformatories, prisons and houses of refuge erected in all parts -of the world; in spite of numberless soup kitchens, missions, free -sanatoriums and the like, men continue to break the laws and all our -efforts to eradicate crime appear to go for little or nothing. Now I -am convinced that there is a very good reason why this is true, and -it is my conviction that our failure to abolish crime is directly due -to our stupidity and block-headedness in attacking the problem from -the wrong angle. Instead of trying to reform our criminals by the fear -of punishment, we should prevent crime by diverting their minds from -evil-doing and direct them into proper paths by the simple expedient -which I am about to lay before you. - -There is nothing in the world which is more likely to put a man into a -good humor with himself, with other men and with existing conditions, -than a good night’s rest. As I have said before, every man who lacks a -bed is a potential criminal and there are a number of reasons why this -is so. To lack repose naturally wears upon the nerves and reduces a man -to a condition bordering upon insanity. It is conducive to cynicism, -self-pity, a feeling of resentment against all other men and a strong -sense of injustice. No matter what the cause of his bedless condition -may be, no man can preserve an even temper when he wants to go to bed -and has no bed to which he may go. Again, being out of bed and out of -temper, he is ripe for various sorts of evil deeds from which he would -turn in loathing after a good night’s rest. He is driven for shelter -and divertisement into the haunts of vice and the dens of iniquity. He -beguiles his sleepless hours in the company of vicious and dissolute -persons. He regards the world from an entirely different point of -view from the man who has just passed seven or eight pleasant hours -in restful slumber. Sleeplessness and crime are as closely related as -insomnia and insanity. Crime leads to sleeplessness and sleeplessness -leads to crime. - -Now, Sir, what I propose is just this: let us put the criminals to bed. -Instead of offering the outcast a cold plate of soup or an inane tract, -let us offer him a warm comfortable bed where he may lie down and pass -at least eight hours of the twenty-four in dreaming that he is John D. -Rockefeller or some other such harmless illusion. Let us offer him an -opportunity to recover his strength, his courage and his moral balance -in innocent sleep. I do not believe that the perfect social state can -ever be brought about until such time as every person in the world -shall own his own bed; until such time as beds shall be assigned by law -to all those who can not purchase them upon their own account; until -such time as a man’s bed shall be sacred to his own use, exempt from -taxation or seizure by writ or other legal process and as inviolate as -the clothes upon his back. I do not believe a perfect social state will -ever be attained until it shall be a crime for a chambermaid to make a -bed improperly or for a merchant to sell an imperfect spring or a lumpy -mattress. I do not believe a perfect social state can ever be reached -until every man in the world, and every woman and child, is guaranteed -a good night’s rest every night in the year. - -But as we have not yet advanced to a state of civilization where it -would be practicable to provide every human being with a personal -bed of his own, let us do what we can. Do you believe, Sir, that any -but the most callow of youthful roisterers prefer the disgusting -atmosphere of the all-night saloon or the bleak cheerlessness of a -park bench to the heavenly comforts of a good bed? If you do, Sir, -you are vastly mistaken. Throw open to these men an absolutely free -lodging-house filled with clean comfortable beds, where all may come -and go unquestioned as long as they enter at a certain hour and remain -a stipulated time, and I warrant you that lodging-house will be filled -to its capacity every night in the year. Let every community erect as -many of these lodging-houses as its financial condition will permit. -Let the vast sums that are now being wasted upon futile missions and -piffling soup-kitchens be diverted to this legitimate end. Once we -have our criminals and our outcasts in bed, we shall have them out of -the streets, out of the parks, out of the gambling hells, out of the -brothels and out of mischief! - -The state plays the father in chastising disobedient citizens; let the -state also play the mother in tucking them into bed. Go look upon them -when every face is wiped clean of frown and leer; go look upon them -when every face is smooth and quiet as the resting soul within - - “And on their lids - The baby Sleep is pillowed ...” - -and I warrant you, you shall find them, not outcasts and outlaws, but -poor tired children whom you can not forbear to wish, as I now wish you, - - Good night, and happy dreams! - CADWALLADER COVERLET. - - - - -IS CHESTERTON A MAN ALIVE? - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: If I were a writer of biographical sketches, I should begin -these remarks with the statement that Gilbert Keith Chesterton was -born in the year 1874; but I am not a writer of biographical sketches. -On the contrary, Sir, I am one who aims to tell the truth as often -as it is possible to tell the truth without appearing eccentric. I -do not begin these remarks in the fashion I have suggested because -I am restrained by scruples which would never trouble a writer of -biographies. The fact of the matter is, I do not know that Gilbert -Keith Chesterton was born in 1874. I do not know that he was ever born -at all--at most I only suspect it. I suspect it because I never knew a -man who had never been born to attract so much attention. His books may -be urged as evidence of his birth, but they are by no means conclusive -evidence. So far as my personal information goes, he may be nothing -more than a name, like _Bertha M. Clay_. Perhaps he is only a creature -of the imagination, like _Innocent Smith_, created by some author who -chooses to write under the name, “Gilbert Chesterton.” I do not suggest -these things as probabilities, but only as possibilities. And yet, what -could be more improbable than Chesterton himself? Is it not, after all, -more probable that he has been evolved from pen and ink, than from the -clay of Adam? - -We come now to the question which I borrow from the title of this -paper: Is Gilbert Keith Chesterton a man alive? Is he not, rather, a -very amusing conception of what a man might be? Let us consider the -matter. - -Of course the fact that you and I have no positive proof of his having -been born does not argue that he is not a living man. Every day we -meet men who are unquestionably as real as ourselves (providing we do -not lean to the theory of Bishop Berkeley, that we can be sure of no -existence but our own), yet we know little or nothing of the origin -of these men. They may have been born, or they may not. If you were to -ask them, they would probably insist that they were born at one time -or another. They believe this because they can not account for their -existence upon any other hypothesis. But they believe it on hearsay -evidence. Not one of them really remembers anything at all about it. -People sometimes grow up to learn that they are changelings; that -they are not at all the people they had thought they were. Is it not -possible, then, that here and there may live a man who was never born -at all? I should not be so bold as to deny the possibility. There have -always been legends of men who can not die--men who live on in spite -of age and accident. I see no reason why one man should not escape -birth if another may escape death. I do not, therefore, insist that Mr. -Chesterton prove himself to have been born. It is only that I find it -hard to believe that he really exists in the flesh. - -Now, Mr. Chesterton, in all his works, dwells upon the subject of -madness or insanity. Does this prove that Mr. Chesterton is mad? By -no means. As he himself has said, the man who is really mad seldom -suspects that he is unbalanced; it is the man who fears madness who -finds madness a fascinating subject. Sir, Mr. Chesterton is not mad, -but I think he fears madness. It is almost impossible to find one of -his essays in which there is no mention of madness. I think it fair to -assume that he writes of madness because he has a fear--not necessarily -a terror, you understand, but still a fear--that some day he may be -afflicted with this malady. Mr. Chesterton also writes a whole book -upon the subject of being alive. Are we to assume, because of this, -that he _is_ alive? By no means. It is quite possible that he only -fears he may some day come alive; that he may some day cease to be the -whimsical creation of some author’s fancy and become a real man of -flesh and blood. - -Do you see no reason why he should fear such a metamorphosis? Surely -you must. From time immemorial, men have shuddered at the thought of -becoming a spirit, an infinite being composed chiefly of memory; a -purely intellectual organism having nothing material in its make-up. -Now if men are disturbed, as they are, at the prospect of becoming -ideas, why should not ideas be disturbed at the prospect of becoming -men? Is it likely that an idea, immune from all the evils of mortal -existence, superior to the weaknesses of the flesh and possessing, at -least, a potential immortality, would be pleased with the prospect of -becoming mere man? Would an idea willingly abandon the clear atmosphere -of a purely intellectual plane for the muggy mists and murky fogs of -London? Assuredly not. - -Lucretius, ridiculing the theory of reincarnation in his work, _De -Rerum Natura_, drew a ludicrous picture of disembodied spirits eagerly -awaiting their turn to enter a vacant human tenement. Lucretius was -thoroughly appreciative of the absurdity of his picture. He knew that -no disembodied spirit would be so foolish as to desire imprisonment -in a mortal frame. And as it is with spirits, so we may suppose it to -be with ideas. It is one thing to be put into a book; it is quite -another to be put into a body. No matter how often an idea may be put -into a book, it can not be confined therein. It is still free to travel -where it lists. It can leap from London to Overroads in the twinkling -of an eye--or it can be in both places at one and the same time. It -may appear to a dozen different men in a dozen different aspects. It -possesses the Protean faculty of being all things to all men. But -confine that idea in a human body; transform that idea into a human -being--and what is the result? Why, the result is an immediate loss of -liberty. The man, who was formerly an idea, can no longer flit about -with lightning-like rapidity. If he wishes to travel from Overroads -to London, he must go by train or motor-car. He can by no ingenuity -contrive to be in both places at the same time. He must wear the same -face wherever or in whatever company he may be. Whether the body which -he inhabits is known to its neighbors as Smith or Chesterton, the -result is the same--he has lost his liberty. And what has he gained? He -has gained the ability to prove his mortal existence--the right to say -that he has been born. - -It is easy enough to see why an idea should fear to become a man. -And when we consider such an idea as Chesterton, the matter is even -clearer. Whimsicalities and contradictions which may have been useful -and even ornamental in the fictitious Chesterton--in Chesterton the -idea--might, Sir, prove most embarrassing to Chesterton the British -Subject. You can not prosecute an idea for treason, nor sue it for -damages. You can not even confine an idea in a mad-house for being -crazy. Most ideas are crazy; none more so perhaps than the one which -I am presenting to you now. It is true that a few ideas have been -confined in a mad-house, but of those few which have been shut up with -the persons claiming them, the great majority have been quite sane. -Just as many sane men are devoted to crazy ideas, so many sane ideas -are devoted to crazy men; so devoted to them that they will follow them -anywhere--even to a mad-house. - -If my idea that Mr. Chesterton is an idea is correct, I am sure I do -not know whose idea he may be; but he is just such a crazy idea as -might belong to a sane man and should therefore be safe in sticking -to his originator. If Mr. Chesterton _is_ an idea and is thinking of -becoming a man, I should strongly advise him against adopting any such -course. I like him much better as an idea. He is so much more plausible -that way. - - I am, Sir, - A. VISIONARY. - - - - -FROM A HUNCHBACK - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I had the misfortune, through no fault of my own, to be -born a hunchback. This, in itself, Sir, is an affliction sufficient -to render my life a hard one and to embitter such happiness as I may -snatch from the hands of fate; but it is an affliction for which, as -far as I know, nobody is to blame, and one, therefore, which I must -bear with such patience and fortitude as I can command. But I bear in -common with other cripples a far greater burden than mere physical -disability, and that is the contempt and pity of my fellow men. - -I find that some men regard me with contempt alone, some with contempt -and pity intermingled, and some with simple pity--and of the three I -think the last is, perhaps, the hardest to endure with equanimity, -since it is the most sincere feeling of superiority which prompts it. -I do not ask the pity of my fellows; I consider myself in much better -case than many men who have straight backs and smooth shoulders; and -certainly I can not see why I should deserve the contempt of any one -merely because I happen to have been born with a body unlike that of -the majority of men. Yet I find the hump upon my back a hindrance in -every venture that I undertake. - -A few years ago when I was younger and more sanguine than I am now, -when I still had faith in the innate fairness of human nature and in -the spirituality of the love of women, I fell in love. Fortunately, -as I thought then, I had not come into the world naked if I had come -crooked, for I possessed a comfortable balance at the bank; a sum -of money in point of fact which was far in excess of the financial -resources of any of the other young men of my acquaintance. Counting -upon the good times which my supply of ready money seemed likely to -afford them, a number of the more prominent young men of my native town -had taken the trouble to cultivate my society during their college -days when they were often short of money and found it convenient to -have a friend who could always be relied on to help out in a pinch and -who was not at all inclined to play the dun if payments were somewhat -slow. Having, as I say, availed themselves of my generosity and -cultivated my company in those lean years of study, these young men, -upon entering into the world of business and society, could not, with -a good grace, begin to ignore me altogether, and they therefore made -it a point to look me up now and then and to invite me about with them -to such functions and entertainments as I might enjoy, and at the same -time, enter into unhandicapped by my physical deformity. - -I could not, of course, play tennis, golf or any game of that sort. -I was, in truth, deterred from entering into any such sport more by -my natural horror of appearing ridiculous than by reason of an actual -lack of the strength necessary to swing a racket or handle a club. The -fact is, I am not especially weak physically, having always taken great -care of my health and having practised with some success such physical -exercises as might be practised in the privacy of my own chambers -or such as would not be likely to excite comment. But no matter how -muscular a man may be, he can not but appear absurd when he goes about -carrying a golf club nearly as tall as himself or rushing about a -tennis net like a lame camel. - -But though, as I say, I was not in demand for such games as these, I -did play an excellent hand at whist, could thrum the guitar a bit, play -accompaniments upon the piano, sing a little in a fairly good baritone -voice and carry on a conversation light or heavy as the occasion seemed -to require. Of course, I did not dance, but I often sat at the piano -and furnished music for the others, thus making myself useful and at -the same time diplomatically avoiding drawing notice to the fact that -I was disqualified as a dancer. Although I always had a secret longing -for theatricals and knew myself to be possessed of histrionic ability -in no mean degree, I never joined our local amateur dramatic club. I -think perhaps I might have done so had not some tactless member of -the club once sent me an invitation to take part in a performance of -_Richard the Third_, which so incensed me that I never again so much as -attended a play given by that organization. - -It was during this time, when I was almost enjoying life like an -ordinary man, owing to the careful manner in which my acquaintances -concealed their dislike and contempt for my crooked back, that I met -and fell in love with a girl who seemed to me, at the time, a charming -and sweet-souled young woman. I saw a great deal of her, owing to the -fact that we were both of musical tastes and often played and sang -together, and it was not long before I came to the conclusion that if -I were ever to marry I might as well be about it then as any time, and -especially since I had the necessary mate at hand, so to speak. To -think was to act with me in those days, and I put the matter to her -bluntly the very first time I saw her after forming my resolution in -this respect. You may not believe me, but I swear to you that I am -telling the truth when I say that I had grown so accustomed to having -my friends ignore my infirmity that I had quite forgotten to take it -into account in the case of the young woman. In fact, I would have -considered it an unjust aspersion of her character to think her capable -of holding such a thing against me, our relations having been always of -the most spiritual. - -You can imagine, then, the shock it gave me when I saw the horror -growing in her eyes which I had so often surprised in the eyes of -strangers! You can fancy, perhaps, the physical and mental anguish I -suffered in that moment when I realized that even to her I was not as -other men--that she had played with me as one might play with a child, -and that she would no sooner think of becoming my wife than she would -think of wedding with an educated baboon. And yet, Sir, within the -space of two years I saw that same young woman stand at the altar with -a senile and decrepit old roué who had never possessed the tenth part -of my own intellectuality and who had absolutely nothing to recommend -him but a fortune, somewhat smaller than my own, and a straight back. I -am told that she is not happy with him, and small wonder, since he is -never at home save when he is too drunk to be elsewhere; but even so, -I doubt if she has ever regretted her answer to me, so strong is the -prejudice of the normal person against all forms of physical deformity. -The fact that her husband is more crooked in his morals than I am in my -back would, I dare say, have no weight whatever with her. - -I have heard people say that women are often attracted by men of odd -and unusual personal appearance and that many women find an almost -irresistible fascination in cripples and the like, but I have never -encountered anything in my personal experience to incline me to this -view. It is an idea upon which Victor Hugo dilates in his romance, -_The Man Who Laughs_, where the duchess becomes enamored of a monster. -But I am of the opinion that Hugo treated this matter more truthfully -and realistically in _The Bell Ringer of Notre Dame_, where the white -soul and brave heart of Quasimodo count for nothing with Esmerelda -when weighed against the physical attractions of the philandering -captain, who is a thoroughly bad lot. I have heard it asserted that -Lord Byron owed much of his popularity with the ladies to his club -foot, but this I take to be the sheerest nonsense. The fascination -which Lord Byron exercised upon the women was not, I am convinced, due -to his physical deformity, but to what we may call his mental and moral -deformity. And this, Sir, brings us to the milk in the cocoanut and -the point of this letter. I wish to ask you, and to ask your readers, -what I have so often asked myself: Why is it that men and women find -physical deformity so hateful while they so often find mental and moral -deformity attractive? - -Shakespeare, learned in the ways of human nature, laid particular -stress upon the physical shortcomings of Richard the Third, well -knowing that no amount of mere wickedness would serve to turn the -audience against him so strongly as a hump upon his back. The villain -of the play, if he be handsome and brave, will often oust the hero from -his rightful place in the esteem of the audience, so that presently -the pit, the galleries and the boxes are united as one man in wishing -him success in his villainy, or at least in wishing him immunity from -his well-deserved punishment. Instead of hissing him, the spectators -are moved to applaud him. And for this reason the playwrights and -the novelists have, until late years when the worship of virtue is -no longer considered an essential part of art, caused the villain to -appear a coward or burdened him with some physical deformity. And the -devil of it all is, Sir, that most of the villains in real life are -like the villains of the stage who oust the hero. Charles Lamb once -said that it is a mistake to assume that all bullies are cowards; and -in my opinion it is an even greater mistake to assume that a villain -can not be attractive. If villains had no charm, villainy would soon -cease through want of success. - -In the case of Byron, since I seem to have chosen him for an example, -the women were attracted on the one hand by his reputation as a genius -and upon the other hand by his reputation as a rake. Byron, though a -cripple, was an unusually handsome man of the poetic type, and I think -we may safely assume that the aversion which may have been created by -his club foot was more than offset by the fact that he was otherwise of -pleasing appearance and was known to be an athlete. Now, of course, it -would be impossible to say whether more women were fascinated by his -genius or by his rakishness, but on a venture I would be willing to -wager that nine out of ten of the women who knew him would rather have -read his love letters than his poetry. Genius is a thing apart from -love, and, say what they will, I believe that the mistress of such a -man is more like to be jealous of her lover’s genius than proud of it, -and especially so where she can not flatter herself that it has been -inspired by love of her. She is interested in a poem in which she can -find herself, not because it is poetry, but because _she_ is in it. -Therefore I incline to the belief that Byron’s conquests were due to -his reputation as a rake, rather than to his reputation as a poet. But -given the combination of a poet, a rake, a handsome man and a lord, it -would be unnatural if women did not love him. - -But Byron’s case is not the only one I have in mind. It is a common -thing for murderers in jail to receive flowers and sentimental letters -from women. Women, too, who have never so much as set eyes upon -them and who know them only by the stories of their crimes in the -newspapers. The maddest of religious fanatics can always count upon a -goodly number of women as converts. The taint of insanity itself seems -to be less repulsive to women than physical deformity. And the men are -little better than the women. A man will often knowingly wed with a -fool because she has a pretty face, or vote a rogue into office because -he thinks him clever. The juries of men which try women murderers are -ready to grow maudlin over them if the women happen to be good-looking. - -It is a problem, Sir, which I can not solve, turn and twist it as I -may. Sometimes I think that we who are deformed in body are granted -the only straight minds to be found among men, by way of compensation. -And at such times, Sir, I am inclined to thank God that He has seen fit -to put the hump upon the back and not upon the mind or soul of - - HAROLD HISHOULDER. - - - - -FROM A HOTEL SPONGE - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I feel it my duty to publicly express my disapproval of -the recent ruling of certain hotel proprietors of this city, and to -publicly protest against their hasty and ill-advised agreement that -hereafter they will discourage, in every way possible, the visits of -outsiders who make use of their lobbies and halls. - -I am myself one of the best-known non-resident patrons of the hotels in -this city, or, in the vulgar language of the innkeepers themselves--a -hotel _sponge_. That is to say, I do not register at these hotels as a -guest, but I do make it a point to drop into one or two of them every -afternoon and evening, and I think I may say, without undue egotism, -that you will seldom see a more debonair and smart-looking man than I -appear upon these occasions. I am, I believe, as my tailor says, “an -ornament to any assembly,” and my presence in a hotel lobby or corridor -is sufficient to stamp that hotel as a proper place in the minds of all -those who are sufficiently acquainted with the hall-marks of the _haut -ton_ to recognize a gentleman when they see one. - -I have been a familiar figure about a certain hotel on Thirty-fourth -Street for the last ten years, and though the tide of fashion which -once flowed through those corridors is now somewhat diminished, having -set in a northerly direction, yet that hotel continues to hold its own -with the visitors from out of town. And do you know why this is so, Mr. -_Idler_? Do you know why it is that this hostelry is still enabled to -present an appearance of smartness and exclusiveness? I presume that -you do not, and so I shall tell you. It is simply that I have chosen -to continue to appear there. Though the social leaders whose names -are known across the continent desert the place for the newer and no -less pretentious hotels farther up-town, this place, by reason of my -loyalty, has suffered no loss of standing. I, Sir, am to the hotels of -New York what John Drew is to the American stage. I am that rosy-faced, -perfectly groomed, elegant gentleman of leisure who saunters through -the halls and corridors at tea time and at dinner time, and who -confirms the out-of-town guest in his opinion that he has selected as a -place to stop the one hotel which is the resort of fashion. - -If it were not for me and for the other members of my class, how long -do you suppose these hotels could go on charging the enormous prices -they now charge for food and lodging? How long do you suppose they -could induce the thrifty countryman to part with such sums of his -hard-earned money if he were not provided with the inspiring spectacle -which I present when arrayed in my full regalia? Not one month, Sir. -In less than a fortnight the word would go forth to all parts of the -United States that these hotels had lost caste and were becoming back -numbers. - -It is to me, and to others like me, that the great modern hotels of -this city owe their prosperity; indeed, I might say, their very -existence. It is we who set the pace in luxury and style. The hotels -merely live up to our standards. The manager of a shabby hotel can -not see me walk into his lobby without feeling instantly ashamed of -the poor accommodations he has to offer me. The hotel managers were -so irked at being put out of countenance by the obvious superiority -of the casual hotel visitor that they set out to provide for him a -proper setting. Do you suppose, Sir, that the expensive furniture, the -music, the luxurious reading and smoking-rooms, the glittering bars -and the comfortable armchairs of the modern, up-to-date New York hotel -were necessary to obtain the custom and patronage of the provincial -visitors, or even necessary to hold that patronage? No, Sir! But _I_ -am necessary to hold the business of these people, and the luxuries -are necessary to hold me. All this is so plain, so perfectly apparent -to any observing person, that it seems almost incredible that these -managers should dare to risk our indignation. Drive us out, indeed! -They will be very lucky if we do not withdraw altogether of our own -accord, after such a gratuitous insult. A strike of waiters, Sir, would -not prove one-half so demoralizing as a strike of the _atmosphere -creators_, or, to use the insulting term of the hotel men, the “hotel -sponges.” - -Can you imagine, Sir, trying to paint a forest scene without a tree in -sight? That task would be as easy as trying to conduct an aristocratic -hotel without an aristocrat in sight. “But,” you say, “you fellows -are not really aristocrats--you are only imitation aristocrats.” In -so saying, Sir, you fall into the same error into which these hotel -men have fallen. We are aristocrats. We are the ideal aristocrats, -and let me tell you, Sir, we are much more convincing than those whom -you would doubtless call the real aristocrats. I have not lived as a -man-about-town for the last ten years without coming to know these -dyed-in-the-wool aristocrats of yours very well indeed. I assure you -that you would be much surprised and disappointed should you see -them, as I have seen them, at our leading hotels. They would no more -correspond to the countryman’s idea of an aristocrat than an Indian -Chief would fulfil the romantic maiden’s ideal of a ruler of men. -Sir, where I am urbane, they are ill at ease. Where I am clad in the -very pink of fashion, they are often dowdy, not to say shabby. Where -I appear indifferent and slightly bored, they are often irritable, -easily upset and worried-looking. Oscar Wilde once said that he was -very much disappointed in the Atlantic Ocean, and I can imagine that -his disappointment was not deeper than that of the rural visitor who -happens to stumble upon a member of what is known as our best society. - -Doubtless you fancy that I and the others of my kind concern ourselves -with aping the dress and manners of these society people. If so, you -were never more mistaken in your life. It is they who copy and imitate -us. They go where we go, they wear what we wear, they eat what we -eat and they drink what we drink. Only, as is always the case with -imitators, they fall far short of their models. How is it possible -that any man can appear the perfect gentleman of leisure unless, -indeed, his life is actually a life of ease and pleasure? We have no -cares and no responsibilities. They have a thousand. We have no social -duties to distract our attention. They are constantly consulting their -watches. And, lastly, Sir, we have art, and they have none. - -I can not imagine what has led these misguided innkeepers to think -that they can do without us. But I can tell you, they will soon regret -their recent action, whatever motives may have moved them to take it, -for they will find very shortly that their hotels are not nearly so -necessary to us as we are to their hotels. I am, Sir, - - PERCIVAL PIGEONBREAST. - - - - -FROM SARAH SHELFWORN - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I have to complain of an abuse which is daily growing -greater and which, if not checked, will soon assume the proportions of -a national menace. It is my purpose, Sir, to call to your attention -and to the attention of all earnest thinking people, a pernicious -influence exercised by a certain portion of our daily press--by those -vulgar flaunting publications known as “yellow journals”. Now do not -misunderstand me, Mr. _Idler_; this letter is no ill-considered general -attack upon the press; no incoherent or fanatical outcry against the -publication of disagreeable facts. It is, on the contrary, a protest -against a certain idealism which pervades the pages of these newspapers -and which unduly excites the imagination of our young men. I do not -refer to stories of crime, extravagance or anything of that sort--but -to the publication of pictures of beautiful women. - -You may ask, what possible harm can come of the publication of these -pleasing portraits? Well, Sir, I will tell you; but in order that you -may understand my point of view, I must first tell you something of -myself and explain somewhat, my own experience. - -I, Sir, am a school-teacher--an instructor in English literature--and -since the school where I am employed is a public high school, it is -hardly necessary to add, I am a woman. Or perhaps it would be more -truthful to say I _was_ a woman once upon a time. When I was young -and fairly pretty, there was no more womanly woman than I in all this -section of the country, but let me tell you, Sir, ten years of teaching -school is an experience calculated to unsex any person, man or woman. -We veteran school-teachers constitute what a magazine writer recently -referred to as “an indeterminate sex.” We have left in us nothing of -the masculine or feminine nature. We think, feel, argue and reason -like one another and like nobody else in the world--we are neuter -throughout. It is, perhaps, for this reason that I can now look back -upon my wasted life with only a passing regret, and that I can, without -any feeling of outraged modesty or womanly reserve, lay bare to you the -dreams of my girlhood and the thoughts of my maturity. - -To begin, then, I have always lived in the little town where I am -now teaching, though to be sure, since I became a teacher, I have -traveled more or less during my vacations. I have visited many places -in Europe and America at one time or another. I have made a pilgrimage -to Stratford-on-Avon six times in as many years, and it is perhaps for -this reason that I have never found time to read any of Shakespeare’s -works beyond the four or five plays which we read in class. Be that as -it may, when I was a girl of seventeen or eighteen, I was a bright, -merry-hearted young creature who had not a care in the world, nor a -thought for anything but pleasure. Not that I was without sentiment, -for truth to tell, I was as sentimental as any, and let me tell you, -Sir, one girl of eighteen has more sentiment in her composition than -all of the old men in the world. I say “old men,” because I have -observed that whereas sentiment comes to a woman early in life, so -that she is soon done with it, men seldom become sentimental until -they have passed middle age. And that is why, Sir, you will observe -in the restaurants and cafés of your city, young men with old women -and old men with young women. Like is naturally attracted to like. The -old man loves the young woman for her romanticism which is akin to his -own, and the young woman loves the old man because he is not ashamed -to admit his infatuation and glories in his subjection to her charms. -The young man, upon the other hand, is attracted to the older woman by -her knowledge of the world, her masculine view-point, her independence -of mind, her air of good-fellowship, and her frank acceptance of a -temporary affection. The old woman finds in the young man the only -sensible, sober and sane being that wears trousers. - -As I say, Sir, I was as sentimental as any; I had my girlish dreams of -home and fireside, of husband and little ones, but I was not obsessed -with this pleasant dreaming. I took all that for granted as my natural -birthright, and a career which was guaranteed to me by virtue of my -very womanhood. I was cheerful, a capable housekeeper, possessed of a -clear complexion, good eyes, sound teeth, a fair figure--in short, I -was passably good-looking. Why should not I be married in due time, -as my mother was before me, and as the girls of my native village had -always been? I was not hump-backed, bow-legged, nor squint-eyed. I -was neither a shrew nor a prude. I could manage a house and (I had no -doubt) I could manage a husband; how could I fail to get him? - -Alas! Sir, my youthful optimism was my undoing. I delayed my choice -and I lost my opportunity. I refused one or two offers of marriage -that came to me in the first flush of my womanhood--and I have never -since received another! The young men of our town had always married -our home girls. With the exception of a few prodigals who left home -to see the world and who never returned, some going to jail and some -to congress, none of our young men sought their wives among strangers. -They were well content with what they found at home. How, then, could I -anticipate a sudden exodus of eligible young men? An exodus, I say! For -an exodus it was, and an exodus it has continued, year by year, ever -since that fatal day when Willie Titheridge Talbott went over to Ithaca -and married Minna Meyerbeer who won the Tompkins County beauty contest! - -No sooner do our young men arrive at that age when they can don a -fuzzy hat and coax a mustache without exciting the ridicule of their -little brothers, than they shake the dust of this town from their -feet and set out to find a wife among those vampire beauties whose -portraits decorate the pages of our Sunday papers. As for our girls, -they are left as I was, to choose between frank spinsterhood at home, -or to follow the young men out into the world, there to become chorus -girls, manicures, stenographers--or to engage in some other similar -profession which exerts such a glamour and fascination over the men as -to make up for their lack of classical beauty. - -And who, Sir, is to blame for this lamentable state of affairs? The -beauties? No, not altogether, for if they were not so exploited by the -newspapers, our young men would never suspect that they existed. For, -Sir, even if he were to meet her face to face, the ordinary young man -is so lacking in sentiment, so matter-of-fact, that he would never -suspect one of those beauties of being anything extraordinary if her -beauty were not vouched for by some newspaper. The young man who has -not been corrupted in this way, and who has not had fostered in him by -these newspapers the silly notion that he is a knight errant searching -the world for beauty in distress, is a docile creature, easily captured -and easily managed. He treats matrimony as he treats his meals, he -takes what is set before him and afterward grumbles as a matter of -course, but deep down in his heart he is very well satisfied. It is the -editors, Sir, who have caused all of the trouble; the editors with -their silly beauty contests and their simpering half-tone, half-world -women of the stage flaunting their coquettish graces and flirting with -our young men from the pages of the Sunday papers. - -Now, Sir, I hope that you will not dismiss this letter as a matter of -no consequence and the peevish complaint of a disappointed spinster, -for I assure you the roots of this evil go deeper than appears at first -glance. Our magazines are asking, “Why do young men leave the farm?” -Our sociologists are asking why are our villages becoming depopulated? -Superficial observers often reply that the young men go to the city -for the sake of money-making. But I, Sir, know better. The young men -are leaving the farms and the villages to hunt for wives because the -newspapers, with their photographs, have made them dissatisfied with -what they find at home. And now that you know the cause of it, Mr. -_Idler_, is there no hope that you may devise some way to put a stop to -it? - - I am, Sir, - SARAH SHELFWORN. - - - - -FROM ANNA PEST - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: Doubtless you are familiar with some of the newer schools -of poetry, as for instance, that one which has abandoned rhyme for -assonance, which has led an ignorant and prejudiced critic to say of it -that its poetry may be rich in assonance, but that he finds in it more -of asininity. Such is the treatment accorded all independent artists by -the hidebound adherents of outworn ideals! - -Now, Mr. _Idler_, nobody is more convinced than I am that we need new -forms of poetry. I have been writing poems for a number of years and -I feel that I speak with authority when I say that the old classical -forms are entirely inadequate for modern poetic expression. I have -tried them all and I have found them all wanting, for though I have -written poems in the form of sonnets, lyrics, triolets, quatrains, -couplets, rondels--and even in blank verse--I was never able to produce -a decent poem in any of them. I therefore conclude that what every -modern poet needs is to shake off the shackles of poetic convention -and follow a form suited to his nature. I have been greatly encouraged -by the introduction of the _vers libre_ in France and I am heartily -in accord with the aims of those pioneers of the new poetry who are -laboring to educate the public taste to modern ideals, but I fear that -in one or two instances they have overshot the mark. - -Much as I admire the courage of Monsieur Alexandre Mercereau, who has, -with splendid audacity, forsaken verse altogether and determined to -write all of his poetry in prose, I do not believe it advisable to -attempt to accomplish the poetic revolution at one step. I am more in -sympathy with those who have abandoned rhyme, but retained rhythm. - -For my own part, I have invented a form which I think better than -either. I believe that this form is as superior to the sonnet as the -sonnet is to the limerick. I call this form the _duocapet_ because -it is, in a sense, double-headed, having two rhyming words in every -line--one at each end. I have discarded rhythm but retained rhyme. I -had good reasons for adopting this course. I regard meter as a useless -encumbrance. It is meter, not rhyme, which hampers the true poet. The -poet should be free--free as the air--free as the birds. It is a crime -against art to bind him with silly meaningless meters and rhythms -which distract his attention from his theme and serve only to furnish -critics with an excuse for picking flaws. I hope that the happy day -will soon arrive when laymen will leave to the poets the settling of -all questions of form, but in the present state of public ignorance and -prejudice I think it advisable to concede them something in order that -they may realize that we are writing poetry. Later, when the public is -sufficiently educated to recognize poetry without any of its ancient -ear-marks, I may discard rhyme also. - -For the present I think the _duocapet_ is the most logical and -artistic of existing forms. Writing in the _duocapet_, the poet has -only one rule to observe--that the first word of every line shall rhyme -with the last. I have, in fact, reduced the couplet to a single line, -making the two rhyming words come one at each end of that line, where -they logically belong, one opening and one closing the line, instead -of placing them one under the other in the manner of Pope. Standing -in this position they may be likened to two sentries that guard the -thought of the poet. It is as if the rhyme at the first end of the -line called out, “Who goes there?” and the other responds, “A friend!” -In the _duocapet_ the poet may make his lines short or long as best -pleases him without regard for the length of lines that go before or -that follow. - -This poetry is produced as all true poetry should be produced, a line -at a time. No whole can be perfect which is defective in any part. -In the _duocapet_ every line is a perfect poem, complete in itself, -every line contains a distinct thought, and though the sentence may -sometimes extend from one line to another, this is never necessary and -rests with the discretion of the poet. Should he choose, he might write -a whole poem consisting of nothing but complete sentences, a sentence a -line, with a period at the end of each. The poem can be made ten lines -in length or ten thousand, and asterisks and italics can be introduced -at will. With the exception of the rhyme, the poet is as free in this -form as in any form of _vers libre_. I append an example of _duocapet_ -which should give you a good idea of the possibilities of this form: - -MIDNIGHT - - Gone is the day and I look out upon - Night bathed in Luna’s sad illusive light ... - Dark are the shadows out in Central Park; - Hushed are the streets through which the traffic rushed ... - _See! Underneath that weeping-willow tree - Prone lies a figure on a bench alone!_ - Why should he lie there ’neath the sky? - Is there no home he can call his? - Creeps now the moonlight where he sleeps ... - Shakes then the outcast as he wakes, - Chill with the bitter winds that fill - All of the Park from wall to wall. - Slinks then away in search of drinks. - Soon he will be in a saloon. - Still as I lean upon the sill - And see the sky on every hand - Sprinkled with those same stars that twinkled - Bright on that blessed Christmas night - When angels sang good-will to men ... - Sore is my heart unto the core! - Sick is my soul unto the quick! - Sick is my soul ... my soul ... how sick! - -I hope that you will publish this poem and letter in the interest of -Poetic Art, and in order that the world may know that we poets of -America are almost, if not quite, as progressive as those of France. - - I am, Sir, - ANNA PEST. - - - - -FROM SETH SHIRTLESS - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I am the victim of a most peculiar affliction. I am -suffering from what appears to be a sort of disease and which can not -be classified. As I am not able to find the true explanation of this -matter myself and as physicians seem to be equally at a loss in regard -to it, I have decided to appeal to the public at large in the hope that -some one who reads my communication will be able to suggest a cure or -at least some method of alleviation. - -There is an old saying, Mr. _Idler_, borrowed from some author, if I -mistake not, that “the apparel oft proclaims the man.” This I consider -a true saying aptly put; but I believe, Sir, that apparel sometimes -does more than proclaim the man--that it sometimes actually _makes_ -the man. It is well known that men are often affected by the clothes -they wear. Good clothing has a tendency to inspire confidence in the -breast of the wearer, while poor clothing robs a man of his assurance, -if not of his self-respect. That all men are more or less subject to -the influence of their garments, there can be no doubt, but I, Sir, -am peculiarly susceptible to it. It has been so all my life. Even in -childhood I became supercilious and insolent with pride when clad in -my best, and most envious and depressed the moment I had changed to my -every-day wear. - -Since I have come to manhood, I have felt this weakness growing upon me -despite my most earnest efforts to resist it, until now, Mr. _Idler_, -my character and my wardrobe are so inextricably mixed together that -I may be said to change my nature with my clothing. When I am richly -dressed I _feel_ rich, and my thoughts and sentiments are those of a -wealthy person. At such times I am a firm believer in all measures -for the protection of property and vested rights. I am a hearty -adherent of the established order and I am distinctly suspicious of all -so-called reforms and innovations in governmental machinery. When, -on the other hand, I am dressed shabbily, my views and my feelings -undergo a complete change. I am no longer a believer in the sacredness -of property rights. Indeed, I look upon all rich men as so many -robbers who have seized upon the land and the natural resources which -should, of right, be the common property of all mankind. I feel that -I have been defrauded of everything they have which I have not. Their -insolence vexes me and their display drives me into a very fury of -rage which is partly inspired by just indignation and partly by simple -envy. At these times I am fiercely radical in politics. No measure of -reform can be too revolutionary for my taste. My dearest wish is that -the whole social fabric may be rent to shreds and rewoven in a pattern -after my democratic heart. - -To such extremes of sentiment do my clothes carry me. When I am -fashionably clad a Socialistic pamphlet irritates me as a red rag -enrages a bull. But when I am poorly dressed and shod, _I write such -pamphlets_. Write them, and, Sir, incredible as it may seem, leave -them lying about my quarters for the very purpose of irritating -myself, and well knowing that when my eyes light on them while in my -conservative frame of mind I shall fall upon them and tear them to -tatters. I, Sir, am as a house divided against itself--I am a man at -war with his own soul! - -You have heard, I doubt not, of the celebrated case of Doctor Jekyll -and Mr. Hyde, and of other instances of double personality, where men, -by reason of contending spirits within them, have been forced to lead -double lives. I do not hesitate to say that such are blessed when their -lot is compared to my own unhappy state, for I lead, not a double, -but a _treble_ existence. In addition to these two personalities, -which I term for want of a better nomenclature my Aristocratic and my -Proletarian selves, I am also possessed of a Normal self which is in -evidence only when I am completely disrobed. - -Can you fancy, Sir, what this means to me? Can you imagine in what -straits a man must be who can think clearly and logically only -when he is naked, and who, before he can decide upon any matter of -importance, must hurry home and throw off his clothes lest he be led -astray by rabid prejudice or blind enthusiasm? That, Sir, is precisely -my situation. When I awake in the morning I am compelled to make a -choice between my two antagonistic personalities. My wardrobe stares -me in the face as if asking the eternal question, “Which is it to be -to-day--Aristocrat or Proletariat?” Always, upon falling asleep at -night, I am haunted by the specter of the ordeal which awaits me in the -morning. - -In addition to this, my Aristocratic and my Proletarian selves have -recently conceived a violent dislike for each other and they have begun -to vent their spite in many petty ways, much to the disgust of my -Normal self who has small use for either of them. For example, about a -fortnight ago, my Proletarian self indulged himself freely in gin, a -drink which is loathsome to my Aristocratic self. He stayed in this -condition for a matter of four days and upon his return to my--perhaps -I should say _our_ chambers, he wantonly destroyed a new top hat which -my Aristocratic self had carelessly left lying upon the hall table. By -way of retaliation, my Aristocratic self seized some overalls belonging -to my Proletarian self and flung them into the ash-barrel. Altogether, -they behave, Sir, in a fashion to make me thoroughly ashamed of them -both. - -Possibly you are wondering how it comes that I am in the habit of -changing my clothing so frequently and varying the quality of my -dress in this way. I may as well tell you that for many years I was a -professional politician, much in demand as an orator, and that I was -called to speak before audiences of widely different character, so that -I sometimes found it expedient to dress in evening clothes and at other -times it was necessary for me to appear a workingman. My constantly -changing political convictions made it impossible for me to continue -in this work, but by the time I gave it up I had come to know these -two personalities so well that I was unwilling to trust myself for long -in the hands of either of them. I have thought of purchasing a decent -outfit of ready-to-wear clothing, but I realize that the result of such -a step would be to render me hopelessly middle-class, a condition I -have hitherto escaped. I have no desire to add a fourth personality to -those I already possess. - -I have consulted my tailor without good result, and the best that my -physician has been able to do for me was to suggest a period of rest -in the country. I am now very comfortably lodged in a quiet house in -the suburbs, where I came upon the advice of my doctor and two of his -colleagues with whom I discussed my trouble. - -I am very well content here for a man who is virtually a prisoner. Not -that I am confined by force, Sir, but I have determined never to put on -another suit of clothes until I have solved the problem which confronts -me, and I can not leave my room without dressing; the landlord of this -place objects to my doing so. Here, then, I expect to remain until I -hit upon some solution of my difficulty or until some other person is -good enough to suggest a way out of my dilemma. I am, Sir, - - SETH SHIRTLESS. - - - - -SARTOR-PSYCHOLOGY - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I am a social worker, and it is in this capacity that -I address you upon a subject which appears to me to be of vital -importance to all classes of society. I have, Sir, hit upon a plan -which will, if generally adopted, work the greatest reform that has -ever been effected, and which will, I am convinced, completely do away -with the necessity for long-term sentences to imprisonment. In simple -honesty I must admit that this idea is not entirely my own. It was -suggested to me by the extraordinary and very interesting communication -from Mr. Seth Shirtless which appeared in your January issue. - -The influence of clothing upon character has long been recognized, -but I do not remember ever to have heard of another case so well -illustrating that influence as the case of Mr. Shirtless. His story of -his experiences was profoundly interesting from a psychological point -of view, and while reading it I conceived the plan of which I spoke -just now. It occurred to me that the influence of dress might be of -great use in reforming men of evil habit and temperament. It is well -known to all social workers that many criminals cherish a spirit of -bitter animosity toward society at large, and that not a few habitual -criminals have embarked upon a career of crime urged on by the mistaken -belief that the hand of every man was against them. Having once plunged -into evil ways, these misguided creatures come to be more and more of -the opinion that they are not as other men; that they have lost for all -time to come any hope of being treated with respect and that they must -live and die outside the pale of respectability. - -It must be confessed that the treatment now accorded them, both in jail -and after their release, lends some color of truth to this conviction. -To win these men back to a useful way of life it is only necessary to -show them that they are wrong; that a temporary fall from grace does -not involve an eternal and perpetual atonement. They must be made to -feel that they are still members of the Brotherhood of Man and that -they may again become members in good standing. Once they are convinced -of this, they will certainly mend their ways and gladly conform to -right standards of living. Society is coming to realize, as it never -did before, that the true purpose of imprisonment is to reform, and not -to punish; that our criminals and law-breakers are susceptible to the -same methods as our children, and that our proceedings against them -should be corrective, rather than retaliatory. These men are sick, sick -in mind if not in body, and it is the duty of the state to reclaim them. - -In consequence of this awakening to the real purpose of imprisonment, -many of our prisons have given up the hideous practise of dressing -convicts in the degrading and brutalizing uniforms which were formerly -so common as to be almost universal in penal institutions. Men have -pretty generally come to see that the use of the striped zebra-like -suit for prisoners was a mistake; an added infamy which served no good -purpose, but only deepened the convict’s sense of shame and resentment. -But though the old garb for prisoners is rapidly becoming obsolete, -all reform of this character has, so far, been negative in its nature. -The method which I propose is positive. Why should we be content with -relieving the convicts of their shameful uniforms? Why not go a step -further and institute a constructive reform in their dress? Why not -array them in such a fashion that their self-respect must be reawakened -and their sense of responsibility quickened into life? Why not bring -to bear upon their characters the influence of clean linen and a -respectable wardrobe? - -What I propose, Mr. _Idler_, is just this: Let every convict and -prisoner be clad in clothing suitable for a substantial citizen and -a respected member of the community. Let every inmate of our prisons -and penitentiaries be supplied each week with a liberal allowance of -clean linen and underwear. Let every man of them be furnished with a -decent wardrobe; say, two or three business suits of good quality and -correct cut, a walking-coat or frock for afternoon wear, evening dress, -a silk hat and a dinner coat. We already provide for them good books to -elevate their minds; let us now give them such attire as will increase -their respect for their persons. - -Now, there is no denying that a well-dressed man makes a better -impression upon strangers than a sloven; and if this is true of -strangers, what shall we say of the effect upon the man himself? While -few of us are so strongly affected as Mr. Shirtless, yet we are all -of us, I think, affected in some degree. A pleasing image in a mirror -increases our self-respect, but when we see ourselves unkempt and -ill-clad we are ashamed. When we have made our prisoners presentable, -I believe we should give them the satisfaction of seeing how much they -are improved, and I therefore suggest that a mirror be placed in each -cell where the inmate can see himself at full length. Thus, if in spite -of his new outfit he occasionally feels a disposition to backslide, he -has only to glance into the glass to be restored to respectability. In -this way he can be led to see the possibilities within him. Let a man -look into a looking-glass and see there a reflection which might well -be that of a statesman, and his subconsciousness will at once inquire -_why not_? The inspiring sight will reawaken his ambition. - -Though it will be a great step forward to dress these convicts -like decent citizens, yet this is hardly enough. There must be a -corresponding reform in their occupations and employments. There is -certainly something incongruous in the thought of a man clad in a -frock coat and silk hat breaking stones with a hammer. Such a thing -must appear bizarre even to the dullest of these unfortunates. To keep -them at such labor would seem as if we were making sport of them. It -will therefore be advisable to devise for each inmate of our prisons -some employment which will be in keeping with his clothes and, at the -same time, congenial and respectable. Here is a man, let us say, who -has been convicted of larceny. We will make a promoter of him. Here -is another who has been sentenced for gambling. He would make a good -broker. A third, who has been an anarchist, will make a good magazine -editor. A fourth, confined for highway robbery, can be transformed into -a hotel proprietor. And so on down the list. - -Of course it will be necessary to release some of them upon parole when -the time comes for them to begin the practise of their professions, -but by the time they have mastered the details of their new callings -this will probably be safe enough. If a carpenter has been sent to -prison for burglary, it is not reasonable to keep him employed at the -same trade while in confinement, for then he is released knowing no -more--and no better off--than he was when incarcerated. Perhaps it was -carpentry which drove him to crime. No, Mr. _Idler_, we should elevate -him. - -As for those who are merely dissolute and idle, we will make gentlemen -of them. We will dress them in the latest fashion and establish for -them a club where they may follow their natural bent and continue in -their usual habits, only now with the sanction of society. - -If the system I have outlined should be adopted in all of our prisons, -Sir, I see no reason why our convicts should not soon be a credit to -the community. - - I am, Sir, - AL. TRUIST. - - - - -MR. BODY PROTESTS - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: It is with a feeling of dismay--nay, I may even say -terror--that I read in my morning paper the statement that during -last year there were made and sold in the United States no less than -8,644,537,090 cigarettes! Nearly nine billion of these devil’s torches, -or almost one hundred of them for every man, woman and child throughout -the country. And not only that, but an increase of 150,000,000 cigars -and 15,000,000 pounds of manufactured tobacco over the production of -the preceding year. - -To what, Sir, is this country coming, when such things are possible? -Can it be that the whole nation is bent upon suicide? I have read that -a single drop of the pure essense of nicotine dropped upon the back -of a healthy and robust flea will cause the unfortunate beast to -fall into convulsions, frequently terminating in a partial paralysis -or total dissolution. Now, it is well known to all who make the -slightest pretense to any knowledge of entomology that the flea, or -_Pulex irritans_, is one of the most hardy insects known to man and is -extremely hard to kill. Indeed, it is a matter of record that the fleas -of Mexico encountered the army of Bonaparte and Maximilian and gave -such a good account of themselves that the French soldiers were more -in awe of the fleas than of the natives. If nicotine, then, has such a -disastrous effect upon such a hearty and well-protected beast as the -flea, what must be the effect of its poison upon man, who is, perhaps, -the most easily killed of all living creatures? It is too horrible -to contemplate! I have, by most careful calculations, proved to my -entire satisfaction that the American people have already been totally -exterminated through their persistence in this evil habit of using -tobacco; and if, as may be said, the facts do not seem to fit in with -my figures, I can only say that I am convinced that their survival is -in nowise due either to their hardiness or to the innocuous character -of the herb, but solely to the kindly interposition of Providence, -who, unwilling to see so young and so promising a nation perish by -reason of this folly, has deliberately set at naught the wiles of -the Devil and robbed him of his prey by fortifying and strengthening -the constitutions of this people to withstand the dread effects of -this evil practise. But how long can people given over to this wicked -practise look to Providence for patience and protection? - -I have but now spoken of the American people as a promising nation, -but I am not sure but that I should amend this to “a once promising -nation.” I believe that this nation can never become truly great until -it has become a nation of non-smokers. Did the Greeks smoke? No. Did -the Romans smoke? No, again. Not in the history of any of the great -nations of antiquity do I find a single reference to tobacco smoking. -The Boers are reputed to be great smokers, and it is to this that I -attribute their defeat at the hands of the English. I have heard that -the Boers even went into battle with their pipes alight, and I have no -doubt that it was due to their distraction and lack of attention caused -by their habit of scratching matches to keep their pipes burning, that -they lost many important engagements. Do you imagine, Sir, that Troy -could have withstood the assault of the Greeks for ten long years, had -Hector and his fellow warriors lolled upon the battlements puffing on -cigarettes? Can you fancy, Sir, the grave and dignified Cicero pausing -in the midst of one of his philippics to expectorate tobacco juice? -Yet I am told upon good authority that this may be witnessed among the -learned justices of our own Supreme Court. - -The almost total destruction of the American Indian, I attribute -chiefly to the debilitating effects of this narcotic. Of all of -the American Indians, the Peruvians attained the highest state of -civilization. And why? Because, Sir, they alone used tobacco only as a -medicine and in the form of snuff. Had they forborne the use of snuff, -it might well have been that the Incas had conquered the Spanish and -colonized the coast of Europe. Snuff, I consider the least harmful -of all forms of tobacco; but only because it is the least frequently -used. There is a lady of my acquaintance, in all other respects a most -estimable woman, who so far forgets her duty as a mother as to permit -her offspring to utilize as a plaything a handsome silver snuff-box -which she inherited from her grandfather. I, Sir, should as soon think -of giving my children a whisky-flask for a toy. I am well aware that -many who have been termed “gentlemen” have been addicted to the use of -snuff; nay, that it was even at one time a fashion among men and women -of the mode to partake of it. But I think none the better of it for -that. As much might be said for rum. - -Lord Chesterfield said that he was enabled to get through the last five -or six books of Virgil by having frequent recourse to his snuff-box; -but I say, if the taking of snuff is necessary to the enjoyment of -Virgil, why then, it were better never to read that poet. I had rather -fall asleep over Virgil than to inhale culture tainted with snuff. -I had rather, indeed, snore over the classics, than sneeze at them. -_Trahit sua quemque voluptas_--I suspect that his Lordship did not so -much find snuff an aid to Virgil as Virgil an excuse for snuff. - -Tobacco, Sir, won its way into Europe by a ruse--a pretense. It wormed -its way into the confidence of the European peoples masquerading as -a medicine--a panacea. Introduced by Francesco Fernandez, himself a -renowned physician, and endorsed by many other men supposed to be -learned in _materia medica_, it was taken on faith and retained through -weakness. At the very outset some of the wiser heads saw the danger of -it. Burton sounded a note of warning in his _Anatomy of Melancholy_: -“Tobacco, divine, rare, super-excellent tobacco, which goes far -beyond all the panaceas, potable gold, and philosopher’s stones, is a -sovereign remedy in all disease. A good vomit, I confess, a virtuous -herb if it be well qualified, opportunely taken, and medically used; -but, as it is commonly abused by most men, which take it as tinkers -do ale, ’tis a plague, a mischief, a violent purge of goods, lands, -health,--hellish, devilish, and damned tobacco, the ruin and overthrow -of body and soul.” - -King James, of blessed memory, was not deceived by the fictitious -virtues of this plant, and he condemned it in his noble work, _The -Counterblaste_. Would that more had been so blessed with wisdom! - -The absurdity of the extravagant claims made for the curative powers -of this herb is well illustrated in the words of Master Nicholas -Culpepper, author of _The English Physitian_, published so late as 1671: - -“It is a Martial plant (governed by Mars). It is found by good -experience to be available to expectorate tough Flegm from the Stomach, -Chest and Lungs.... The seed hereof is very effectual to expel the -toothach, & the ashes of the burnt herb, to cleanse the Gums and make -the Teeth white. The herb bruised and applied to the place grieved by -the Kings-Evil, helpeth it in nine or ten days effectually. _Manardus_, -faith, it is a Counter-Poyson against the biting of any Venomous -Creatures; the Herb also being outwardly applyd to the hurt place. The -Distilled Water is often given with some Sugar before the fit of Ague -to lessen it, and take it away in three or four times using.” - -Such vaporings were, indeed, as little worthy of credence as the empty -chatter of Ben Jonson’s Bobadil: “Signor, believe me (upon my relation) -for what I tell you, the world shall not improve. I have been in the -Indies (where this herb grows), where neither myself nor a dozen -gentlemen more (of my knowledge) have received the taste of any other -nutriment in the world, for the space of one and twenty weeks, but -tobacco only. Therefore it can not be but ’tis most divine. Further, -take it in the nature, in the true kind, so, it makes an antidote, -that had you taken the most deadly poisonous simple in all Florence -it should expel it, and clarify you with as much ease as I speak.... I -do hold it, and will affirm it (before any Prince in Europe) to be the -most sovereign and precious herb that ever the earth tendered to the -use of man.” - -Such were the absurd claims of those who held tobacco to be a medicine. -But I contend, Sir, that tobacco has never been proven of any real -medical value whatever; that it is a poison and not a blessing. I have -been told, indeed, that it sometimes destroys the toothache; but for -my own part I had rather taste the toothache than tobacco; and as for -deadening the pain, so, for that matter, will opium or prussic acid. - -I contend, Sir, that tobacco will eventually bring to grief every -nation which makes use of it. Who can contemplate the present -distressing state of Portugal without recalling that it was from Jean -Nicot, a Portuguese, that the poison, nicotine, received its name? - -Tobacco destroys all that is noble in man. There is no more noble -sentiment than chivalry; and tobacco has destroyed the chivalry of -man. How else could we applaud that English poet who sang, - - “A thousand surplus Maggies are waiting to bear the yoke; - And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke”? - -Tobacco is offensive to all high-minded people of delicate -sensibilities; it is offensive to me. Nay, the smoker himself sometimes -involuntarily recoils from his slavery and feels disgust for the vile -weed, as is shown by the cry of the modern poet, whose name for the -moment escapes me, in that line-- - - “Then, as you love me, take the stubs away!” - -Oh, Sir, it is now high time for all men of sound judgment and -unselfish nature to unite in stamping out this nefarious traffic! Let -every state pass laws forbidding the manufacture, sale _and use_ of -tobacco in any form. Let the government suppress with stringent law and -heavy penalty that wicked and seductive book of J. M. Barrie’s called -_My Lady Nicotine_; that work which has, without doubt, led many young -men to contract this evil habit and confirmed many older men in it -against their own better judgment. Let all books in praise of tobacco -be destroyed publicly, as is befitting a public menace. - -For my own part, having suffered all my life from a quinsy which I -contracted early in youth, and which my family physician assured me -would be greatly aggravated by the use of tobacco, I have been saved -from the vile effects of even the slightest contact with that noxious -plant. But, Sir, being a man of tender sensibilities and imbued with -an almost paternal love of humanity, it has grieved me to the heart to -see my fellow men falling ever deeper and deeper into the clutches of -this sinful practise. Owing to the distress I suffer from the fumes -of tobacco, I have often been compelled practically to abstain from -the company of men, otherwise estimable citizens, who have contracted -this habit. Everywhere I go I see young and old blowing out their -brains with every puff of smoke, until I am sometimes tempted to blow -out my own in sheer despair of ever making them see the evil of their -ways. And they smoke, Sir, with such an air of innocent enjoyment as -is enough to fair madden one whose counsel they scorn and at whose -warnings they scoff. - -I have been told, Sir, that you are, yourself, a victim of this evil -habit of tobacco using, and I have been warned that you will refuse, -with the infatuation of a confirmed smoker, to grant me space in your -publication for these honest and unprejudiced expressions of opinion -upon this subject. I have refused, however, to credit these scandalous -reflections upon your character, and I hope that you will refute -them and cause the utter confusion of your calumniators, as well as -help enlighten an ignorant and misguided people, by printing this -communication in full. - - I am, Sir, very truly yours, - B. Z. BODY. - - - - -ON A CERTAIN CONDESCENSION IN FASHION WRITERS - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: Some writers have an unhappy faculty of adopting a superior -tone which is very offensive to most readers. Even in a writer of -acknowledged excellence this dictatorial style is a blemish, and, -moreover, it is an impertinence. Not only does the writer assume to -be superior to the majority of his readers, but, by implication, to -all the world, since his book is addressed to mankind at large. And -if this air of condescension is hard to bear from men of parts, how -much more galling it is when we suffer it at the hands of insolent -nobodies--writers who seek to hide their obscurity behind the shield of -an imposing pseudonym. I have in mind, Sir, that pestiferous crew who -mar the pages of our theater programs with their uninvited discourses -upon men’s fashions. - -It may be that I am confessing to an unmanly weakness when I confess -that I invariably peruse that column in my program which is signed -_Beau Nash_, _Beau Brummel_, or something equally ridiculous; but if -it is a weakness, I am convinced that it is one which is shared by -nine out of ten men in the audience. I say I am convinced, because, -suspecting that I might be alone in it, I took the trouble to observe -the men about me upon several occasions, and I always caught them at -it at some time during the intermissions. They read it furtively, to -be sure, but they read it none the less. Of course, I can not be sure -what effect these essays upon sartorial matters have upon others, but I -fancy they are affected much as I am, and for my part they distress me -exceedingly. - -In the first place, I am not overly pleased that some unknown hack -writer has assumed to instruct me in such a personal matter as -the clothes which I put upon my back, and in the second place, I -strongly resent the implication that I am interested in such foppish -literature. But, what is worse than all else, these anonymous arbiters -of dress are continually putting me out of countenance by criticizing -explicitly and in detail the very clothes that I have on! It seems to -me that these fellows have a devilish faculty of knowing beforehand -just what I shall be wearing every season. - -Now, Mr. _Idler_, you must not suppose that I am one of those silly -fellows who aspire to lead the fashion or to play the dandy, for, -indeed, I am nothing of the sort. I do not believe there is a man -living who more heartily despises those empty-headed creatures who -are variously known as fops, dudes and dandies. It has never been my -ambition to be the introducer of a new style of neckwear or footgear; -indeed, I fear my very indifference to such matters lays me open to the -vexation caused by these miserable scribblers who prey upon my peace -of mind. Were I in the habit of consulting long and earnestly with my -tailor and haberdasher, no doubt I should be fortified with a sound and -sure confidence in the appropriateness of my apparel. But the fact is, -I leave these things largely to the men who make a business of them, -and content myself with choosing what seems to me to be sufficiently -modish and yet in good taste. - -And yet, Sir, though I am no macaroni, I am not utterly indifferent to -my personal appearance. If I am not a fop, neither am I a sloven. I am -one of those who have faith in the old saying, _In medio tutissimus -ibis_. I would not be - - “The first by whom the new are tried, - Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.” - -Like most practical men, I have a positive horror of appearing queer. -I shun eccentricity in dress as assiduously as I shun eccentricity -in manners. I sometimes envy poets and artists, not for their poetry -or their art, but for that sublime egotism which enables them to -take pleasure in making themselves ridiculous. This seems to me -a vanity which is almost beautiful, a self-confidence which is a -greater blessing than personal bravery. Many a man, otherwise not -extraordinary, may prove himself a hero of physical courage when the -occasion offers, but few there are who can deliberately challenge -attention by their freakish appearance and go out among their fellow -men with an air which seems to say, “I know I look like the devil and I -am proud of it.” - -Now I, Sir--I should not be proud of it. I should be miserably ashamed. -And so I am ashamed when I read in my program that which brands me as -a man of no taste or discrimination. I am horribly humiliated when I -discover in the column of Beau Nash that I have brazenly shattered -every commandment in the sartorial decalogue. I give you my word, -Sir, I break into a cold perspiration whenever I recall the harrowing -experience I had last Saturday-week. It so happened that when I -prepared to go to the play, I found no fresh white waistcoats. This did -not greatly trouble me at the time, for I am a resourceful man, and I -at once recalled that I possessed a black waistcoat which my tailor had -made for me at the same time he had made my dress suit. This I donned -in blissful ignorance of my impending ordeal. I arrived at the theater -rather late and had no opportunity of reading the program before the -curtain rose. That first act is the one bright memory I have of that -awful evening. I enjoyed the first act. But, Sir, I did not long remain -in ignorance of my disgrace. In the first intermission my eyes were -drawn by an irresistible fascination to the column headed, “What Men -Wear,” and in letters which seemed fairly to jump out of the page I -read, “_The black waistcoat worn with evening dress is the height of -vulgarity and is not tolerated._” - -Sir, you can imagine with what a sudden shock my care-free contentment -dropped from me. There I sat in the full glare of the electric light, -conscious that I was surrounded by hundreds of men who had read that -damning paragraph which stamped me as an ignorant underbred boor, who -had attempted evening dress without knowing the very rudiments of the -art. I cast a hasty glance about the theater, and the fleeting hope -which had sprung up died within my breast. _There was not another -black waistcoat in sight._ - -How I lived through the rest of that intermission I can not say. I only -know that I could feel the contemptuous eyes of the audience upon that -dreadful black waistcoat, like so many hot augurs boring holes in the -pit of my stomach. Hastily hiding my face behind my program, I slumped -down in my seat in the vain hope of hiding my disgrace, while drops of -anguish trickled down my brow and fell splashing upon the cruel words -which had rendered me an object for pity and contempt. When the curtain -rose upon the second act, I crept out of the auditorium under cover of -the kindly darkness and slunk away home to hide my shame. - -I do not think I shall ever attend the theater in this city again. -In vain I argue and seek to persuade myself that what I read in the -program was only the opinion of one man, and a man at that who, in all -probability, never owned a dress suit in his life. Whoever he may be, -whatever his knowledge or ignorance of dress may be, he writes with -such a saucy assumption of omniscient authority that my reason stands -abashed before his insolence. As aloof and austere as the Olympian -gods, he crushes my spirit and fills my soul with humility. No, Mr. -_Idler_, I do not believe I shall ever attend the theater here again. -The mental suffering these fashion writers inflict upon me is too great -a price to pay for the pleasure I extract from the drama. - - I am, Sir, - MAURICE MUFTI. - - - - -OF LOOKING BACKWARD - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: It is a constant source of surprise to me that men continue, -at all ages but the earliest, to look back upon the past with a wistful -eye, recalling, with many expressions of regret, the days that are no -more. Thus, while still in the twenties, the youth begins to feel the -burden of worldly cares already pressing heavily upon his shoulders and -sighs when he thinks of the irresponsible school-days of his teens. At -thirty, he is convinced that he has missed the best part of his youth -and would fain be a youngster of twenty once more, his greatest care -the sprouting down upon his upper lip. Come to forty, he is sure that -he should have been most happy when thirty, over the first rawness of -youth, but not yet sensible of any physical deterioration and quite -unmarked by the passage of time. At fifty, he envies the lustihood of -forty, and at sixty he longs for the activity and the muscular ease -which he enjoyed at fifty. And so it goes on, so that we can readily -imagine a patriarch of ancient days exclaiming, “Oh, if I were but -two-hundred-and-twenty once more! How I should enjoy life!” - -Now, to me, Mr. _Idler_, things do not appear in this light at all. -I can not conceive that had I been Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of -France, I should have longed to be an obscure youth in Corsica. It is -easier, of course, to understand why he might, at St. Helena, regret -the departed glories of St. Cloud; but for myself, I do not believe -I should ever, whatever my former station might have been, wish to -lay down the present for the past. I have, it is true, some hope for -the future (I am now but fifty), but even if this were denied me, and -I were assured that my condition ten years hence would be no more -enviable than it is at present, yet I think I should not care to -reassume my youthful aspect, or to take up my life where I left it long -ago. - -There is, in truth, no period of my past life upon which I can look -back with complete complacency. I was, at all times, very well -satisfied with myself, barring occasional and inevitable spasms of -self-reproach. I am, to say the truth, well enough satisfied with -myself as I am to-day. But experience has taught me that the time will -come when I shall look back upon to-day and will not be pleased with -my present self at all. At thirty I remembered the Me of twenty as a -callow and conceited boy. At forty I beheld in the Me of ten years gone -a lazy careless idler. At fifty I recollected the man of forty as a -pompous and affected ass. Now, while the most careful scrutiny of my -person and character fails to reveal to me, at this time, any serious -flaw or defect, yet I doubt not that the future Me, the Me of Sixty, -will have grave fault to find with the individual who is inhabiting my -skin at the present moment. - -“We live and learn,” says the proverb, and since we do, it is unnatural -if we do not feel a sort of shame in the ignorance of our former -selves. I feel no shame for my present ignorance because I do not know -wherein that ignorance consists, but be assured I shall, as soon as I -have found myself out. - -It is, I like to think, one of the wisest provisions of a merciful God -that no man is ever permitted to see what a consummate simpleton he -is, but only what a simpleton _he has been_. A complete and certain -revelation of a man’s folly to himself would, without a doubt, result -in an immediate and lasting loss of self-respect. And to lose one’s -self-respect is to lose one’s identity and become a stranger to one’s -self. The inmost mind, however the outward actions of the body may seem -to contradict it, still clings to the noblest principles, so that no -man can be truly said to be _unprincipled_. He may be debauched and -depraved, but he is not without principle so long as his subconscious -personality has the power to arise and accuse his conscious person. -Where there is no such accusation there can be no loss of self-respect, -for surely a man must possess a thing before he can lose it. As some -say of another, “He is his own worst enemy,” so it may be said that -every man should be his own best friend. None other is empowered so -to befriend him. His life and his character must be, to a very great -extent, of his own making, for every man truly lives to himself. He -is the central character of the drama in which he is both actor and -spectator. Others may come and go, but he alone remains throughout the -play. - -For all our intimacy with ourselves, we never come to know ourselves -completely. We discover, day by day, ideas and opinions which we never -suspected ourselves of possessing. We are wrung by emotions which take -us completely by surprise. We are angered by slights which our reason -tells us are beneath our notice. We are moved to compassion when we are -most determined to remain firm and unmoved. We take a liking for this -person whom we have decided to dislike, and we develop an inexplicable -aversion for another whom we have deliberately chosen for a friend. -Whence come these impulses, these orders which we can not disobey? -These commands which override our conscious desires and break down our -natural wills? Where, indeed, but from that Inner Man, that Unknown -Self whose power we feel but can not comprehend? Where else but from -that second and stronger, if submerged, personality--the human soul? -Is it not, indeed, this unanswerable argument, this inexplicable -conviction of another and better Self within, joined with and yet -distinct from, the ordinary self, which persuades men that mankind is -immortal, no matter how ably the Brain may play the Infidel, nor how -aptly the Tongue may second him? - -For our outward selves, our “every-day selves,” as we might say, we -know whence they are derived. We know that we are born of woman and -fathered of man. We can trace to the one or the other this feature -or that, this trait or the other, but there are yet to be accounted -for those strange whims and fancies, those impulses and ideals which -come neither from the father nor the mother, and which, in very truth, -_make_ us ourselves, make us to be different from our sisters and our -brothers, and without which all the offspring of the same parents -would be as like as so many peas in a pod. And it is these things which -convince us that we have within us another Ego, another Self which -comes to us from some unknown place, to guard and to guide us upon the -perilous path of life. We may sometimes close our ears to his counsel, -but he never suffers us to go wrong unadvised. Is it to be wondered -at, then, that we grow to feel for ourselves an affection which is not -wholly selfish, and to take in ourselves a pride which is not wholly -egotistic? I do not feel under any obligation to the man who wears my -face and bears my name; he has made me ridiculous too often for that. -But I do feel a duty to that other _Me_, the _Me_ that is not wholly of -my own choosing. And so, I am convinced, do most men. - -As I was saying, or about to say, the keenest shame we ever feel is -the shame we feel for ourselves. Shame for others may be tempered with -forgiveness, but it is very difficult to forgive one’s self. There is -no question there of giving the accused the benefit of the doubt. -There is no doubt. I feel a certain shame for the young man that I -once was because I naturally feel a tenderness for him. I can forgive -him much more readily than I could forgive myself as I am to-day. Yet -I would not, if I could, change places with him. My taste in Selves, -as in other things, has changed as I have grown older. I blush for the -weak-mindedness of that youth who was the Me of twenty years ago; yet I -feel, in a way, relieved from the sense of direct responsibility, for -am I not, in fact, another and a different person from the man I was? - -As the delightful Holmes once expressed it, that youthful self is -like a son to me. A bit of a cub, but on the whole, not at all a bad -fellow. He is related to me, but he is not me. And he _never was_ -the man that I now am. He wore my body for a time, that was all. We -were never the same, for I was not born until he had ceased to be. I -am no more that young man of twenty years ago than I am that other -young man who interrupts me now--(No, I haven’t. Can’t you see I’m -busy?)--to borrow a match to set his ugly bulldog pipe alight. A vile -habit--pipe-smoking! Unsanitary and beastly annoying to those who have -better sense. That young man we were speaking of--not the one who -asked for the match, you know, but the one who had the impudence to -pass himself off for me twenty years ago--_he_ used to smoke a bulldog -pipe. I stopped it some time ago myself. Bad for the heart, the doctor -said, and--well, I’m getting on and I can see for myself the folly of -it. Decidedly, I should not like to exchange my own calm judgment for -his youthful carelessness and addiction to tobacco. Unless--well, say, -unless for twenty minutes after dinner! - - I am, Sir, - OLIVER OLDFELLOW. - - - - -THE LITERARY LIFE - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I have read a great many references, at one time or another, -to something which is known as “the literary life”. I have read of it -in novels, in essays, in criticisms and in the reports of the daily -newspapers. Everybody seems to know of it, and everybody speaks of it -as of something to be taken for granted; but though I have made an -earnest effort to discover just what it is and where and by whom it -is lived, I have been quite unable to do so. I had been a newspaper -writer for several years when I first began to take an interest in this -curiously illusive sort of existence. It was in a novel, I think, that -I had read it upon the occasion when my curiosity aroused me to action. -“There it is again,” I said to myself. “What is this literary life, -anyway? Who lives it and in what does the living of it consist? How -does one go about finding out the secret of it?” - -So I set out on my quest. As all good reporters should do, I first took -stock of my possible sources of information, and having done so, I did -what reporters usually do when they wish to find out anything--I asked -the city editor. - -“How the devil do I know?” said he in his unliterary way. “You’re a -reporter, ain’t you? Get busy and find out. If you get anything worth -writing, make a story of it.” That is the way with city editors; they -have no thought for anything but “stories”, no thirst for knowledge -that is not in the way of business, no soul for the higher things in -life. - -With this source of information closed to me, I turned to the staff. I -knew I could learn nothing from the books where I had found the term -used. The books merely referred to “literary life” just as we say -“prison life” or “army life” and expect every one to understand what we -mean. The first man I asked about it simply laughed and said, “That’s a -good one!” The second man told me to go away and stop bothering him. -He was writing an interesting article about the price of onions. The -third man asked me if I thought I was funny. That nearly discouraged -me. I tried one or two others without success, and then I determined to -try a more subtle method of investigation. - -I had failed to gather my desired information as a reporter; I would -try my hand as a detective. I took to following the members of the -staff home from the office. It was an afternoon newspaper and that -was easy to do. The result of my shadowing was that I learned much -of the habits of these men, but little of what I wanted to know. The -police reporter went from the office direct to the butcher shop. There -he made a purchase which he tucked under his arm and went home. He -stayed at home every night that I watched him. The court reporter -spent his evenings in a little saloon on a side street playing poker -with a particular friend of his who was a boilermaker. The hotel -reporter covered the same ground every evening that he had covered -during the day. He went from one hotel to another, playing pool or -billiards and shaking dice with traveling men. After about a fortnight -of investigation I gave up trying to learn anything about the literary -life from newspaper men. I looked up a few magazine writers and the -result was the same: _No two of these men lived the same life at all!_ - -I was astonished. I asked myself how it came about that these men had -overlooked their obvious duty of living the literary life. If literary -men knew nothing of the literary life, then who would? I resolved that -I would solve that problem if it took me a year. From the magazine -writers I went on to the novelists who seemed to have even less in -common than the two former classes had. The publishers were so widely -scattered in so many different suburbs that I had not the courage to -seek them out. - -After a conscientious search which covered a period of six months or -more, I began to think that the literary life might be one of those -traditions handed down from another age; one of those things which -continue to be spoken of in books long after they cease to have any -real existence. Perhaps the authors of other days had lived the -literary life, even if the authors of my own time did not. I would see. -I began to read biography. In Johnson’s _Lives of the Poets_ I found -that: - -Abraham Cowley was the son of a grocer. He showed early signs of -genius; he was expelled from Cambridge. He was, for a time, private -secretary to Lord Falkland. Afterward he spent some time in jail as a -political prisoner. Upon emerging from prison he became a doctor, and -thinking a knowledge of botany necessary to one of his profession, he -retired into the country to study that science. For some reason, he -abandoned botany for poetry and from that time on he wrote poetry. He -died peacefully of rheumatism. - -Edmund Waller was the son of a country gentleman. He attended Cambridge -and was sent to Parliament before he was twenty. Rich by birth, he -added to his wealth by marrying an heiress who died young and left him -free to marry again, which he did. He lived among people of fashion -and wealth, and though he was sent into exile for a short time because -of a treasonable conspiracy in which he engaged, he was soon restored -to general favor. He died in good circumstances of old age. - -Thomas Otway was the son of a rector. He left college without a -degree. He went into gay society and mingled his literary labor with -dissipation. He was, for a short time, an officer in the army. He fell -upon evil days, and when threatened with starvation, borrowed a guinea -from a total stranger. With this he bought himself a roll, but he was -so ravenous that he attempted to bolt it at one mouthful and so choked -himself to death. - -Which one of these men might properly be said to have led the literary -life? - -You need not be surprised to find in your paper some morning an -advertisement to this effect: “Wanted--Some definite information -concerning the character and habitat of the Literary Life.” But if you -know anything about it, don’t wait for the advertisement, but send on -your information at once. I think maybe I would be willing to try it -myself. Certainly _somebody_ ought to live it. - - I am, Sir, - A. J. PENN. - - - - -THE POETIC LICENSE - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: Your recent strictures upon a certain poem by John -Masefield, and the general tenor of several other volumes of verse -recently published, have moved me to address you upon a subject which -holds considerable interest for me; and that, Sir, is the scope and -legitimacy of what is commonly called “the poetic license”. To what -does this license extend and by whom is it granted? Is there no way in -which it may be regulated by law? - -This matter of the poetic license is a source of continual annoyance to -me. I find it invoked upon all occasions. I find that it is considered -a sufficient answer to any criticisms or charges that may be brought -against a poet. I am curious to know if there is any real authority -for it; if it is not, in fact, a mere figment of the imagination, a -polite fiction of letters invented by men of letters for the purpose of -confounding the layman and depriving him of his natural right to pass -an opinion upon all that he reads? - -I confess I am no poet. This being so, I may be lacking in sympathy for -the art, as some of my poetic acquaintances have averred. But I protest -that a man need not be a poet to be a judge of poetry, any more than -he need be a vintner to be a judge of wines, or a cook to be a judge -of preserves. I may lack the finer ear of the poet when it comes to a -question of complicated rhythms, but I am not lacking in an elementary -knowledge of grammar, as some of our poets appear to be. I never could -see any reason why a poet’s grammatical or orthographical errors should -be condoned merely because he chooses to write in verse. We do not -condone such defects in a prose writer, why then in a poet? It may be -urged that the poet has a harder task than the prose writer; that it -is more difficult to express one’s self in verse than in prose. No -doubt it is, but is that any reason why incompetent writers should be -excused their errors? Or their laxness? Or their laziness? Why write -poetry at all if they can not write it properly? Why not choose prose -for a medium? There are men, no doubt, who find prose as difficult as -most men find poetry, but do we therefore overlook their mistakes or -their vagaries? - -Sir, it appears to me that the leniency shown to verse writers in -this respect has worked a great injury to the art of poetry. It has -encouraged men to write verses, who were in no way fitted to write -verses. It has led tyros to choose poetry rather than prose because in -the former they feel more secure from the well-merited censure of their -readers. It has degraded really good poetry to the level of very poor -poetry by allowing virtue where there was none and by holding verses -full of defects to be equal in merit with verses marred by no such -violations of the common rules of grammar and orthography. - -All this, Sir, was bad enough, but I was prepared to pass over it since -it is a practise inaugurated and upheld by professional critics who -will allow us laymen no word at all in the matter. But, Sir, when these -poets attempt to extend their poetic license to clothing, to manners -and to morals, I think they go too far. - -Not long since, I ventured some remarks, not altogether complimentary, -upon the personal appearance of a certain poet, or poetaster, as I -prefer to call him, in the presence of a literary woman. “Oh, yes,” -she replied. “There’s no denying it--he _is_ a sloven. But really -one of his spirituality could hardly be expected to be finicky about -his clothing and that sort of thing.” Upon another occasion, I spoke -harshly with regard to the manners of a well-known versifier, and I was -rebuked for my hasty judgment with the assurance that the oddity of -his conduct ought not to be ascribed to boorishness or rudeness, but -to his poetic temperament. And, Sir, only yesterday, when I condemned -the unbridled license and immorality of a recent book of poetry, I was -informed that a poet could not be expected to view a moral question -from the same angle as an ordinary uninspired mortal. - -Sir, if these scribblers of verse are to be allowed any license, why -should they not qualify for it as do pedlers, saloon-keepers and the -like? Why not require them to prove their fitness for the business -of writing poetry? Let them secure their license from the civil -authorities, and let those licenses be revoked at the first indication -of abuse of privilege. - -As affairs now stand, any one who chances to possess a pen, a windsor -tie and a wide-awake hat can pass himself off for a poet and can claim -indulgence for his bad verse, bad manners and bad morals upon the -plea of poetic temperament. Therefore, to insure the public against -such imposture, I suggest that every poet be compelled, like every -chauffeur, to wear his license in a conspicuous place, and that if he -fail to comply with this requirement, he be immediately impounded. - -This arrangement, I think, would operate as an effective check upon the -too exuberant poetic temperament, and would also be an excellent thing -for the public, for, Sir, if every poet were required, like every dog, -to wear his license attached to a collar, the pound would soon be full -of poets. - - I am, Sir, - P. ROSE. - - - - -THE NECESSITY FOR BEGGARS - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: It is with alarm that I observe the increasing activity -of our charitable organizations and the consequent disappearance -of beggars from our city streets. I, who was formerly constantly -importuned for alms whenever I stirred abroad, have not now been -approached by one of those needy tatterdemalions for a period of six -months or more. This fact has, for me, a deep significance. It means -nothing less than that the ancient fraternity of street beggars is -rapidly dying out. Surely you must have noticed that yourself. Where -are the old blue-spectacled men one used to see standing upon the -corners, bearing the once-familiar placard, “I am Blind”? Where are the -legless men who used to wring discords from little squatty hand-organs? -Where are the street-singers, the match venders, the orphans, the lost -children, the paralytics? Where, even, is the Italian organ-grinder -with his begging monkey? These charitable organizations, Sir, have -spirited them away, and now instead of being approached by the beggars -themselves, we are visited by the agents of the societies. - -Now, Sir, my regret at the passing of the beggar is not altogether -sentimental, like Charles Lamb’s complaint in _The Decay of Beggars in -the Metropolis_. There may be a certain amount of sentiment in it, for -certainly in the loss of beggars we not only lose a picturesque class -of people, but we also suffer a spiritual loss. The spiritual glow -which came of personal giving is entirely, or almost entirely, absent -in making checks for these beggars by proxy. But, Sir, I am a practical -man and I can plainly see that the beggar, so far from being a mere -nuisance and eyesore, as charity-workers would have you believe, is a -very useful and necessary member of the social order. - -Beggars, Mr. _Idler_, are the natural scavengers of the human race. -They live upon the scraps we throw from our tables; they dress in our -cast-off garments. In short, Sir, they make to serve a useful purpose, -that which would otherwise be sheer waste. These humble people are -the economists of humanity. They save what we squander. Every time -one of them goes without a meal, there is that much more food left in -the world for the rest of us. James Howell wrote of the Spaniard in -1623, “He hath another commendable quality, that when he giveth alms -he pulls off his hat and puts it in the beggar’s hand with a great -deal of humility.” Let us say, rather, with a great deal of respect -and gratitude. Truly the Spanish grandee had reason to be grateful and -respectful to the beggar who made possible his own magnificence. - -Now, Sir, what are these charitable organizations trying to do? I -will tell you--they are trying to teach the beggar that he wants the -comforts of life. They are trying to teach him to desire good clothes -and good food. They are trying to awaken in him that selfish desire to -appear better than his fellows, which we call “self-respect”. _They are -even trying to teach him to work!_ What folly! - -“But,” you say, “it would be an excellent thing if all of these -vagabonds could be induced to work, for heretofore they have been -mere idlers and parasites.” To which I answer, “You are wrong, it -would _not_ be a good thing.” Is it not perfectly clear that, once -these beggars become workers, they will immediately demand the means -to enable them to maintain a higher standard of living? Which do you -think costs you the more, the beggar who begs perhaps a dollar a week, -which he has not earned, or the bricklayer who charges you six dollars -a day, of which he has earned only a part? It has been some years now -since the notorious Coxey led his army of unemployed to Washington, -and since that time the number of unemployed workers has been steadily -increasing. Do you think, then, that we need more laborers? Have we -so much wealth that we must force it on those who were content to be -without it? - -Why, Sir, I tell you this corruption of beggars should be put down with -a firm hand. These charitable organizations should be legislated out of -existence before they do an irreparable mischief. - - I am, Sir, - HENRY HARDHEAD. - - - - -THE ABUSES OF ADVERSITY - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: In the course of a long and not uneventful life, I have, upon -more than one occasion, looked upon adversity in its various forms, -and I have, therefore, given the subject some attention, both in the -light of my own experience and in the light of the opinions of others. -I have heard a great deal of the “uses of adversity”; that adversity is -like a great training-school for character which brings out whatever -strength and resolution there may be in a man, and much talk of a like -character. But I must confess that I have not often seen adversity, nor -its lessons, put to any good use whatever, while I have often seen it -abused most shamefully. - -So far from learning useful lessons from ill-fortune, it seems to -me that most men are inclined to turn misfortune to the basest of -uses, making it serve as an excuse for shirking, for moral lapses, -for dishonesty and for an utter lack of charity toward others. I find -that many people boast of their misfortunes as if they were actually -entitled to some credit because they have befallen them, wearing woe -like a feather in the cap and holding themselves somewhat better than -their fellows because they appear to have excited the wrath of the -Goddess of Fortune. It is as if they said: “See, we are the Unfortunate -Ones who are of sufficient importance to be singled out from among -men to receive Sorrows which you are unfit to bear. Look upon our -afflictions and reflect upon the happiness of your own lot, and do -not forget to do us honor for the fortitude with which we bear our -miseries.” - -I count among my friends and acquaintances a number of these habitual -boasters of misfortune, who are always ready, day or night, to relate -their trials and tribulations with a conscious air of distinction and -superiority. - -There is an old fellow of my acquaintance who suffers, or so he -declares, the torments of the damned, by reason of his gout, a disease -which has held him in its grip for the last twenty years. There is no -manner of doubt that he has himself to blame for this painful malady, -which is, without question, the result of his injudicious and riotous -manner of life in his youth. Yet this old man is as proud of his -infirmity as many another man is of physical soundness, and he relates -his pangs and twinges with the greatest relish in the world. Nor does -the fact that he has suffered from the disease for nearly a quarter of -a century have any effect upon the eagerness with which he always turns -the conversation upon his favorite topic. Despite the fact that he has -told and retold his pains and symptoms ten thousand times, the subject -never seems to lose its novelty for him, and to-day he discusses his -infirmity with as much gusto as he did when I first met him ten years -or more ago. It makes no difference what may be the subject of the -company’s discourse, this man can not bear to go twenty minutes without -intruding the matter of his lame foot. - -Politics, business, history, music, literature, art or the drama--all -these are but verbal stepping-stones to his one supreme subject. Does -some one speak of Napoleon at the foot of the great Pyramids, the mere -mention of the word “foot” is enough to set him discoursing of the -inflammation in his great toe. Does some one call attention to the -flaming crimson of the sunset, he swears that it is not so red as his -own instep. He never enters a conversation, in short, but to put his -foot in it, and so persistently does he dwell upon this malformed pedal -extremity as to render him fit company for none but chiropodists. He -has no interest in life but his gout, and he is forever talking of the -pain it causes him, though I dare say it has never caused him a tenth -part of the misery that it has caused his friends and acquaintances. - -Another person whom I have the misfortune to know is a widow lady -of some nine years’ standing, who has never put off her weeds and -who never tires of bewailing the loss of the dear departed. The bare -mention of death is a sufficient warrant for a flood of tears, and -the sight of a hearse sends her into hysterics which abate only -at the prospect of a sympathetic audience for the old story of her -bereavement. She goes about the neighborhood casting the shadow of -death upon all our innocent pleasures and brings with her into our -happy homes the gloom of the mortuary chamber. Her long-continued -mourning and complaint are the less deserving of patience and -sympathy when we reflect that her husband was already past the age -of seventy-five when he died, so that nobody but the most infatuated -mourner could speak, as she does, of his having been “cut off in his -prime.” One would think, to hear her speak of him, that other men -were in the habit of living to the age of Methuselah and that no -other woman in the world had cause to mourn her spouse. For my part, -I think the old man had small reason to complain of premature demise, -and I know that were I her husband I would ask nothing better. To -cast the slightest suspicion upon the genuineness of her grief or the -sufficiency of the cause thereof would be to lay one’s self open to a -tongue which can be most bitter when it chooses; so I fear we shall -have to bear her complaints and her mourning until she dissolves in -tears like Niobe, or until Death gives ear to her publicly expressed -desire to join her mate beyond the grave. - -My cousin, Robert Wasrich, is forever telling of the wealth and luxury -which were his in his younger days and complaining of the lowly estate -into which he is fallen in his middle age. The quarters in which he now -resides are of the humblest, but he speaks of them most ostentatiously -to all who have not visited them, referring to them as “chambers” and -adding that, while they are far above the average, they are not at -all what he has been used to in other years. When we have him for our -guest, which we do out of pity at Christmas and such seasons when it -seems shameful to neglect one’s own kin, he upsets our whole household -with his constant complaints and exactions. - -So, far from trying to make himself as little a nuisance as possible, -he must needs take his breakfast in bed because that was his custom -in the days of his prosperity, and he must be supplied with all sorts -of dainties and extra dishes because his stomach, so he says, craves -them, having become accustomed to them when he was wealthy. He finds -fault with the cooking, saying that it probably seems well enough -to us, who have never been used to anything better, but that it is -death to the palate of one who has been in the habit of eating and -drinking of the best. He picks flaws in our pictures and decries our -taste in furnishings, and so sends my wife off to her chamber in a fit -of indignant weeping. And not content with all this, he is forever -borrowing of me small sums of money which he declares he stands in need -of to pay off certain obligations to friends whom he has known in his -better days and who have seen fit to ask him to dinner or to the play. -To allow such obligations to go unpaid would be most offensive to his -acute sense of honor and would cast discredit upon his honored name. In -fact, Mr. _Idler_, he is twice as arrogant and proud in his poverty as -he was when he was well-off. And more than once I have wished with all -my heart that he might be rich again, and so take himself off and leave -us in peace. - -To come nearer home, my wife is the victim of a nervous disorder which -totally incapacitates her from doing our housework, though we can ill -afford a servant, but which, oddly enough, does not interfere with her -attendance at matinées or card-parties given by her women friends. -This is doubtless due, as she says, to the fact that exertion which -is in the nature of a diversion takes her mind from her trouble and -so mends her condition for the time being. Though this disorder is -not in the least dangerous, it is most obstinate and causes her, so -she assures me, the most acute mental anguish and the most terrible -physical suffering. It is of such a peculiar nature that any mention -of the amount of the month’s bills sets it instantly in motion, and -disappointment in the matter of getting a new hat is enough to cause -her to take to her bed for a week. But though, as you can readily see, -this indisposition puts her to a great deal of trouble and annoyance, -she will not consent to enter a sanatorium where she might be cured -of it, nor will she follow the advice of the doctor whom she calls in -from one to three times a month; so that I am forced to conclude that -she is actually proud of being an invalid. And I am the more of this -opinion, since when I complain of feeling ill or indisposed, she always -assures me that I do not know what suffering is and that I never can -know because I was not born a woman. - -These and other cases which have come under my observation have -convinced me that people are more proud of their afflictions than of -their blessings, and that the most common use of adversity is to make -life miserable for others. - - I am, Sir, - EDWARD EASYMAN. - - - - -THE SCIENCE OF MAKING ENEMIES - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: As I am about to open a school of an unusual nature, I -have determined not only to secure for the same as much publicity -as possible, but also to explain to the public the nature of the -instruction which will be furnished in my new academy. My course of -study is, I think, unique; and I fear that without explanation it would -probably prove quite incomprehensible to the public at large and to -those who may chance to hear of the school through friends or to read -my advertisements in the press. - -In this connection, it seems to me not out of place to acquaint you, in -some sort, with the reasons which led me to settle upon the plan of my -proposed course of instruction, and this I shall accordingly do to the -best of my ability. - -I entered at an early age upon my present profession, which is, as -you may have surmised, that of an educator. I became, in turn, an -instructor, a tutor and a professor of sociology. I have ever been -of an independent character of mind, and in the course of my work I -have been prone to draw my own conclusions without, I confess, much -consideration of, or regard for, the opinions of others who assume, -or have assumed, to be authorities upon the subject. Society, I -believe, is a subject which must be studied at first hand. Text-books -and treatises may be well enough as stimulants to study, but the real -essential is a knowledge of people. I, therefore, devoted myself to -the study of mankind, and I studied the students of my classes with -more enthusiasm and with more application, I dare say, than my students -studied their text-books. But I did not stop with the study of others, -I also studied myself. I studied myself as an isolated individual, and -I studied myself in relation to others, and it was as a result of this -study that I finally made a most disconcerting discovery--a discovery -which was not made until I had entered upon my professorship, and -which shocked me inexpressibly and bade fair, for a time, to put an end -to my career as a teacher. - -Though at first it was only a suspicion, it soon became a conviction. -I discovered that I was _unpopular_. Not unpopular with a few only, -for all of us are that, but generally and hopelessly unpopular; a man -without any friends and with a great many enemies. I do not now recall -what first called my attention to this matter, but I do remember that -I gave it a great deal of thought and attention and I studied the case -in the same impartial manner that I would study any other case of -social phenomena. I took careful note of the demeanor and behavior of -my students and my fellow members of the faculty, and I soon settled -beyond any reasonable doubt all question as to my popularity. I had -never established myself upon a footing of familiarity or friendship -with my students and I now came to see the reason why this was so. My -students did not like me and they would have nothing more to do with me -than was absolutely necessary. It was the same with the members of the -faculty. I was retained in my position because I was an able instructor -and an indefatigable worker. There was no sort of favoritism in my case -and I knew that my colleagues as well as my students would have been -glad to see me guilty of some blunder which would justify my removal. - -As you may suppose, this was not only a hard blow to my vanity, but -a very painful thing to think upon. Like most men, I had always -assumed that people were glad to know me and to have me about, and -it distressed me exceedingly to learn that this assumption was -without foundation or justification. It is one of the enigmas of -human nature--this conviction of personal popularity. No man can -conceive of himself as a pariah, nor even as a very unpopular person, -until he actually finds himself in that situation. Even the greatest -bores seldom realize that they _are_ bores. But most bores are not -sociologists. - -Now, when I had become fully convinced that my unpopularity was a fact -and not a figment of my imagination, I began to turn the matter over -in my mind and to direct my attention to the study of popularity and -unpopularity both as to cause and effect. My study led me to several -discoveries. The first was this: that some people are born with the -attribute of popularity and possess the faculty of making friends -without any conscious effort on their part, while others have a trick -of making enemies without actually being guilty of any offense. This -is not what is called positive and negative “magnetism,” but it is -something like that. When a man possesses this faculty for making -friends he will make them whether or no, even though he be lacking in -all the qualities which men find admirable. He may be selfish, cold, -over-ambitious and ruthless of the rights of others, and yet exercise -a fascination upon other men. Such a man was Napoleon Bonaparte, who -called forth the greatest personal devotion and enthusiasm in the men -whom he destroyed for his own ends. Contrariwise, a man may be noble, -generous, affable and everything that a popular man should be, and yet -be practically without friends. - -But I made another and greater discovery which reconciled me to my -unpopularity and which, indeed, completely revolutionized my views upon -the subject--_I discovered that the greatest men in the world have been -the ones who had the most enemies!_ - -And it was upon making this discovery, Sir--the most important, in my -opinion, that has been made by any sociologist of our time--that I -determined to set up my school for the exposition of the science of -making enemies. All men, said I to myself, are naturally ambitious; -they desire fame, honor and riches. They have but to be shown the way -and they will enter eagerly upon it. - -Elated as I was at my great discovery, I could not but wonder that men -had not discovered this secret long ago. How could such men as Spencer, -Lecky, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche and the others have overlooked a thing -so _simple_ and so obviously true? - -Here, I rejoiced, I have a discovery--not a theory, not an -hypothesis--but a fact! A fact which may be tested and proven in any -field of human activity--in government, in commerce, in religion, in -literature, in art--in everything! No religion can live without first -enduring persecution; no government can survive without the patriotism -bred of the fear of enemies and the hatred of foes; no general -can become great without war; no author becomes a classic without -criticism; no prophet can conquer without opposition. Nothing great can -be done without enemies. - -For generations, for ages, men have been proceeding upon an entirely -erroneous theory that friends are more necessary to success than -enemies. Such stupidity! Such utter disregard of the evidence to the -contrary which confronts us upon every hand! Our park benches are -lined with men who had too many friends, our charitable institutions -are overflowing with them. Think of the most popular man you know and -then of the most successful! Are they the same? Of course not. Once you -stop to think of it, the truth of my discovery is self-evident. No -matter where you go you will find that the greatest man is the one who -has the most enemies. - -Friends are not only not necessary to a man’s success, but they are -often a positive detriment. A man surrounded by friends is like a man -blindfolded--he can not see where he is going. How do you improve? By -correcting your faults. And who points out your faults, your friends -or your enemies? An enemy is a spur. An enemy is an inspiration. Your -friends sympathize with you, commiserate with you, agree with you and -flatter you; but your enemies _advertise you_. - -Whistler once wrote a book called _The Gentle Art of Making Enemies_, -and I suspect that Whistler had caught an inkling of the truth of my -great discovery, but his title was a misnomer. The making of enemies -is not an art, but a science. Some people have a special gift for it, -as I have, but almost any one can learn how. By observing a few simple -rules in this connection, any man should be able to acquire all the -enemies he may desire. But any man may save himself a great deal of -time and trouble by taking my course of instruction. When he receives -his diploma from the Sourface Training School he will be so well versed -in this science that he will thereafter follow the principles of the -school without any thought whatever, but purely from force of habit. - -Judging from the number of people I see about me who are trying in an -amateurish way to acquire enemies, the academy should have a large -attendance from the start, and since I have never met a more unpopular -man than myself, I know of no one more eminently qualified to conduct -such a school. I can not afford to make public my method of instruction -because such an action would open the field to a host of imitators, but -I can assure you that the course is most effective. - -There is only one doubt in my mind about the success of the school, -and that is this: I fear that when the public realizes the tremendous -import of my discovery and appreciates the great work which I am doing -for humanity, I shall become so popular that I will be in great danger -of losing the success which I have labored so hard to attain and which -I so richly deserve. - - Truly yours, - SAMUEL SOURFACE, - - Headmaster, Sourface Training School. - CRANKTOWN, NEW JERSEY. - - - - -THE FATE OF FALSTAFF - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I am an actor; a follower of Thespis, an interpreter of men -and emotions. To become such was the dream of my boyhood’s ambition. -At an early age (I shall not state when, since you would probably -be incredulous) I used, Sir, to act plays for my own amusement and -afterward for the amusement of my elders. Where other children were -content to play in careless fashion, without attempting anything like -an exact reproduction or imitation of Nature, I was most particular in -this respect. If I played Julius Cæsar, I had, to satisfy my artistic -instinct, to carry a short sword and not a long one; I must needs wrap -myself in a sheet and swear by the heathen gods. Nothing short of this -satisfied me. I could not, as so many children do, thrust a feather -duster down the neck of my jacket and play at being an Indian chief; -on the contrary, I must have the feathers in my hair and my complexion -darkened until I bore some actual resemblance to the aborigine. Without -these aids to illusion I could not enjoy myself or get any manner of -amusement from the sport. I was so close a student of details, even at -that age, that in playing Indian I acquired a habit of toeing-in which -caused my mother much distress and which clung to me for many months. - -Nor was I less particular in the matter of my speech. I was forever -mouthing sentiments and speeches culled from my father’s library, some -of them, I dare say, weird and bizarre enough upon my youthful and -innocent lips. However this may be, I had an abiding horror of all -sorts of anachronisms, and I preferred Ben Jonson to Shakespeare for -the reason that he was less frequently guilty of offending my artistic -sense in this respect. - -It was not long before my parents were impressed with my natural bent -in this direction and encouraged me in my favorite diversion by -taking the part of an audience, while my younger brother was pressed -into service with his harmonica and rendered the overtures and the -interludes to the best of his somewhat limited ability; for I could -no more act without an orchestra than I could act without a make-up. -Incidentally I came to practise the art of elocution, and it was said -in our neighborhood that I could interpret _Horatio at the Bridge_ in a -most telling fashion, and that not Riley himself could improve upon my -rendition of _The Raggedy Man_. - -With such a wealth of youthful experience, it was not surprising that -I found myself at the age of twenty-one a supernumerary in a theater, -nor that soon afterward I was given a speaking part and rose, before -long, to the dignity of “leads” in a stock company of the first class. -It was at this time that I was given my first opportunity really -to distinguish myself. A prominent manager, who shall be nameless, -sent for me and told me that he had chosen me to play Falstaff in a -production of _Henry the Fourth_ which he intended putting on the -following winter. - -Elated as I was at this splendid opportunity for a display of my genius -for acting, I could not forbear voicing certain conscientious scruples -as to my ability to do the part justice. - -“I can undoubtedly interpret the character to your most complete -satisfaction,” said I to the manager, “but there is an obstacle, which, -while by no means unsurmountable, must, nevertheless, be overcome at -once or not at all.” - -“And what is that?” he inquired. - -“Why,” said I, “I am not fat enough.” - -“What odds?” he answered; “while there are pads and pillows, this -should be no matter for despair. You have only to stuff your doublet -and pad your hose until you are as swollen as you like.” - -“That,” I protested, “may do very well for your merely commercial -actors who have no concern in their acting beyond the matter of drawing -a salary; but I, Sir, am an _actor_, not a mere buffoon, not a vulgar -clown to waddle about a stage wagging a hypocritical belly and passing -off feathers for fat. If I am to play Falstaff, I will be Falstaff, in -the flesh as well as in the spirit. My corporosity shall be sincere, -my puffing and grunting shall be genuine; I will eat real food and -drink real liquor upon your stage, and when I waddle I shall waddle as -Nature intended fat men to waddle--because I can not help it. My calves -shall be as natural as Sir John’s own, so that if I am pricked with the -point of a rapier, I shall give utterance to a howl which is not mere -mockery, but as real as a howl may well be, and which will delight the -audience as no feigned howl ever could do. - -“No, no! I shall not play Falstaff like a clown in a pantomime, but -like that very knight himself. My performance shall be as real as the -performance of Nature. I will be Sir John redivivus. Falstaff shall -live again in me. He shall be I and I will be he, and there is an end -of it.” - -Well, Sir, to be brief, the manager was so struck with my unusual -and, I may say, unaffected, sincerity, that he voluntarily advanced -me a portion of my salary and agreed to my proposal that, instead of -wasting valuable time in rehearsing a part in which I was already -practically letter-perfect, my part in the rehearsals should be taken -by a substitute, while I retired to the country and devoted myself to -my labor of love--to the task of putting on so much flesh as would be -necessary to act with fidelity the pursy knight errant. And this I did -to so good purpose that from my normal weight of about one hundred and -ninety pounds, I soon came to weigh upward of two hundred and eighty, -and was as fat as any one could wish when we opened in _Henry the -Fourth_ in the Autumn. - -To say, Sir, that my performance was a success is to do scant justice -to the literary ability of William Shakespeare and to my own histrionic -powers. It was not merely a success--it was a triumph! Ah, Sir, if I -could but whisper in your ear the name by which I was known in those -days of superlative glory, you would recall in the flash of an eye the -days when the whole of the English-speaking world was convulsed with -merriment at my performance and when press and public were vying with -each other to do me honor! Never was such a performance of Falstaff -given before, and never, I fear, will such a performance be given -again. I was Falstaff to the very life! Falstaff in person and not to -be mistaken for any one else. You could have sworn that I had stepped -bodily out of the pages of the folio edition and thrust my way into the -theater of my own volition, usurping the place of the actor. - -Four whole seasons we played to crowded houses--New York, Chicago, San -Francisco and London--and everywhere the critics all agreed that never -had such a perfect Falstaff been seen before. This we followed with -_The Merry Wives of Windsor_, repeating our success for two seasons, so -that for six years I was known to every actor and patron of the theater -as the greatest Falstaff that ever was. - -But Fate, alas! however prodigal she may appear for a time, is not -constant in her favors. All things come to an end sooner or later, and -our production of _The Merry Wives_ ran its course in time. How well -do I remember that last night of all--the glitter of the electrics -overhead, the glare of the footlights, the music of the orchestra, -and, oh, above all else, the thunderous applause that greeted me when -I appeared before the curtain, clad in trunks and doublet, to make -my farewell speech! There ended our production, and there ended my -greatness and my life. My grossness I have still, but my greatness has -fled forever! Disconsolate I wander through the haunts of stageland, a -fat pale ghost of my former self; a Falstaff out of place and out of -time; a Falstaff without jollity or joy. I, Sir, have become that thing -which I hate above all other things in the world, I have become an -Anachronism! - -Conceive, if you can, my consternation when I discovered my dilemma. -Having no further need for my excessive flesh, I sought to reduce my -weight only to find that I could not lose it! Six years of playing -Falstaff had made me Falstaff for good or ill. No fighter of the -prize-ring, no beauty of the court, ever labored as I labored to -struggle back to slimness. No Hamlet ever cried more earnestly than I, - - “Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt!” - -Like Sisyphus, I toiled for months with my burden, rolling off flesh -only to have it roll on again, until at last I gave up in despair. - -No manager would employ me to play for him--I was too fat. Too fat -to act, too fat to play at any part but one. Once only since that -time have I tried to obtain an engagement and that was when I saw an -advertisement of a revival of my own great play, _Henry the Fourth_. -But would you believe it, Sir, the manager had the impudence to laugh -in my face, to deny the truth of my story and scoff at my insistence -upon my identity. He called me, Sir, _a fat slob_! In desperation -I tried a Dime Museum, only to be told that no “fat freaks” were -employed who weighed less than three hundred and fifty pounds. At -last I fell into my present disgraceful situation; I was employed by -a restaurant-keeper as a decoy. In the window of one of the cheapest -and vilest cafés in this city I sit for eight hours daily drawing a -crowd about the place while I toy with a knife and fork and pretend to -eat of a meal that I would not feed my most bitter enemy. I do not eat -it. I can not eat it. And so, Sir, here I sit each day, a mere husk -of my former self, a hulk, a wrecked Leviathan! A fraud and a freak; -a delusion and a snare. This have I suffered in consequence of my -devotion to an ideal--I who was for six years the greatest Falstaff the -world has ever known! - - T. P. - - - - -THE REWARD OF MERIT - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I am an ashman, or, as they call me nowadays, a scavenger. It -may appear to you, Sir, a queer thing that a man in my station in life -should address a letter to an editor and upon such a subject, but when -I have made you acquainted with the facts of my case, I think it will -not seem so strange. - -It is true that I am now employed as a scavenger, but I was formerly -the occupant of a very different station in life; I was formerly a -physician. I wish to lay before you what I consider the causes of my -descent in the social scale. When a man who has once been a member -of an honored profession is reduced to manual labor of a peculiarly -disagreeable sort, the common opinion is like to be that he is in some -way responsible for his own downfall; that he has fallen a victim -to drink or drugs, to a passion for gambling, or to some other -injurious habit. In my own case, I will not deny that the change in my -circumstances is probably due to my own conduct, though I do assure -you that it was not caused by my indulgence in the habits which I have -mentioned above. To be brief, Sir, I am of the opinion that my present -poverty and obscurity is nothing more nor less than the reward of merit. - -It has been my observation that most of the favorite theories of the -human race are erroneous. They come into being as mere suggestions, -they grow into convictions, they thrive as platitudes, and they die as -superstitions. There have been millions of them since the world began, -and I have no doubt there will be millions of others before the last -man has vanished from the face of the earth. Some of these theories -live on long after they have been clearly demonstrated to be without -foundation in fact, and sometimes they work great harm to the innocent -persons who accept and act upon them in good faith. Such has been my -sad experience, and the theory which was responsible for my present -unpleasant situation was the theory that merit is always rewarded. - -As a boy I was of a confiding and trusting nature. I believed all that -was told me, and I put especial faith in the admonitions and advice -of those who were set to instruct me in manners and morals. One of -the first lessons I learned was that merit is always rewarded; and -another, that industry is the certain road to success and advancement. -These things I firmly believed to be true. Sundays, when other boys -of my acquaintance stole away to go fishing or swimming, I went to -Sunday-school, firm in the conviction that my virtue and self-denial -would be amply rewarded, though I was a bit hazy as to the manner -in which this would come about. It was often a severe temptation to -hear the truants boasting of the pleasures they had enjoyed at the -swimming-pool or at the fork of the creek where they went to angle. -At the end of my first summer of Sunday-school, I was given a crude -picture card showing two cows of peculiar construction who appeared to -be enjoying themselves immensely in the very river I had shunned so -religiously. Upon this card there was printed a conspicuous legend: -“The Reward of Merit.” - -While this result of my season of piety was not what I had expected, I -continued to hope on until I had acquired quite a collection of similar -cards, some of them varied a little as to subject, but all of the same -order of art, and all bearing the familiar legend. Being of a naturally -optimistic and sanguine disposition, I soon convinced myself that my -mistake lay in looking for material rewards in return for spiritual -industry. - -When I entered the profession of medicine, I still clung to my theory -of the reward of merit, and no sooner did I get a patient than I set -to work to cure him as quickly as possible. If a patient really had -nothing the matter with him, I sent him about his business. I was not a -nerve specialist and I did not care to be bothered with hypochondriacs. -Though I started with an unusually good practise for a young physician, -the result of this course of conduct was that I found myself in two -years’ time sitting idle in my office with my waiting-room absolutely -empty. I had cured all my patients who were really ill and I had -offended all who only thought they were ill. It seems that one can not -offend a man more than by telling him he is well when he prefers to -think that he is unwell. My patients who had been cured had no further -need of me, and those whom I had refused to treat had no further use -for me, so that the tongue of malice completed the work which my own -energy had begun. And thus, for the second time, my theory of the -reward of merit had failed to work out. Having made one failure as -a doctor, I could never again establish myself in the practise of -medicine. Wherever I went, the story of my failure had preceded me, -so that presently I found myself dropping down and down in the social -scale until finally I awoke one morning to find myself a scavenger. - -“Now,” said I to myself, “I have touched bottom and I must presently -go up again like a man who sinks in the water.” But my hopes were not -realized. I remained a collector and remover of garbage. My study of -hygiene had taught me the evils of filth and I could not, therefore, -neglect my work as a less intelligent scavenger might have done. I knew -that my clients were depending upon me, in a great degree, to protect -them from typhoid and kindred evils, and even though I realized that -this dependence was more or less unconscious upon their part, I could -no more have shirked my responsibility than I could have gone into -their houses and killed them in cold blood. So I went to work earnestly -and I flatter myself that there is no more thoroughgoing workman in the -whole body of scavengers than myself. - -Since I have been engaged in this work I have made another discovery. -I have discovered that industry is by no means a sure road to -advancement. When my work is well done I am paid, but I am not -complimented. The thoroughness of my methods does not attract the -attention of my clients. Nobody seeks me out with a proffer of more -congenial employment. Everybody appears to take it for granted that -I like to collect garbage. I do not. I have never been a collector -of anything from choice. I used to think that any man who collected -stamps must be lacking in intelligence, but I see now that one may be -engaged in collecting worse things than stamps. Nobody says anything at -all about my work unless something goes wrong. And this, I believe, is -usually the case. - -I recently read a copy of the _Memoirs of Lieutenant-Colonel Paul von -Pulitz_, which I retrieved from the ash-can of one of my clients who -is of a literary turn, and it was through his receptacle for discarded -matter, by the way, that I first made the acquaintance of your -excellent publication. - -In these _Memoirs_, which are unusually interesting in many respects, -I came upon an anecdote which seems to have a direct bearing upon the -question which we are now considering. It appears that Colonel von -Pulitz was discussing with a number of other officers the chances -and mischances of a military career. Several of the officers had -volunteered the causes to which they attributed their success. -Colonel von Pulitz then related this anecdote, the truth of which he -indorses elsewhere, and in this he is borne out by the editor of the -autobiography, Professor Rudolph Ubermann, of Berlin University. - -“When a young man,” writes Colonel von Pulitz, “I fell into disgrace -with my family because of a certain youthful escapade--no matter -what--and so forfeited my opportunity for entering the Prussian Army as -an officer. I therefore determined to gain by my wits what I had lost -by my folly. I was, as you who know me can testify, an unusually tall -and fine-looking young man. Now it occurred to me that if I could once -attract the attention of the king (he is here referring to Frederick -the Great) he would undoubtedly desire me as a recruit for his ‘tall’ -regiment, and if I had an opportunity to explain to him my situation, I -might, after all, secure my coveted commission. I therefore secured a -situation as a servant in the king’s own household, under a fictitious -name, of course; and I was highly delighted when I found that I had -been delegated as one of the waiters at table, for, thought I, now -is my great opportunity certainly at hand. But alas for my hopes! The -king bestowed upon me no notice whatever, and for all the attention my -height secured from his majesty, I might have been a dwarf. - -“So it went on for weeks, and I had nearly despaired of my commission -when I hit upon the audacious scheme which solved the problem. I -determined to attract the king’s notice at any cost, and when next -I waited upon him, I deliberately pretended to stumble, and with an -air of awkwardness I emptied down the neck of his majesty a plate -of exceedingly hot soup. In a moment there was an uproar. The king -was in a fury of temper and the majordomo was in a fair way to die -of fright and chagrin, but my purpose was accomplished. The king had -looked at me. He observed my height and my aristocratic bearing. He -questioned me, and I told him my whole story frankly, omitting nothing -but the ruse whereby I had brought myself to his notice. I secured my -commission in his regiment, and from that time on I advanced steadily. -The king never forgot me, but kept a friendly eye upon me. He once said -in my presence: ‘Gentlemen, I never see a plate of hot soup that I do -not think of my good friend the Lieutenant-Colonel Paul von Pulitz.’” - -Now, Mr. _Idler_, I have no opportunity for spilling hot soup down the -necks of my clients and my conscience will not permit me to attract -their notice by gross neglect of duty. My effective work has failed to -bring upon me their favorable regard. Finding myself so situated, and -being, even yet, hopeful of some opportunity for bettering myself, I -have written you this letter. I have done so in the hope that it may -meet the eye of some one of my clients, perhaps that of the literary -gentleman through whose barrel I first made your acquaintance and the -acquaintance of the ingenious Lieutenant-Colonel Paul von Pulitz. - - I, am, Sir, - Your humble servant, - CHARLES CLINKER. - - - - -THE BLESSINGS OF THE BLIND - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: Those who are blessed, as the saying is, with two eyes -and the gift of sight, are much given to expressing sympathy with, -and sorrow for, the blind. It would be churlish to quarrel with so -unselfish a sentiment, for it is, indeed, very good-natured of those -who are busily engaged in seeing the sights of the world to spare the -time and the thought which they give to the sightless. Yet I often -wonder if the blind do not sometimes question, as I do, if a great deal -of this sympathy is not wasted? - -I, Sir, am blind. Totally and irretrievably blind. I have been blind -all my life, having been, as the Irish say, “dark” from my birth. Born -blind, in fact. My “affliction,” as it is called, being natural, I was -born with no blemish to betray my infirmity, and it has so happened -upon several occasions that, being thrown into the company of those -who had not previously been warned of my condition, I have been -compelled to make them acquainted with it myself. This information has -invariably been the signal for apology and sympathetic pity. From which -I infer that men generally feel that the blind are to be pitied and -consoled. Also I have read a great deal of the hardship of being blind, -though I have never, I confess, been quite able to see wherein that -hardship lay. You are surprised, perhaps, to hear me say that I have -“read” of this, but I assure you there is no reason to be surprised. If -you are at all acquainted with the progress of science, as I suppose -you are, you must have heard of raised type. Oh, yes, I read quite as -naturally as you, yourself, though I accomplish with my fingers what -you do with your eyes. - -The result of my reading has been that I have come seriously to -question the theory that sight is necessary to human happiness and -efficiency. It has been borne in upon me that men possessed of two good -eyes are often apparently unable to make use of them. I read that men -often fall in love with women who seem, to all others, extremely ugly; -and that women as often do the same by men. And not only that, but -that they are quite frequently completely deceived in the characters -of the persons whom they marry, women discovering their husbands to be -bullies, and men finding their wives to be viragoes and shrews; and -all this when the nuptial knot is tied hard and fast and the damage is -beyond repair. - -If eyes are really of as much use as those who see seem to think them, -how is it possible that people should make such mistakes? Blind as I -am, such a thing could never happen to me, nor do I think it could -befall any sightless person; certainly not one who has been, as I have, -blind from birth. I know the voice of a shrew the moment she opens her -mouth, no matter how pleasantly she may speak at the moment. I can -point out to you the drunkard, the hypocrite and the boor the moment I -have heard them speak. In the tone of his voice every man carries his -true certificate of character, be it good or bad. An ill-tempered man -may conceal his vice from you, who look only at his face and judge his -speech by his words, but he can not deceive me, for I know him by his -voice. I have been engaged in business for the last thirty years and -I have never once been taken in by a swindler. I have never yet been -mistaken in the character of a man with whom I dealt. How many _seeing_ -men can say as much? - -Excepting the human being, we know of no such active or intelligent -creature as the ant--the ant who lives in total darkness. Yet does he -not build his cities and fight his battles as wisely as we do our own? -I sometimes wonder if the possession of the power of sight is not a -hindrance, rather than a help, in labor? The ant, who can not see at -all, goes straight to his object. He is never distracted by the sight -of things along the way. The fly, on the contrary, is possessed of a -great many eyes; his head, in fact, is practically _all eyes_. Yet what -is the fly but a parasite, a nuisance, a very vagabond of insects? -Attracted hither and thither by everything that meets his gaze, he -lights first upon one object and then upon another, without rhyme or -reason save his overweening curiosity, until he finally falls into a -trap and dies an ignoble death in a spider’s web, or caught fast upon -a sticky paper. The fly has no social organization, no family life, -no mating in any proper sense of the word. He pollutes all that he -touches. His entire life is a life of destruction, as opposed to the -ant’s, which is a life of construction. - -According to the Grecian mythology, the largest race of men the world -has ever known, the _Cyclops_, had but a single eye, and that in the -middle of the forehead. The stupidest of all characters of the Grecian -myths was _Argus_, who, though he had more eyes than all the gods and -heroes together, yet allowed _Hermes_ to pipe him to sleep and so cut -off his head. In the tail of _Hera’s_ peacock, his eyes were of as much -use to him as in his own head. _Eros_, the god of love, was blind; yet -he was of all the gods the most joyful. And in this, our own day, is -not _Justice_ blind? - -Is there, in all this, no significance? Is there no hint of an -understanding of the secret that, as he who would save his soul must -first lose it, so he who would see must first be blind? - -Men see, as we say, with the mind as well as with the eye. Men also -see with the spirit. Saul never could see the truth and beauty of -Christianity until he was stricken blind upon the road to Damascus. But -_while_ he was blind, he _saw_, and so became Paul. Would Homer have -been the giant of poets had he had his sight? I doubt it. Would Milton -have attained his heights of inspiration, had he retained his vision? I -can not believe it. For the man who has physical sight looks upon the -earth and the works of men; but he who has only the spiritual sight, -lifts up his eyes to God and His angels. - -The shepherd lad who has never traveled beyond his native valley dreams -a beautiful dream of the world that lies beyond the hills that hem him -in. But the tourist lives a life of constant disillusion, for he finds -in distant lands, where he had thought to find the abiding-place of -Romance, the same humdrum life of the commonplace that he left at home. - -We who are blind, Mr. _Idler_, are the shepherd boys of this life. -Enclosed in our valley of darkness by the everlasting shadow of our -endless night, we dream of the world that lies beyond as a place of -beauty and happiness. For us there is no sad disillusion. For us -there is no rude awakening from the delights of fancy. For us the -sky is always fair and the earth is always sweet. For us the woods -are thronged with nymphs and the grasses with the little people of -fairyland. We do not know the gloom of age or the horror of decay. We -do not know the sight of death. - -Do not imagine, Sir, that because we can not see, we can not create -images. We can, we do. We dream of the earth as fair as other men may -dream of heaven. Because we have never seen beauty, to us all things -are beautiful. When I walk in the garden, the scent of the rose rises -to my nostrils with a sweetness which is but intensified because I can -not see the blossom whence it springs. I finger its fragile petals, -and I rejoice in its beauty of form, for you must know that one can -_feel_ beauty as well as see it. I lean my head against the friendly -and sturdy oak and I hear the beating of his heart. For to me all these -things _live_. What does it signify that they can not see, or hear, -or speak? _I_ can not see; am I the less a man for that? I learn that -nowadays it is possible to communicate with people who are born not -only blind, but deaf and dumb as well. That it is possible to teach -them to read and to speak, even as I was taught to read and speak. Is -it not possible, then, that some day, if we will only try, we may be -able to break through the long silence that has separated us from our -brothers and sisters of the woods and fields? Already, we who are blind -can almost understand the whispered syllables of the rustling leaves -and the waving grass. May not some other, one perhaps more closely shut -in with God than we, reach downward as well as upward, and bring about -the _universal_ understanding? I hope it may be so. - -My wife, who had the sweetest voice of any girl I ever knew, is as -fair to me to-day as upon the day when I first fell in love. Her -voice, if anything, has grown more pleasant as she has grown older. -She, too, is blind, and together we enjoy a state of happiness which -comes as near to being perpetual youth as it is possible for mortals to -attain. How infinitely better this seems to me, than to be compelled, -day after day, to watch the fading of that flower of my early love! To -observe anxiously the lines of care creeping into that dearly beloved -countenance; to see the snow of many winters slowly whiten her soft -smooth hair! What a kindness of the good God is this, that she remains -forever young to me, as I do to her, and that our passion knows nothing -of the insidious poison of departing comeliness! - -Curiously enough, our only child, the dearly beloved son who was the -fruit of our attachment, has a perfect vision. And this, Mr. _Idler_, -odd as it may seem to you who are accustomed to look upon this matter -from a different point of view, is the one worry of my life. Many a -night have I lain awake, listening to the gentle breathing of my wife -at my side, and turned over and over in my mind the dangers which he -must face because of his condition. Often have I prayed God that He -might watch over him and turn aside his eyes from the ugliness, the sin -and the temptation, which his mother and I have mercifully been spared! -It is hard, in any case, to have the child grow up and go out into the -world. But it is infinitely more hard to know that he is almost as -though he were of another race of beings, and that he must endure the -sight of pain, of misery, of squalor, of poverty and of age! That he -must be subject to temptations for which I can not prepare him, having -never met with them myself. - -I once read a story of a man who became mysteriously possessed of the -power to read the thoughts of all those with whom he came in contact. -At first he was transported into the seventh heaven of delight, -reveling in the sense of his new-found power. But soon he came to -realize what a curse had fallen upon him. Turn where he would, he -found the minds of men filled with envy, malice and evil. The fairest -faces served to hide from others, but not from him, the most ignoble -minds. Beneath the frankest and most friendly manner he often read the -secret hatred and jealousy. Confronted upon all sides with the evidence -of the wickedness and baseness of his fellows, he was at last driven to -despair, and by one desperate act destroyed both his power and his life. - -Mr. _Idler_, were I suddenly to be granted the gift of sight, I think -that I should feel like that. It is hard enough to read of some things. -I should not care to look upon them. - -There have been those who, hearing me speak so of sight, have answered, -“That is because you have never been able to see. You do not know what -a blessing sight is, because you have never enjoyed it!” Sometimes I -comfort myself with the thought that it is like that with our son. -He can see, but he was born that way and he will never know the -difference. Gradually he will grow used to looking upon things which -I could not endure to behold. God has chosen to give him the harder -part; may He grant him the strength to bear it! - - I am, Sir, your sincere friend, - NOEL NIGHTSHADE. - - - - -A TALE OF A MAD POET’S WIFE - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I have long been an interested reader of your interesting -periodical, though I have not hitherto presumed to address you, either -personally or in your character as editor. I have ever had an aversion -for that type of person who is constantly rushing into print to air -personal troubles and casting upon the shoulders of the public the -burdens which should rightly be borne upon his own. I have observed, -however, that a great many of your readers do not scruple to address -you in this respect and are quite in the habit of writing you for -advice upon their personal affairs, and, since you do not appear to -find this burdensome, I have determined to make known to you my own -pitiable plight, in the hope that you, or some of your readers, may -be able to suggest some method of relief; for, indeed, I am deep in -trouble, from which I seem utterly unable to extricate myself by my -own devices. Lest I weary you, I shall tell my sad story in the fewest -possible words. - -While yet a very young woman I fell in love with a poet. In this there -was nothing especially noteworthy, since, I suppose, all women go -through this experience at some time of life. The unfortunate feature -of my own affair was that it ended quite as I wished it to end--in my -marriage. I soon learned that the qualities which make the poet so -satisfactory a suitor do not always appear in so favorable a light when -he has become a husband. I found it very sweet and charming during our -courtship that my lover should be concerned with my spiritual welfare -and that his thoughts should never descend to the common affairs of -life. It would have seemed almost like sacrilege to ask him to consider -with me the sordid problems which are commonly inflicted upon young -men of grosser clay when they have proposed marriage to a young woman. -So certain was I that any mention of such trivialities would mortally -offend my fiancé that I would permit neither my father nor my brothers -to question him upon the subject of his financial condition. For this -sentimental whim I very nearly paid with my happiness, for I found -soon after we had been wed that these questions must inevitably be -considered sooner or later, and whereas it had formerly been only a -question of the expediency of my marriage, it was now become a matter -of vital importance. - -Fortunately, I have always been of an excellent _wheedling_ -disposition, so much so that my father used to say I could coax a -Scotchman into extravagance or a politician into honesty by merely -smiling upon him. I turned this natural gift to account in the case of -my husband by inducing him to constitute me his business agent. I then -went about among the editors selling his verse, and in this I was so -successful that he was soon supplying _no less than a third_ of the -current verse which was printed in the six or seven leading monthly -magazines published in this city. No doubt you have often heard poets -express surprise at the amount of rather mediocre poetry which finds -its way into the columns of standard publications. You may understand -this more readily when I tell you that several other writers of -magazine poetry, learning of our own arrangement, immediately set about -acquiring handsome and attractive wives, to whom they turned over their -output, never appearing at the offices of the editors in person but -always sending their wives as their representatives. - -In this way we managed very well for several years, though latterly I -have encountered one or two editors who were apparently either very -near-sighted or peculiarly unsusceptible. We were doing very well, -however, and my husband had acquired a wide reputation, so that he was -often invited to lecture before associations of one sort or another and -to give readings at entertainments in private dwellings. This added to -our income, but both of us by now being under the necessity of always -appearing dressed in the very neatest and most attractive fashion, we -soon found that whatever sum we had left over from current living -expenses went for keeping up appearances; so that we were able to live -very well but were by no means enabled to lay by a competence for the -future. - -It was at this stage of our career, which is to say some three years -gone, when we were doing better than we ever had before, that the sad -blow fell upon us which has cast a shadow over our household, and -which has left me, at the age of forty, a widow in all but name and -a pauper in anticipation, if not already one in fact. My husband had -been invited to speak before a certain literary club or society, and as -was always his custom, had accepted without hesitation. Little did he -realize, when he carelessly mentioned this appointment to me, that it -would be his last public appearance for a long time to come--perhaps -forever! Little did I know when he left our apartment that evening, -looking so debonair and engaging in his faultless evening attire, that -I should next behold him a pitiful wreck--a driveling idiot! Yet, Mr. -_Idler_, this was, alas! what befell your wretched correspondent. He -came back to me from that reading a man without understanding, a mental -incompetent, a man who, despite his stalwart frame and glowing health -of body, exhibited all the symptoms of senile decay! A man who could -scarcely scrawl his own name in legible fashion, to say nothing of -inditing sonnets, quatrains and ballads. - -And what, Mr. _Idler_, do you suppose those heartless wretches who -composed that literary society had done to my innocent and harmless -husband? Not content with having him read his verses, _they had -insisted that he explain them_! And he, poor weak man that he was, -yielded to the unhappy vanity which is the birthright of all poets, -and had attempted to comply with their request. The result you already -know. His mind was completely overturned. He has spent the time since -that dreadful evening in dictating to an imaginary stenographer a -critical appreciation of each rhyme in _Mother Goose_. Only once -has he attempted anything in the way of original poetry, which I -hastened to jot down in shorthand, and which was so puerile, so empty -of all meaning, that I could not forbear to weep heartbrokenly as I -transcribed my notes. - -Now, Mr. _Idler_, what redress have I against those inhuman creatures, -those compassionless brutes, who brought my husband to this pass? Can -I sue them in a court of law? Or must I bear without compensation the -dreadful sorrow which has befallen me? I beg of you, advise me at once, -as I do not know which way to turn. - - I am, Sir, distractedly yours, - BEDELIA BARDLET. - -P. S.--All is come right after all, Mr. _Idler_. After writing you -the above, yesterday morning, I determined to make one more desperate -trial. I took around to an editor the one original poem, of which I -spoke, which my husband had dictated in his madness. That editor has -just called me on the telephone to say that the poem will be printed in -the next number of his magazine, and that he finds it by far the best -that my husband has ever submitted. And so, please God, it may turn out -that his misfortune will prove to be a blessing in disguise. - - - - -THE LOCK-STEP - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: Thackeray once said: “Every one knows what harm the bad may -do, but who knows the mischief done by the good?” It appears to me -that there is a valuable suggestion in this query which merits the -consideration of all men who live under a civilized government, and -especially the attention of young men who are about to enter upon -the serious business of life. Young people, being by nature somewhat -lacking in logic, are prone to consider everything that is good _per -se_ as a thing which must necessarily be good in its effect, and -similarly to class all thing which are bad in themselves as bad in -their effects. Nothing could be more erroneous than this assumption. -There is no man who will maintain that a beating is a thing which is -good in itself; yet I am old-fashioned enough to believe that many a -beating has been very salutary in its effect. Early in life, I fell -into this common error of confusing the inherent quality of an act with -the quality of its effect, and it is in the hope that I may save some -worthy young man the miseries resulting from such an error that I am -writing this letter. - -As Mr. James Coolidge Carter points out in his book, _Law: Its Origin, -Growth and Function_, and as Blackstone and others pointed out before -him, all law originates in custom. As a custom becomes general--so -general as to be termed the common custom among a given people--it is -usually enacted as law. And even where such legislative sanction is -wanting, a general custom takes on the force of law and operates as -law, as is the case with the great body of the common law of England. -Thus, a custom, which in the beginning all are free to adopt or to -reject as they may see fit, eventually acquires the force of a rule to -which all are obliged to conform, whether from strict legal necessity -or merely by force of public opinion. - -The law, theoretically at least and actually in most cases, is merely -the expression of a public sentiment. It is the constant tendency of -all uniform and generally prevalent customs and opinions to take on -the form of law. The general disapproval of profanity, for instance, -results in laws providing penalties for the use of profane language -in public places. Practically all ordinances may be traced to the -same source of public sentiment. Not all laws, however, represent -the will of the majority. Certain of our laws are representative of -the general opinion of all mankind, others of the sentiments of a -majority of mankind, and still others of the ideas and prejudices of -an active minority. To the extent that such habits, ideas, customs, -opinions and prejudices become crystallized into law, the members of -a community become enslaved to those habits, ideas, customs, opinions -and prejudices; since a departure from them is followed by penalties -and punishments. And there are some customs which, while not actually -laws, exert quite as strong an influence upon the average citizen as -the duly enacted statutes. The fear of social ostracism is often quite -as effective a check upon the inclinations of an individual as the fear -of legal punishment. - -Now, as every man is the slave of general laws and customs, so, in a -lesser sense, is he the slave of his own personal habits. And oddly -enough this is more often true of good habits than of bad ones. -Should the town drunkard make a sudden resolution to reform, the town -may laugh, but nobody will condemn his resolution to mend his ways; -nobody will be scandalized at his change of habits. But should the -leader of the local prohibitionists suddenly resolve to test the joys -of inebriety, what a protest would go up on all sides! Even the town -drunkard would sneer and despise him as a man who had fallen from his -high estate. Much as the inebriate may dislike the sincere teetotaler, -he dislikes the ex-teetotaler even more. No, every man is a slave to -his good habits and he can not hope to change them without exciting the -animosity of all who know him. - -I recall reading not long ago a story of an eastern governor who was -caught in the act of smoking a cigarette. Now, there was nothing -especially horrifying about the fact that he smoked cigarettes except -for the fact that he was the vice-president of an anti-cigarette -society. Under the circumstances this governor, who is in all -probability a capable and fairly honest executive, has endangered, if -he has not destroyed, his political future--and all for the matter of -a cigarette! While it may seem an injustice to him that he be made -to suffer a political eclipse for so slight a lapse, there is hardly -a smoker who will not heartily agree with the idly busy people who -make up the anti-cigarette league, that the governor deserves all the -punishment his outraged associates may choose to inflict upon him. He -has been a double renegade; for he has betrayed his fellow smokers by -publicly indorsing the aims of the society, and he has betrayed his -fellow members of the society by privately indulging in the very habit -which the society condemns. - -And the general public may very justly condemn him not because he -smokes cigarettes--but because he has played the hypocrite. This -statesman is evidently one of those foolish men who believe that it -pays to appear better than one really is, and that an undeserved -reputation for abstinence and virtue is better than none. And of all -the possible attitudes that he might have assumed in this connection, -the one which he did assume was the worst, for it was the most -hypocritical and insincere. And what monumental folly! For the sake of -a cigarette he has jeopardized his career--by such a slender thread is -the Damoclean sword of public opprobrium suspended! - -But I am digressing. I did not intend to write you a dissertation upon -the follies of politicians, but to set forth, in some sort, the results -of my own stupidity in failing to discover early in life the tyranny of -custom and habit. - -I am, as you may possibly have conjectured, a member of the legal -profession; which profession I have followed with some degree of -success for the last thirty years. I think I may say without boasting -that I have attained an enviable reputation among my colleagues of the -bar as an able advocate and a man possessed of a logical mind and a -rather extensive knowledge of the “delightful fictions of the law.” I -have no complaint to make upon the score of my professional career. -If it has not led me to eminence, it has at least preserved me from -want. My practise, while general and not so profitable as that of some -legal specialists of my acquaintance, is yet sufficiently lucrative to -enable me to maintain a comfortable establishment at home and to pay -without pinching the expenses of my son’s collegiate and my daughter’s -“finishing school” education. I have a comfortable home, a healthy -and happy family, a prosperous business, a large number of congenial -friends and a hale and hearty constitution. Doubtless you will say -that I am blessed beyond the majority of mankind. Doubtless I am, and -doubtless, too, beyond my deserts. But for all these blessings, which -are obviously much to be desired, there is, so to speak, a fly in the -ointment of my contentment. And that is just this--_I have too good a -reputation_! In me, Sir, you may behold a man who has become an abject -slave to good Reputation. Totally unknown to the great majority of -my millions of fellow countrymen, and having but a modest degree of -celebrity among the members of my own profession, I am yet compelled -to be as careful of my speech and as circumspect in my actions as -if I were the Czar of all the Russias! I am bound hand, foot and -tongue by the ties of a lifetime; I am manacled at the cart-tail of -Respectability; I am pilloried in the pillory of Dignified Demeanor! -If you will bear with me a bit longer, I shall endeavor to explain my -present situation. - -I was born and reared in the little Missouri town where I now reside. I -am personally acquainted with practically every man, woman and child in -the place, which, while not exactly a village, is hardly large enough -to be called a city outside of the columns of our local newspapers. The -present county attorney is a young man of thirty whom I trotted on my -knee and for whom I made kites many years ago. The county judge and I -fell out many years ago because he insisted that we had been playing -marbles for “keeps”, while I maintained that we had been playing merely -for fun. We are now the best of friends, however, and there is no judge -in the state who passes heavier sentences on convicted gamblers than -he. The pastor of the church which I attend is a lad who in former -years was a member of the Sunday-school class I taught and which used -to embarrass me with all sorts of questions concerning the wives of -Cain and Abel and the origin of the inhabitants of the Land of Nod. And -so it is; I know them all and they all know me. - -“Jimmy” Vance is our family physician; he is the family physician for -at least a third of our population. He has been helping the people -of our town to be born and to die for more than thirty years--but -he is still “Jimmy”. Jimmy and I were born in the same year. It was -once a joke with us to call ourselves “twins” on this account. But -Jimmy and I are “twins” no longer. Jimmy is still a smooth-faced -boy at fifty-five, while I am a gray-bearded oldster. You may gather -something of my life when I tell you that though my Christian names -are Jeremiah Samuel (I do not give my surname for reasons you will -understand), I have never, since my twenty-first year, been addressed -either as “Jerry” or “Sam”. My wife calls me “Jeremiah”, as do my other -relatives, while my business associates and friends never grow more -familiar than “Jeremiah S.” - -When I determined to enter upon the study and practise of the law, my -maternal uncle, who was himself a practising attorney, became a sort of -supplementary preceptor to me by virtue of his avuncular relationship. -He assisted me in my studies and when the time came for me to be -admitted to the bar, he gave me a deal of what he no doubt considered -sound advice as to my future conduct. “Jeremiah,” said he, “there -is no profession on earth which is a more serious business than the -law. Men do not go to law for fun. Nobody brings a lawsuit for mere -amusement. When clients come to you they will come because they have -serious business on hand and they want a sober competent man to attend -to it for them. It is no joke to them and they don’t want you to joke -about it. Now, my advice to you--which you may take or leave as you -see fit--is always to keep a straight face. No matter how funny a case -may seem to you, don’t laugh. Your dignity will be more than half your -capital; see that you don’t forget your dignity.” - -Such was the advice of my maternal uncle. And such was the character -I assumed upon entering the practise of the law. From the day I drew -my first real brief I became the very essence of dignity. I even -wooed and won my wife in the character of a dignified young man of -serious mind and purpose. She has never in all these years suspected -my innate frivolity. Should I yield to my natural impulse and indulge -in the nonsense and fun which has ever been so dear to my heart, I am -convinced that she would at once lose all respect for me, if, indeed, -she did not think me suddenly insane. I am grave. Under all conditions -and circumstances I am as grave as an undertaker. I do smile now and -then, but it is generally the indulgent superior smile which I labored -so hard to acquire when young and which I can not now shake off. I have -been dignified so long that my dignity has become a part of me--not -really a part of my inward personality--but a part of my outward -appearance; I should feel naked and ashamed without it; it would seem -like going about half-dressed. I am so grave that nobody ever tells me -a funny story excepting the kind that one tells a minister. They are -afraid to be natural when in my presence. As Midas turned everything he -touched to gold, so I turn all my friends to bores. No sooner do I come -into my house than the whole family stops talking and waits to hear -what I have to say. Nobody dares to interrupt me; nobody presumes to -contradict me, unless it be old Brownly, who is our oldest inhabitant -and so considers himself somewhere near my own age. Every one is grave -when with me. That is, every one but Jimmy. Jimmy has always seen -through my pose and Jimmy takes a malicious pleasure in pretending he -is young when with me. - -From the day I entered upon the practise of the law, I modeled my -conduct upon that of my maternal uncle who was, as my boy Tom says, -“as cheerful as a crutch.” I abandoned the bright colored scarfs which -have always delighted my eye, and I donned the sober black bow tie -which I wear to this day. Striped and checked clothing gave way to the -non-committal pepper-and-salt suit of indefinite hue which has been my -unvarying garb from that day to this. And I grew that Vandyke beard, -to which, I am convinced, I owed my early reputation for learning and -even now owe a good part of the respect which I command. My beard is as -fixed an institution as our local literary club. Fashion has at least -relieved me of the necessity of wearing a top hat, or “plug” as we call -it here; but fashion will never relieve me of my beard, for beards may -come and beards may go, but mine grows on forever. Should I shave that -beard it would electrify the community. My wife would regard me with -suspicion, my children with pity, my friends with mirth and my clients -with horror. I verily believe that old Brown the banker, who is my best -client, would be less shocked should I tell him that I had forgotten -how to frame a complaint or draw a mortgage, than if he should walk -into my office and find me clean-shaven. - -And as it is with dress, so it is with other things. Jimmy Vance, -although a doctor, never affected that dignity which has come to be -my strongest personal characteristic. Jimmy never imitated anybody’s -dignity. And as a consequence Jimmy is as free as the wind. If he -wants to smoke, he does it. If he wants to drink, he takes a drink. -If he wants to go roller-skating, he goes. And nobody ever thinks -of objecting to anything he does. Jimmy has never led any one to -expect any particular sort of conduct from him. He is full of -surprises and nobody likes him the less for it. I can drink at my -club--occasionally--or at a banquet, or at home; but I can not go into -a bar like Jimmy and shake dice with a traveling man. I can smoke, -but I could not chew tobacco. I can read, but I can not read light -novels--that is, not unless I hide away to do it. If I were to go into -our public library and ask for _The Siege of the Seven Suitors_ I -honestly think that old Miss Peters, our librarian, would faint dead -away. Now it isn’t that I want to _do_ these things which irks me, -so much as the fact that I want to be able to do them if I feel like -it. I thank God I have escaped the gravest danger which lies in the -acquisition of too good habits--I have never become what so many men -of super-excellent reputations do become--a hypocrite. I have been a -poser, a pretender, a rebel--ah, I have fairly seethed with rebellion -against the tyranny of this fictitious self at times!--but I have -never broken my habits on the sly. I have lived up to the straw man -I so foolishly put in my place; I have gone around and around in my -lock-step of respectability when I felt that I might gladly have died -for a single year of absolute personal freedom; I have made my bed and -like Damiens I have lain chained to it with iron chains for years; and -never before now have I cried aloud! - -And Jimmy! What a life is Jimmy’s! Jimmy is as prosperous as I; as -respected as I; far happier than I; and ah, how much more is Jimmy -loved than I! - -When the girls go away to boarding-school, Jimmy kisses them good-by; -when they come home again, Jimmy kisses them hello. Jimmy never misses -an opportunity to kiss them, coming or going. But who cares? Nobody. -“It’s only old Jimmy,” the girls say. “It’s only old Jimmy,” echo their -sweethearts. “It’s only Jimmy’s way!” giggle their mothers--for Jimmy -kisses them, too; Jimmy is no fool. But suppose I should try it? Who -would say, “It’s only old Jeremiah?” - -Since there is small danger that your magazine will ever be read by -any one who will recognize me in this letter, I don’t mind confessing -that I did try it once; it is the only sin of the sort that I have -on my conscience after twenty-five years of dignity, domestic and -foreign. It was last year that it happened. The girl had been visiting -one of my daughter’s chums for the Christmas vacation and she was one -of the guests at the Christmas party we had at our house. I came into -the front hall and found her standing all alone, directly under the -mistletoe. I looked at her standing there so sweet and pretty and so -unconscious of the mistletoe, and I wondered how it would feel to kiss -some one on the lips. I have been kissed on the forehead for years. -Even my children kiss me on the forehead. They learned to do that -early, when they explained that my beard was “cratchy”. I looked at the -girl again. I was tempted and I fell. That is, I tried to fall, but she -wouldn’t let me. - -“Why not?” I asked her. “You let my boy Tom do it.” - -“Oh, but _he’s_ only a boy!” she said. - -“Well,” I insisted, “you let Jimmy do it!” - -“Oh, but he’s an _old_ man!” she exclaimed. - -“Yes!” said I, “and so am I an old man!” - -“Oh, but,” she protested, “you’re not _that kind_ of an old man!” - -That’s it! That’s always been it, and that always will be it--I’m not -_that kind_ of an old man! - - J. S. - - - - -THE FRUIT OF FAME - - - _To the Editor of The Idler._ - -DEAR SIR: I have told many strange and distressing stories in my -time; tales of struggle, of suffering, of sorrow and of bitter -disappointment; for I, Sir, am an author, and the telling of tales has -long been my vocation. But of all the tales which I have spun from -the thread of my inner consciousness, there is none, I believe, more -strange or more filled with disillusionment than the true story which I -am about to tell you now. - -I began writing at an early age. Indeed, I was writing short stories -while yet in the high school and selling them before I had done with -college. The history of my younger years does not differ greatly from -that of most young authors; it is the history of an existence which -would have been inexpressibly sordid had it not been glorified by -youthful hope and ambition. I married young and was forced to write -constantly in order to make both ends meet. The years went slipping by -almost unnoticed until suddenly one day I awoke to find myself upon the -verge of middle age and realized that for years I had been postponing -the writing of my first real book, meanwhile falling unconsciously into -the habit of giving all of my attention to the market value of what -I wrote and growing more and more indifferent to the question of its -literary merit. I had, in fact, become a confirmed hack-writer. - -The discovery shocked me into action. I determined then and there that -I would write a novel worthy of my powers if I had to give to that task -the time which should be employed in rest and sleep. I had never taken -many holidays; now I took none at all. Every odd moment was employed -on the great task which should lift me out of the rut and transform me -from a mere fiction machine into a creative artist. I shall not bore -you with the details of that work; how I toiled far into the night and -arose before daybreak to finish a chapter or retouch a paragraph; how -I struggled with my style which had become corrupted and florid from -the writing of sensational stories of adventure; how I tossed in my bed -when I should have been sleeping, made wakeful by the excitement under -which I labored. Suffice it to say, through infinite pains and toil I -finally wrote the last line of _The Pin-headed Girl_, and sent it off -to Messrs. Buckram and Sons with a high heart. It was accepted. - -The publishers, according to their usual custom, offered me a -royalty of ten per cent.; for you must know, Sir, that it is only -the established and successful author who can make his own terms. We -poor devils who are appearing in cloth for the first time must be -content with what is offered, for no publisher considers a meritorious -manuscript a recommendation in any way equal to a well-known name. The -book of a famous author, like a notorious brand of soap, is supposed -to sell itself, whereas, in the case of an unknown scribbler, a demand -for the work must be created by advertising. Now it is an axiom with -publishers that a modern novel, unless it happen to be a story of -extraordinary vitality, is dead in six months. With the birth of the -autumn list, the spring list dies, which is to say, when the books -which appear in the autumn are thrown upon the market, the demand for -those which appeared in the spring is immediately checked and often -dies out altogether. In six months novels are _old_; good only for -bargain sales, second-hand stores and circulating libraries. It is -therefore necessary that a book achieve a good sale in the first six -months if it is to enjoy such a sale at all. - -Realizing this and taking into consideration the fact that _The -Pin-headed Girl_ was the work of a literary nobody, my publishers set -industriously to work to create a reputation for me. I will say for -them that they spared no expense in making my name familiar to the -public. It was flaunted on every side, so that no man could ride in the -subway, pick up a magazine or open a theater program without being made -acquainted with the fact that Hackett A. Long was the author of _The -Pin-headed Girl_. No man could read a literary supplement or a monthly -review without learning that I took coffee with my breakfast; had a -fondness for Russian boar-hounds (never having owned one); preferred -reading opera scores to hearing the singers; did most of my work -between the hours of three and five in the afternoon; disliked Bohemian -restaurants; bought my cigarettes by the hundred; wore a wing collar; -and many other things, some of which were true and some not. If you -glanced at any of the illustrated papers at that time, you must have -seen me riding in my six-cylinder roadster (loaned for the occasion by -the obliging publisher), sitting upon the stoop of my cottage by the -sea, or seated, pen in hand, at my desk in the very act of producing -literature. I assure you, Sir, your correspondent was no inconsiderable -figure in the public eye at that time. - -This activity upon the part of my publishers was not without -results. The first person to show the effect of my sudden leap into -notoriety was my wife. She assured me that as a well-known author -I must pay some heed to appearances. I must no longer lodge in a -third-class apartment-house without hall-boys or elevators. When my -fellow celebrities sought me out to offer me congratulations upon my -masterpiece, they must find me in a suitable environment. We must have -an apartment fitting for an author already notable and soon to take a -well-deserved place among the foremost writers of the day; an apartment -which should be expensive without being pretentious, furnished in -such a fashion that any one could discern at a glance the touch of -the man of taste and refinement, the natural aristocrat, the man of -temperament; in a word, the artist. Having settled the question of the -apartment, she next turned her attention to my wardrobe, which was, -I confess, sadly in need of attention. I must no longer go about in -ready-made clothing. I must patronize a fashionable tailor, I must -dress for dinner, I must buy me a soft hat with a bow at the back. I -must cease my writing of lurid short stories and hair-raising serials; -to do pot-boilers for cheap monthlies and weeklies was beneath the -dignity of an author of recognized standing. You may well believe that -this unaccustomed notoriety was not without its effect upon me, but I -was not so carried away by it as was my optimistic mate. I hung back a -little; I protested. - -“It is all very well, my dear,” said I, “to talk so glibly of giving up -my short stories and my serials, but we must consider that they have -been, and still are, my chief if not my only source of revenue. They -are nothing to be proud of, I admit. They are cheap, shoddy, stupid and -entirely unworthy of the pen that wrote _The Pin-headed Girl_. But, my -dear, they _pay_.” - -“That,” said my wife, “is a consideration which had some weight before -the publication of your novel, but an author so well known as you now -are can certainly have no need to depend upon such puerile compositions -for his income.” - -I thereupon called her attention to the fact that my contract with -the publishers called for a semi-annual accounting and settlement, -and that under this agreement, no matter how much money might be due -me, I could not hope to collect any of it until six months after the -date of publication. To which she replied, truthfully enough, that it -would be easy for me to obtain anything we might want on credit. The -upshot of it was, Sir, that I yielded to her persuasion and began to -live in a manner which was little short of princely as compared with -our previous hand-to-mouth existence. I stopped writing pot-boilers and -set to work upon my second novel which I named, very aptly as I then -thought, _Out of the Woods_. Where my first novel had been three years -in the making, my second was finished in five months, for I now had -plenty of time at my disposal, and I sent it off confidently enough to -Buckram and Sons, and with it, a letter in which I made it clear that I -would expect a larger share of the profits upon my second story than I -had been content to accept in the case of _The Pin-headed Girl_. For, -as I pointed out to them, whereas the author of _The Pin-headed Girl_ -had been an unknown scribbler, the author of _Out of the Woods_ was a -well-known novelist who possessed the _name_ which had been wanting in -the first instance. - -You can, perhaps, fancy my surprise and consternation when I received -a letter from Buckram and Sons enclosing their statement of the sales -of _The Pin-headed Girl_ and a check for seventy-two dollars and fifty -cents in full payment of all royalties to date. _In spite of the money -expended in advertising, the sale of the book had not exceeded five -hundred copies._ The letter further stated that Messrs. Buckram and -Sons regretted to inform me that they were returning the manuscript of -_Out of the Woods_, as they could not consider publishing another of my -books upon the heels of such a failure as _The Pin-headed Girl_. - -This sudden collapse of my castles in Spain left me completely -demoralized, but it had no such effect upon my wife. She was astonished -at the failure of the book, but she held firmly to her position that -whatever the fate of the book might be, the fact remained that I was -now a celebrated man. I could not be blamed, she argued, because the -book had proved a failure. It was my part of the business to write the -book, it was the publisher’s part to sell it. I had performed my part, -but Buckram and Sons had most lamentably failed to perform theirs. -If they could not sell a book which had been so well advertised as -_The Pin-headed Girl_, that simply went to show that they had a very -poor selling organization, and the very fact that they had spent so -much money in advertising a book which afterward proved a failure, -was in itself a proof that they were no business men. In short, the -only thing for me to do was to find a new publisher for _Out of the -Woods_; preferably some energetic young man who would not only make a -success of the second book, but who would realize something from the -advertising expended upon the first. - -This unanswerable argument encouraged me a little and I submitted the -second book to Franklin Format who, although a young man and a new -man to the business, already had several “best sellers” to his credit. -A few days later he sent for me and when I was seated in his office, -he told me that he had read my manuscript with interest and had found -it most entertaining, but before making me any offer, he would like -to know if the book had been submitted to my regular publishers. His -was a young house, he said, and he could not afford to antagonize so -influential a firm as Buckram and Sons by stealing away one of its -authors. I replied that the book had been offered to them but that they -had refused to publish it. He raised his eyebrows at this and asked -the reason for their refusal. In my innocence I answered truthfully -that Buckram and Sons did not want my second book because they had been -unable to sell my first. On hearing this he remarked sympathetically -that it had been a very bad season for novels and that several on his -own list had fallen quite flat. Indeed, his own losses had been so -great that he had been looking about for some author with a “selling -name” to help him out of his difficulties. Under the circumstances, -however, it would be rank folly, not only upon his part, but upon mine, -to issue another novel bearing my name at a time when the memory of my -first ill-starred book was still fresh in the minds of the booksellers; -for while the public might know nothing of the failure, the booksellers -would most certainly recall it upon seeing my name on a wrapper, and -without orders from the booksellers one might as well burn a book in -manuscript as to let it die more expensively in covers. The best thing -for me to do would be to wait a year or two until the memory of _The -Pin-headed Girl_ had completely faded from their minds. In two years’ -time it would certainly be as completely forgotten as if it had never -been written, and I then might venture, with some hope of success, upon -another novel. - -And there, Sir, the matter rests. In some mysterious way the word has -been passed around among the publishers that _The Pin-headed Girl_ was -a disastrous investment and not one of them will touch _Out of the -Woods_. My wife threatens to leave me if I abandon novel-writing and -go back to my pot-boilers; she says she could not bear the disgrace of -acknowledged failure and that I must maintain my present position as a -celebrated author at all hazards. I have applied to several editors of -my acquaintance for editorial positions and they have all replied that -they had nothing to offer me which would be worth my consideration or -worthy of my talents. My first novel has left me with a reputation, -a two-years lease of an expensive apartment, a load of debts, an -angry wife, a scrap-book filled with favorable reviews, an unsalable -manuscript and a prospect of bankruptcy. - -This, Sir, is the true story of a writer who achieved his ambition of -becoming a well-known novelist. If any reader of your journal, now -engaged in hack-writing and enjoying comfortable obscurity, cherishes -an ambition like mine, let him be warned by my example, lest through -the blighting touch of the publicity agent he be forced, as I am, to -choose between beginning life anew under an assumed name or slowly -starving to death in the midst of luxury. - - I am, sir, - HACKETT A. LONG. - - - - - * * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber’s note: - -Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a -predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they -were not changed. - -Simple typographical errors were corrected; unpaired quotation -marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left -unpaired. - -Page 1: Transcriber removed redundant book title. - -Page 27: The chapter title was printed as “A PURITIAN IN BOHEMIA,” -but was changed here to “A PURITAN IN BOHEMIA,” as that matches the -spelling in the Table of Contents and in other uses of the word -elsewhere in the book. - -Page 173: The chapter title was printed as “THE ABUSES OF ADVERSISY,” -but was changed here to “THE ABUSES OF ADVERSITY,” as that matches -the spelling in the Table of Contents and in other uses of the word -elsewhere in the book. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW BROOMS*** - - -******* This file should be named 65583-0.txt or 65583-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/5/5/8/65583 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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(Robert James) Shores</h1> -<p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States -and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no -restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at <a -href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: New Brooms</p> -<p>Author: Robert J. (Robert James) Shores</p> -<p>Release Date: June 10, 2021 [eBook #65583]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: UTF-8</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW BROOMS***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4 class="pgx" title="">E-text prepared by Charlene Taylor, Charlie Howard,<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (https://www.pgdp.net)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive<br /> - (https://archive.org)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/newbrooms00shoriala - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="cover" style="max-width: 25em;"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover" /> -</div> - -<h1>NEW BROOMS</h1> - -<hr /> - -<div class="newpage p4 center"> -<p class="xxlarge gesperrt"> -NEW BROOMS</p> - -<p class="p2 vspace"><i>By</i><br /> -<span class="larger">ROBERT J. SHORES</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_logo" style="max-width: 3.5em;"> - <img src="images/i_logo.png" alt="logo" /> -</div> - -<p class="p2">INDIANAPOLIS<br /> -THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY<br /> -PUBLISHERS -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="newpage p4 vspace"> -<span class="smcap">Copyright 1913</span><br /> - -<span class="smcap">The Bobbs-Merrill Company</span></p> - -<p class="p4"><span class="xsmall">PRESS OF<br /> -BRAUNWORTH & CO.<br /> -BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS<br /> -BROOKLYN, N. Y.</span> -</p> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2>CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table id="toc" summary="Contents"> -<tr class="small"> - <td></td> - <td></td> - <td class="tdr">PAGE</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">I</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Philosophical Cook</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_1">1</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">II</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Bachelor on Women</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_16">16</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">III</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">On Pensioning Writers</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_20">20</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">IV</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Puritan in Bohemia</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_27">27</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">V</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">An Arraignment of Originality</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_42">42</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">VI</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Flattering Tribute</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_51">51</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">VII</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Riddle of a Dream</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_53">53</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">VIII</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Beds for the Bad</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_61">61</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">IX</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Is Chesterton a Man Alive?</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_69">69</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">X</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">From a Hunchback</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_77">77</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XI</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">From a Hotel Sponge</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_89">89</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XII</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">From Sarah Shelfworn</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_96">96</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XIII</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">From Anna Pest</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_104">104</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XIV</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">From Seth Shirtless</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_110">110</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XV</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Sartor-Psychology</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_118">118</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XVI</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Mr. Body Protests</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_126">126</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XVII</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">On a Certain Condescension in Fashion Writers</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_138">138</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XVIII</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Of Looking Backward</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_146">146</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XIX</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Literary Life</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_155">155</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XX</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Poetic License</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_162">162</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XXI</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Necessity for Beggars</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_168">168</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XXII</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Abuses of Adversity</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_173">173</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XXIII</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Science of Making Enemies</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_182">182</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XXIV</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Fate of Falstaff</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_192">192</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XXV</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Reward of Merit</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_202">202</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XXVI</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Blessings of the Blind</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_212">212</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XXVII</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">A Tale of a Mad Poet’s Wife</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_224">224</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XXVIII</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Lock-Step</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_232">232</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr top">XXIX</td> - <td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">The Fruit of Fame</span></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#toclink_250">250</a></td> -</tr> -</table> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">1</span></p> -<h2><span class="larger">NEW BROOMS</span></h2> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_1" class="chapter"> -<h2>A PHILOSOPHICAL COOK</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: Though I am not one of your -subscribers I am, I believe, one of your most -faithful readers. I do not take your magazine, -it is true, but I am at present employed in a -family some member of which is evidently a -subscriber, as the maid brings it out in the -waste-paper basket regularly, once a month, -when, according to her custom, she permits me -to select from the month’s periodicals such -journals as seem to me to be worthy of my attention -in my leisure hours. I shall not conceal -from you the fact that my fancy was first attracted -to your publication by the fact that I -always found it fresh and clean, with the leaves -still uncut, and not soiled, bedraggled and -often coverless as are some of the others which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">2</span> -suffer more usage before reaching me. But -having once cut the leaves with a convenient -bread-knife and looked through one of your -numbers, I perceived at once that you are, in -your way, something of a philosopher, and I -have ever been partial to everything that -smacked of philosophy. Could you step into -my pantry at the present moment you would -find upon my shelves Plato and Aristotle as -well as the immortal Mrs. Rorer, for I am, in -my humble fashion, a philosopher as well as a -cook. I do not at all agree with that learned -and talented French gentleman who declared -that to study philosophy was to learn to die; -on the contrary, I hold that to study philosophy -is to learn to live, and I see no reason why the -study of philosophy is not as fitting an occupation -for a cook as for a collegian. Therefore -I cook or philosophize according to my inclination, -and if it seem to you that I philosophize -like a cook, my employer, I am proud to say, -will tell you that I cook like a philosopher.</p> - -<p>In youth I had the advantage of a grammar -school education, and that education I have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">3</span> -supplemented with reading and observation. -If, as Pope has said,</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p class="center">“The proper study of mankind is man,”</p> -</div> - -<p class="in0">then I have entered the right school for -the completion of my education; for the -kitchen is, it seems to me, a natural observatory -for the study of human nature. Working -away at my chosen profession in the seclusion -of my kitchen, I can, without ever having laid -eyes upon him, give you a complete character -of the head of the household. I can not with -certainty say whether he is a large or small -man, because the appetite is sometimes deceptive -in this respect, and I have known a small -man to eat as much as would suffice for two -stevedores, and I have known an athlete to -peck at a meal that would leave a child hungry. -It is not, then, by his physical character that I -judge him, but by his mental and psychological -symptoms. I do not gage him by how -much he eats, but by what he eats. I can not -tell you whether he is large or small, but I can -tell you whether he is voluptuous or esthetic,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">4</span> -good-natured or crabbed, rich or poor, wise or -foolish.</p> - -<p>It is really remarkable the knowledge I -come to have of this person whom I have never -seen, or it would be if the method by which -I reach my conclusions were not so simple. If -he keeps fast days and eats only fish upon Fridays, -I know, of course, that he is a churchman. -If he persistently eats food which is bad for -any man’s digestion, I know that he is both -irritable and obstinate, for no man can continue -to eat what does not agree with him without -becoming irritable, and no man will continue -such a course in the face of his better judgment -unless he is obstinate. If he eats only of rich -food and shows a constant preference for <em>taste</em> -over <em>nutrition</em>, I know that he is a voluptuary; -it is seldom that a man indulges himself in a -passion for over-eating who does not indulge -himself in other passions as well, and even -though his one indulgence be eating, he is none -the less a voluptuary by nature. If he eats little -and that in an abstracted manner, sometimes -overlooking a favorite dish or allowing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">5</span> -his soup to grow cold so that it is returned -half-eaten, I know that he is absent-minded -and eats merely because he has to, not because -he loves eating for its own sake. If he insists -upon having his toast an exact shade of brown -and his coffee at a given degree of temperature, -I know that he is exacting and particular -as to details; that he thinks well of himself -and thinks of himself often.</p> - -<p>So, as you see, there are hundreds of these -moral symptoms which are as familiar to me -as physical symptoms are to a physician. Thus -I supplement my theoretical knowledge of -philosophy by my observation of life.</p> - -<p>When I was casting about me for an occupation -I had, being an orphan, a perfectly -free choice. Had I followed my first -impulse, I think I should have gone to live in -a tub like Diogenes, and have resolved to spend -my life, like Schopenhauer, in thinking about -it. But a little observation soon convinced me -that the man who lives in the fashion of Diogenes -is not held in high favor in these days -and that philosophy, as a profession, would be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">6</span> -likely to prove unremunerative. Now I am not -one who desires riches or who can not be happy -without wealth, but I soon decided that I must -be possessed of a certain amount of money in -order to indulge my taste for personal cleanliness. -I soon gave over the tub of Diogenes, -but I was loath to forego all intercourse with -the ordinary domestic tub.</p> - -<p>Having determined, therefore, to enter upon -some profession in which I could make a reasonable -amount of money without requiring a -great preliminary outlay, I looked about me -for a vocation which might supply my physical -needs, and at the same time, afford me some -mental and spiritual satisfaction. I dismissed -the study of the law or medicine as beyond my -means, and I did not find myself sufficiently -religious to permit me to enter the ministry -with a clear conscience. For trade I had your -true philosopher’s distaste, and I confess no -sort of manual labor, except as cooking may -be so described, held any attraction for me. I -shuddered at the thought of becoming a barber, -chiropodist or hair-dresser, and my pride<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">7</span> -would not permit me to suffer the rebuffs -which fall to the lot of a pedler, book agent -or commercial traveler.</p> - -<p>It was then that I was struck with my happy -inspiration. I would become a member of an -old and honorable profession—I would become -a cook. If I could not be a philosopher and -nourish men’s minds, I would be a cook and -nourish their bodies. I would make dishes so -delicious and enticing that men upon the brink -of suicide would turn back to life with new -hope in their hearts. I would impart energy to -the weary, peace to the troubled in mind and -happiness to the discontented. I would become -such a cook as might have won the praise of -Lucullus; I would become an artist worthy to -take the hand of Epicurus. Such were the extravagant -hopes I hugged to my breast when -I matriculated at the best cooking-school of -my native state. It is true that my achievements -have fallen far short of my ambitions, -but I have never swerved from my allegiance -to my ideal of the Perfect Dinner.</p> - -<p>Upon finishing my course at cooking-school,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">8</span> -I utilized my savings in indulging myself in -a post-graduate course abroad. I went to -Paris, and there I made the acquaintance of -the immortal Frederick of the Tour d’Argent, -he of the famous pressed ducks, and of other -masters of the culinary art.</p> - -<p>This, then, was my preparation for a life of -cooking. Possibly you will think that I took -my profession too seriously; possibly you do -not hold the same high opinion of the art of -cooking that I have always held—there are -many so minded. It is a never-failing source -of wonder to me that men are so quick to recognize -the services of those who feed their minds -and so slow to acknowledge the debt they owe -to those who feed their bodies. I have never -regarded cooking in the light of mere manual -labor. Labor, it seems to me, is work that is -distasteful and only performed from necessity; -a “labor of love” seems to me to be a paradox. -Work, on the contrary, may be as keen a -source of pleasure as recreation. Work may -be the striving of an artist to attain his ideal. -The very word “labor” suggests pain and exhaustion.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">9</span> -We speak of an author’s “works,” -but who would think of referring to them as his -“labors”?</p> - -<p>I do not believe, as many seem to believe, -that any man or woman who can juggle a skillet -or wield an egg-beater is a cook. Merely -to follow a formula in a cookery book does not -make one a cook any more than the compounding -of a prescription makes one a physician. -Cooking is an art as well as a science. The violinist -can not express his personality in the -strains of his instrument more fully than can -the cook in his cooking. The favorite dishes of -a race are characteristic of that race. The -Spaniard, like his <i xml:lang="es" lang="es">chili con carne</i> and his -tamale, is hot, peppery and economical. The -Frenchman, like his many concoctions, is full -of spice, imagination and extravagance. The -Italian is indolent and averse to exertion, as -is evidenced by his macaroni and spaghetti. -The Englishman is red and hearty like his -roast beef. The German is fat and fair like -his sausages. The Russian is odd and interesting -like his caviar. The American, like his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">10</span> -diet, is cosmopolitan. And as the cooking of a -nation or race is characteristic of that nation or -race, so the cooking of an individual is characteristic -of that individual. Coarse people do -not prepare dainty dishes. A cook may strike -a discord as surely as a musician.</p> - -<p>To be a good cook, a cook worthy of one’s -calling, one must have the soul of an artist. -One must be clean, self-respecting, industrious, -ambitious, earnest, quick to learn and trained -to remember. Do other professions require -more?</p> - -<p>The cook wields a tremendous influence for -good or for evil. Over a good dinner the most -cynical or the most brutal man must relax into -something like human kindness. It is indeed -true that</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent8">“All human history attests</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That happiness for man,—the hungry sinner!—</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner!”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>If there be even the feeblest spark of charity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">11</span> -in a man’s breast, a good dinner will fan it into -flame. A bad dinner, on the other hand, will -bring to the surface all that is mean and -ignoble in his nature. Indigestion, I surmise, -has been the cause of most of the cruelty of -men. Viewing history in this light, it is easier -to understand the apparently wanton slaughter -among barbarians. Fed upon ill-conditioned -food, the barbarian is attacked in his most -sensitive part—his stomach. He is upset, distrait; -his nerves are set upon edge and he knows -not what ails him. He grows irritable and -quick to anger, and he wrecks his unreasoning -and unreasonable spleen upon the first convenient -victim. It is to be observed that the -science of cookery and the progress of civilization -advance together. Well-fed men are slow -to wrath and easily appeased. At the height of -the Roman civilization the Romans became epicures -and ceased to be warriors. War has no -charms for the man who is at peace with his -own stomach.</p> - -<p>It may be urged by some that cooking, -in rendering a man unwarlike, does him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">12</span> -an ill service because it makes him effeminate. -But the same may be said of all the cardinal -virtues except, perhaps, bravery. Forbearance, -loving kindness, gentleness, faith—all these -and many others are essentially feminine virtues. -Nay, civilization itself is a feminizing influence. -Under our modern civilization, which -as far as we know is the highest the world has -ever experienced, men are reduced to the condition -of dependents. Men no longer rely upon -their personal prowess and valor for redress -for their injuries or the defense of their natural -rights. The law has become the protector of -men, just as men were once the protectors of -women. And this feminizing influence of civilization -is, I take it, a wise provision of Providence -for the benefit of cookery. The less men -are concerned with battle, murder and sudden -death, the more they are concerned with their -dinners; and the more solicitous they become -for their dinners, the more they desire the -safety of the home, the peace of nations and -the prosperity of mankind—all things, in -short, which help to make possible the Perfect<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">13</span> -Dinner, perfectly chosen, perfectly cooked and -perfectly eaten.</p> - -<p>I say “perfectly eaten” because it seems to -me that there is an art of eating as well as an -art of cooking. It is said that a musician does -his best when playing before an appreciative -audience; and so the cook is at his best when -cooking for an appreciative diner. It is a discouraging -thing for an actor to peep out from -behind the drop-curtain and see the pit all but -empty of spectators; but it is a heart-breaking -experience for a cook to peep through the -swinging doors of his sanctum sanctorum and -to behold the diners distant and indifferent, this -one idly chattering and that one buried in a -late edition of a newspaper, while his delicious -soups, his super-excellent omelets, his heart-warming -coffee, his inspiring steaks and his -magnificent pâtés grow cold and unpalatable -upon the unregarded plates! To see one’s chef-d’œuvres -treated as hors-d’œuvres—that is a -tragedy of the soul!</p> - -<p>To attain the Perfect Dinner we must attain -the Perfect Civilization. The diner must be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">14</span> -as free to enjoy his dinner as the cook is to -prepare it; and, in like manner, the Perfect -Dinner is the concomitant of the Perfect Civilization. -Man is civilized when he is well-fed -and uncivilized when he is ill-fed. This is a -truth which you need not accept upon my unsupported -authority; any housewife will tell -you as much. If the earth were to be visited by -a plague which attacked only those who could -cook and carried them off all at one time, I believe -that the world would relapse into anarchy -in the space of thirty days.</p> - -<p>It seems to me that the profession of cooking -is not at all incompatible with the study of -philosophy. As I apply my philosophy to my -cooking, so I apply my cooking to my philosophy. -Some of my philosophers I take raw, -some I boil down to the very juice and some I -season; for philosophy, I believe, is often more -digestible when taken <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">cum grano salis</i>.</p> - -<p>I may be wrong, and it may seem egotistical -in me to say it, but really, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, I believe -that if more people were of my mind to mix -their philosophy and their cooking, there would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">15</span> -be many more intelligent cooks and not a few -more palatable philosophers.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig2">I am, Sir, your humble servant,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Bartholomew Battercake</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_16" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">16</span></p> - -<h2>A BACHELOR ON WOMEN</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I have lately been the subject of -many animadversions upon the part of literary -critics because of a novel of mine, recently published, -which these critics have been pleased to -term “a study in feminine psychology.” My -story has been criticized severely and my observations -upon the female character mercilessly -condemned, and in every one of these adverse -criticisms which has been brought to my -attention, the reviewer has taken occasion to -say, in substance, “This book was evidently -written by a bachelor.”</p> - -<p>Now, the fact of my bachelorhood I have no -wish to deny, nor could I if I would, for it is -well known to my many friends and acquaintances -that I am a single man. But is the fact -that I am a bachelor conclusive, or even <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">prima<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">17</span> -facie</i>, evidence of my incompetency to discourse -upon feminine psychology? I do not see -why it should be so considered. It is plain that -a great many people are of the opinion that the -man who has married a woman must know -more of women in general than the man who -has not. But, after all is said, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, why -should the married man know more of women -than the bachelor knows? He is married only -to one woman—not to all womankind.</p> - -<p>No man becomes an expert entomologist -through the study of one insect. There is no -one insect which can furnish him with a general -knowledge of entomology. Nor is there -any one woman who can furnish us with a general -knowledge of women. There is no one -woman so typical of her sex that all other women -may be judged by her. Yet the only advantage -which the married man enjoys over the -unmarried man is his intimate knowledge of -one particular woman. The married man has -not the same liberty of observing women which -is the perquisite of the bachelor. The only time<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">18</span> -when a married man has an opportunity to observe -women other than his wife is when his -wife is not with him, and then, for a short time, -he possesses the same degree of liberty which -the bachelor enjoys all of the time. The bachelor -observes, not one woman, but many. It is -true that his knowledge of women differs from -that of the married man in one particular: if -he has any intimate knowledge of woman at -her worst it is likely to be a knowledge of Judy -O’Grady, rather than of the colonel’s lady. -The bachelor sees good women at their best and -bad women at their worst. The married man -sees one good woman at her best and at her -worst.</p> - -<p>The question, then, is, which sort of knowledge -is more likely to enable a man to form a -just estimate of the female character? Personally, -I think the bachelor has all the best of -it. And, Sir, if none of these arguments has -weight with you, there remains one supreme -argument which proves that the bachelor knows -more of women than the married man, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">19</span> -that, Sir, is the simple fact that he <em>is</em> a bachelor, -as</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig8">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Fortunatas Freeman</span>. -</p> - -<p>N. B. The editor disclaims all responsibility -for the sentiments expressed in the above -communication.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_20" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">20</span></p> - -<h2>ON PENSIONING WRITERS</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I observe by the daily press that -the English government has just issued a list -in full of such authors as have been selected -for the receipt of a pension. In this list I find -the names of a number of widows and orphans -of authors as well as the names of living authors, -and this is no doubt as it should be. I -have heard certain hypercritical persons object -to the late project of the “Dickens stamp” -upon the ground that no man is entitled to anything -which he has not earned and that literary -heirs are entitled to no more consideration than -monetary heirs. Now, personally, I can not -understand what is so objectionable about the -inheritance of money. It seems to me that a -man’s heirs are quite as much entitled to receive -the benefits of his fortune or the fruits of his -industry after his death as they are during his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">21</span> -life; and no one has yet gone so far as to say -that a man may not, with perfect propriety, bestow -upon his heirs and relatives such pecuniary -gifts and benefits as he may see fit during -his lifetime. It seems to me that the heirs -of an author inherit as great an interest in his -work as the heirs of a banker or broker. But, -however this may be, there is one feature about -this pensioning of authors which convinces me -that the British government has gone about the -matter in a very wrong fashion.</p> - -<p>I find in looking over the list that pensions -have been granted because of writings upon -ornithology, Elizabethan literature, poetry, socialism, -philosophy and so on. While I must -confess that I am unfamiliar with the majority -of the names which appear upon the list, I assume -from the manner in which they have been -selected that the British government considers -their work to have been of really great value, -although not popular. The British government, -in fact, appears to be offering encouragement, -in the shape of pensions, to such -writers as can not hope to please the general<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">22</span> -public with their work. The government is -supplying a pension in lieu of popular appreciation.</p> - -<p>Now, this is all very well if the government -is merely going into the business of being philanthropic -and is willing to extend its system -of pensions to include worthy shoemakers who -have been unable to secure a sufficient custom -to keep them in food and clothing because of -the inroads made upon the cobbler’s trade by -the manufacturers of machine-made shoes; -lawyers who are learned in the law, but who -have been unable to secure the business of the -great corporations; doctors who are efficient, -but who chance to live in unusually healthy -neighborhoods; ministers of the Gospel who -are unfortunately assigned to meager or irreligious -parishes; music teachers who are excellent -instructors, but who find formidable foes -to business in the automatic piano and the phonograph. -If the British government is bent -upon making up for public indifference to such -authors as are willing to benefit mankind, but -who can not make mankind take note of their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">23</span> -efforts in that direction, then, I say, the British -government shows a kindly and courteous disposition, -but it should not stop with authors; it -should carry on the good work in every walk -of life.</p> - -<p>But if, as I suspect to be the case, the British -government is establishing this system of pensions -in the hope that the system will result in -more and better books, then I must say I think -the system is more likely to fail than to succeed.</p> - -<p>One has but to glance back at the history of -literature to be convinced that poverty has -never been an effective check upon literary -genius. Poets have starved and philosophers -have gone about clad in shabby raiment rather -than forsake their chosen work. Herbert -Spencer did not go clad in rags, to be sure, but -where mediocre writers were reaping fortunes -from their literary labors, he was expending -fortunes in the effort to bring his philosophy -to the attention of the world. Doctor Johnson -never wrote so prolifically or so well as when -he was starving in a Grub Street garret.</p> - -<p>An empty stomach does not mean an empty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">24</span> -head where authors are concerned. The fact of -the matter is, it is easier for men to write great -poetry and to think deeply when they are poor -than when they are well-to-do. A wealthy and -famous man has to suffer innumerable distractions -from the work he has in hand; his time -and attention are not his own to command. At -every turn he is harassed by the responsibilities -of his position. In obscurity and poverty, on -the other hand, a man is not only brought more -closely in touch with life, but he is absolute -master of his own time and effort. Providing -he be not married, and so responsible for others, -the obscure and poor author is absolutely his -own master. Whether he drop his greater work -for the sake of earning a meal is a matter -which is entirely optional. He does not have -to eat if he does not care to do so. The rich and -successful author, on the contrary, is expected -to observe certain social duties and to return -courtesy for praise and patronage. If he treats -his public cavalierly and refuses to admit himself -bound by the amenities of ordinary life, he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">25</span> -is in grave danger of losing both his popularity -and his eminence.</p> - -<p>“O Poverty,” wrote Jean Jacques Rousseau, -“thou art a severe teacher. But at thy noble -school I have received more precious lessons, I -have learned more great truths than I shall ever -find in the spheres of wealth.”</p> - -<p>Had Louis the Little actually taken up -François Villon from his squalor and wretchedness, -his stews and taverns, his thieves and slatterns, -and made him the Grand Marshal of -France, as he is made to do in Justin Huntley -McCarthy’s romance, <i>If I Were King</i>, he -would have spoiled a good poet to make a poor -courtier. When poor and writing for posterity, -the author is at his best; when rich and writing -for more money, he is usually so anxious to -make hay while the sun shines that his work -suffers in proportion to his output. No, poverty -has never spoiled a good poet—even the -youthful Chatterton might have lost his magic -with the disillusionment which follows on the -heels of affluence.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">26</span></p> - -<p>And since the really great authors can not -be kept from writing in any case, it would seem -to me that a much better scheme would be to -pension those who were better idle. Let the -British government pension, not the good authors, -but the bad. Let the penny-a-liner be -retired in comfort where he will never need to -write another poem, novel, play or philosophic -treatise. Since the inspiration which moves him -to labor is the desire for money, when he has -the money he will no longer have any temptation -to write. But for the great authors, who -will write whether or no, let them be kept on -their mettle, stung to action by “the slings and -arrows of outrageous fortune,” inspired by -their faith in their work and close to the hearts -of humanity, so that they may continue to pour -out the riches of literature, philosophy and science, -unimpeded by the obligations and worries -attendant upon the possession of a bank account!</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig8">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">A Lover of Literature</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_27" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">27</span></p> - -<h2>A PURITAN IN BOHEMIA</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: You will often hear it asserted -by those who assume to speak with authority, -that there is no longer any such thing as Bohemia -in New York; that the Bohemians are -scattered hither and thither and that their -haunts are given over to seekers after sensation, -sight-seers and the like. The seeming sophistication -of those who speak thus is, more often -than not, entirely <em>sham</em>, and is assumed by pert -reporters for the daily press who wish, by appearing -worldly, to divert attention from their -patent callowness and youth.</p> - -<p>There <em>is</em>, Sir, such a thing as Bohemia, and -there <em>are</em> such people as Bohemians, and this I -know to my sorrow, and the way in which I discovered -this I shall presently relate. Bohemia, -as I have found it, is not a place, but a state of -mind and a manner of life. The Bohemians<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">28</span> -have a fixed abode no more than the Arabs of -the desert or the wild tribes of Tartary. If one -of their citadels is wrested from them by the -invasion of the Philistines, they fall back upon -another, and being, for the most part, unencumbered -with Lares and Penates, they have -no difficulty in finding another retreat in which -they are soon as happy and content as in the -one which they formerly occupied. They may -be said to be a people without attachments (if -we except the writs so called by those of the -legal profession), and if they pay devotion to -any god, I know not whom it may be, unless, indeed, -Bacchus, who was always a roving deity, -as like to be found in one spot as another, -whose chief attributes are liberty and license, -and whose rites, therefore, may be celebrated -wherever his devotees are given the liberty of -a place that has a license.</p> - -<p>But do not let me, by the use of these terms, -lead you to fall into the vulgar error that these -Bohemians are people without conventions and -who observe no rules of conduct, but act solely -according to the whim of the moment, for indeed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">29</span> -the contrary is the case. The Bohemians, -Sir, are as jealous of their customs and conventions -as any class of people, and they even have -certain ideas of caste to which they adhere as -rigidly as the most fanatical of the Hindus. -To lose caste in Bohemia is like losing one’s -“face” among the Chinese and results in ostracism -quite as surely.</p> - -<p>The customs and conventions of the Bohemians, -as I shall presently show, are, in truth, -very different from the customs and the conventions -of what is known as “good society”; -so that it is not surprising that those who have -only, so to speak, touched upon the frontiers -of this country of the imagination, should declare -it to be a land of absolute freedom and of -individualistic philosophy. Myself, when I -first came among them, was as astonished and -confused as Gulliver among the Houyhnhnms, -for here I found everything turned about -from the manner in which I was used to seeing -it. That which I had been accustomed to consider -worthy, I found here to be unworthy, and -that which I had been taught to hold a fault I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">30</span> -found here to be a virtue. I had been taught -to admire thrift, but here I found it held to be -the meanest of qualities. The Beau Ideal of a -Bohemian I discovered to be the young man -who is free with his purse and careless of his -obligations. I found it a humorous thing to -defraud one’s creditors but a shameful thing -to deny one’s purse to a fellow Bohemian. I -had been taught to be circumspect in my conversation -with the ladies, but here I found -them conversing upon all subjects with utter -freedom and an entire lack of embarrassment. -I had been used to admire innocence, but here -I found that innocence was considered as ignorance -and a subject for mirth or censure. -Religion, patriotism, respect for established -customs, reverence for those in power—all -those things, in short, which had been so carefully -impressed upon me at home, I found to -be nowhere admired among these people.</p> - -<p>To acquaint you briefly with the manner of -my coming among these citizens: I fell among -them by design and not, as you may have supposed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">31</span> -by accident. Possessed of some talent -in a musical way and having something of a -turn for original composition, I had secured a -position in an orchestra in one of the local theaters. -Though I had been brought up in -the most orthodox manner by my father, who -was a professor in a small New England -college, I chafed under the restrictions of -social life in my native village, where intellectual -attainments were held in such high repute -as to overshadow completely all natural talent -and genius, and where a man was more respected -for knowing Boethius than for knowing -beans. I had neither taste nor inclination -for pedagogy, but yearned with all my heart -for the artistic life. I had, in short, a somewhat -exaggerated attack of what is known as -the <em>artistic temperament</em>, and finding that my -own people considered music as a parlor accomplishment -rather than a serious art, I was more -than ever impatient of their narrow-minded -Puritanism and more than ever determined to -leave the little college town and all that it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">32</span> -stood for, and to go out into the world to seek -companionship with those who shared my own -ideals and ambitions.</p> - -<p>The final rupture with my people came -when I announced to my father my intention -of becoming a professional violinist, and he -replied that if I were determined to disappoint -his hopes of my future I might at least have -hit upon something respectable, and not -brought upon him the reproach of having a -fiddler in the family. “I can only hope,” said -he, “that you will be a total and abject failure -in your misguided efforts, for if you were to -succeed and I were to come upon your name -flaunted in shameless fashion from the boards -of some play-house, I should certainly die of -mortification.” With these good wishes ringing -in my ears, I packed my meager belongings, -tucked my violin case under my arm and -turned my back upon my native village and -respectability, as I thought, forever.</p> - -<p>A few weeks of playing in the orchestra at -a theater convinced me that I had yet to seek -the intellectual sympathy for which I left<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">33</span> -home. My fellow players, with one exception, -were all phlegmatic Germans who played well -enough, to be sure, but who appeared to be as -devoid of spiritual aspirations and artistic appreciation -as so many day-laborers. They -worked at their music as a barber works at his -trade, and when the evening’s task was done, -they retired to a corner saloon where they -drank beer, ate Limburger and talked politics -like so many grocers. There was, as I have -said, one exception; a young man like myself, -who seemed to scorn the middle-class ideas and -ideals of our companions and who never joined -in the beer-drinking or the political discussions -at the corner. This young man, said I to myself, -has been here for some time, and he, if -any one, should be able to direct me to the -haunts of the true friends of art; he, of all -these, is the only one fitted to act as my guide, -philosopher and friend.</p> - -<p>Timidly I approached him upon the subject -nearest to my heart, and heartily he replied that -not only could he introduce me into the free-masonry -of art, but that he would do so the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">34</span> -very next night. Accordingly, when the curtain -fell the following evening, we set off at -once and arrived shortly at a restaurant and -café, upon the East Side, which was situated -in a basement. A large wooden sign proclaimed -it to be “Weinstein’s Rathskeller,” but -my companion assured me that it was known -to the <em>elect</em> as the “Café of the Innocents,” because -those who came there were yet young -and comparatively unknown in the world of -art and letters.</p> - -<p>To describe my sensations upon that evening, -Sir, would require the pen of a Verlaine. -My own poor efforts can never do them justice. -I can make shift to express emotion upon the -strings of my instrument, but when I exchange -my bow for a pen my fingers become as thumbs -and my emotions defy expression, so that I am -as helpless as a six weeks’ infant plagued by a -pin, and can no more make clear my meaning -than a sign-painter could imitate Rubens.</p> - -<p>Suffice it to say that I was overcome, -charmed, enchanted! In stepping through the -portals of that dingy East Side resort, I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">35</span> -seemed to have stepped over the border-line -that divides the world of the dull and the practical -from the world of romance and desire. I -had entered the land of dreams, the country of -magnificent distances! I was as astonished as -William Guppy would have been had he stumbled -unwittingly into the rose garden of Hafiz. -Here were men and women after my own -heart; men and women who saw the world as a -whole, unbounded by the petty lines of counties, -states and nations. Here the names of the -masters of art and literature were bandied -about as familiarly as the names of our local -professors were at home. Here were lights, -here music, and here the good glad laughter -of youth! Here were women—not the slim -spinsters and prim matrons that I had known, -but hearty healthy women who seemed to be -<em>alive</em>. Ah, that was it—they were all, all of -them, so much alive! Between their fingers -they held, not knitting-needles, but dainty -cigarettes! Here was wine, wit and winsomeness—a -dangerous, a deadly combination for -such as I!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">36</span></p> - -<p>Well, Sir, to be brief, I was enthralled. I -grew so greedy of that atmosphere that I began -to begrudge my work the hours that it -called me away from such good company. Finally -I exchanged my place at the theater for -a position in the orchestra at the café. And so -I came to live among the Bohemians and become -one of them.</p> - -<p>From the first I was enamored of the conversation -of these stepchildren of Genius, and -I soon began descending from the platform -and mingling with the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">habitués</i> of the place; -for at Weinstein’s the only snobbery is of the -Bohemian variety, and those who would blush -to be seen dining with a prosperous bourgeois, -were not at all averse to drinking with an humble -member of the orchestra—for was not I, -too, an artist? It was not long before I began -to care more for talking of my art than for -practising it, and all the time that I was playing -I was impatient to be down among the -tables enjoying the praise which my performance, -or, as I am now inclined to suspect, the -subsequent order for drinks, never failed to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">37</span> -secure. Thus I ceased to practise and played -no more except when I was at work.</p> - -<p>Of course I did not come to realize all this -in a moment.</p> - -<p>It was some months before I woke from the -daze into which I fell at the first. It came to -me gradually as I began to make unpleasant -discoveries. It was disconcerting to find that I -had fled my own world to escape conventions -only to come upon others, or rather upon the -same lot, turned topsy-turvy. It annoyed me -to find that to be accounted a true Bohemian -one must hold only certain views, and those always -opposed to the views of acknowledged -authorities; that one must not dress too well, -eat too well or drink too well. Which was not -at all the same thing as saying <em>too much</em>. But -this was by no means the most shocking of my -disillusions. I soon learned that while the Bohemians -are forever talking and thinking of -success and wishing success for their friends, -the moment one of them really succeeds he is -no longer a member of the company; and for -this reason it is said, with some truth, that there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">38</span> -are no successful Bohemians. When one of -them who has made a marked success intrudes -himself into the old gathering place, he is -given such a cold shoulder that he never ventures -there again. A small triumph furnishes -the occasion for a feast of congratulation, but -a real “arrival” excites the whole company to -sneers and innuendoes, so that such felicitations -as are offered are bitter with envy. They have -a sort of optimism of their own, but it is all a -personal optimism. Each one hopes and believes -that he will succeed, but each one believes -and secretly hopes that the others will not. A -cynical smile and a shrugging of shoulders -is the tribute to the absent artist.</p> - -<p>Well, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, the longer I remained -among these people, the more I came to be of -the mind of <i>Alice in Wonderland</i>, that though -some may be marked off from the pack and -may look like kings and queens, they are nothing -but playing-cards after all.</p> - -<p>But there was one young woman who held -my waning interest and who bound me by sentimental -ties to the life of which I now began<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">39</span> -to be somewhat weary. If I had not made her -acquaintance I believe that I should long ago -have left Bohemia and shaken the sawdust of -Weinstein’s from my feet. She was a demure -young person, a newcomer from the West, who -was studying art. She seemed so different -from the others, so fresh, so ingenuous, that I -could not but believe her to be genuine. She -smoked her cigarette and drank of the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">table -d’hôte</i> wine, it is true (she could do no less in -the face of Bohemian convention), but she did -it all with such a pretty air of youth and innocence -as touched me greatly. For I was by -now as strongly attracted by a quiet woman as -I had formerly been by a lively one.</p> - -<p>To spare you a tedious recital of my passion, -I determined to ask her to marry me, thinking -that she might arouse in me the old ambition to -become a great musician—the ambition which -my long sojourn in the Lotus land of Bohemia -had all but killed. And so one night I put the -question gently over our cups of black coffee, -asking her, “Would you—could you—share -with me my career?” Then, Sir, that happened<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">40</span> -which you will scarce believe. Yes, she said, -she would be glad to share my career with me, -but I must be under no misapprehension; she -could not marry me; she already had a husband -in the West; but inasmuch as she had not seen -him in three years and had never found him -very congenial in any case, he need not in any -way interfere with our plans.</p> - -<p>As you may imagine, I was thunderstruck. -I concealed my confusion as best I might by -pretending to choke upon a bit of cheese, and -at the first opportunity I made my escape and -sought the seclusion of my chamber where I -faced my problem. I had striven to become a -Bohemian, but I had been born a Puritan and -there was a limit to my acquired unconventionality. -I could not confess my prudery to the -lady; could not ignore the incident. Therefore -I have determined to accept the one course -left open to me. I shall fly. I am now going -out to pawn my fiddle and with the money I -get I shall buy me a ticket to that little New -England town where I first saw the light of -day.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">41</span></p> - -<p>Others may seek for inspiration at the Café -of the Innocents, but as for me, I am going -where a modest young man may live in the protection -of the old-fashioned conventions. I am -going where I can be moral without being -queer. <em>I</em> am going home. And so, Sir,</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">Farewell,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Timothy Timid</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_42" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">42</span></p> - -<h2>AN ARRAIGNMENT OF ORIGINALITY</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I am, I doubt not, one of your -most devoted readers, and the reason of my -devotion, if I may say so, is because you so seldom -say anything original. Nay, Sir, this is -not said in jest, but in very earnest, for in -truth I am vastly wearied of originality in all -its forms. We are so beset upon all sides by -“originals” of one sort or another, that it is a -positive relief to open a book or pick up a -magazine which is decently dull and warranted -harmless. To sit down for a quiet evening -with one of our sensational monthlies is like -lighting one’s self to bed with a giant cracker—there -is no peace or quiet to be had with ’em.</p> - -<p>From my earliest youth it has been my ambition -to keep myself well informed of the affairs -of the day, and to this end I have made it -a practise to glance at least through the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">43</span> -monthly numbers of our popular magazines. I -regret to say that I have been compelled to -break off this lifelong habit, as my physician -has strongly advised me against continuing it. -The startling and alarming articles which -make up the bulk of the month’s offerings in -these periodicals have a very bad effect upon -my heart and my imagination. More than once -in the last two or three years I have been troubled -with evil dreams and nightmares brought -on by reading these publications shortly before -going to bed. More than this, I am by nature -somewhat irritable and short of temper, and I -have been thrown into a very fury of indignation -upon reading the recital of my wrongs in -these magazines; so much so, indeed, that I -have narrowly escaped apoplexy, a disease -to which, my doctor says, I am peculiarly liable. -And since I had rather be swindled upon -every hand, as long as it is in happy ignorance, -than to die of indignation, I have left off reading -them altogether.</p> - -<p>I can say without dissimulation that I do not -miss them greatly. To say the truth, I have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">44</span> -small fondness for the originality which is -everywhere urged upon us in these days. I -have small patience with the spirit which drives -us on from one extravagance to another until -there is no telling to what base uses the human -intellect may eventually fall. Sir, I have taken -it upon myself to raise my voice in protest -against the prevalent craze for originality and -to say a word, which needs to be said, in defense -of imitation. If in so doing I am unintentionally -original, I can only crave your indulgence.</p> - -<p>If I read the signs of the times aright, we -are in imminent danger of falling into the -ways of the Greeks, “ever seeking some new -thing”; considering in our art, music and literature -not the qualities of beauty, sense and -melody, but only the quality of <em>newness</em>, which -is to say, novelty. We do not ask of a musician, -is his work harmonious? But only, is it <em>different</em>? -We do not ask of a painter, is he artistic? -But only, is he <em>clever</em>? We do not ask of an -author, is he sound? But only, is he <em>witty</em>? Is -it not a sad commentary upon our insane desire<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">45</span> -for change, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, that our artists, musicians -and authors should urge only these -claims upon our consideration, that they are -different, clever and witty? Sir, the music of -an Ojibway Indian is different; a sign-painter -may well be clever; and the most ignorant -street urchins are often witty. Are these, then, -the only qualities we should seek in those who -presume to instruct and elevate the human -mind and soul? Are we to pass by sound sense -for the sake of empty wit? Are we to forsake -harmony for the novelty of a mad jumble of -absurd sounds? Are we to value cartoons above -masterpieces?</p> - -<p>For a convenient example of the depths to -which we have sunk, let me cite you, Sir, the -case of dancing. Dancing was, I believe, originally -a religious exercise. Like music, it was -employed to express the nobler emotions of the -soul. I confess that it may have been sensuous, -even at a very early date, but the most sensuous -dance of the ancients, the bacchante, was, nevertheless, -performed in honor of a god. In the -minuet of our grandfathers there was both<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">46</span> -dignity and grace. There, Sir, was such a -dance as might enhance the noble bearing, the -beauty and the gentility of those who danced -it. There was a dance fit for ladies and gentlemen, -a dance which had in it nothing incompatible -with innocent womanliness or manly -dignity. Who, let me ask you, can say as much -for the unspeakable modern <em>original</em> dances, -the kangaroo, the grizzly bear, and the bunny -hug? Sir, can you bring yourself for one moment -to think upon the spectacle of George -Washington dancing the kangaroo? Can you -conceive of such an unthinkable thing as -Henry Clay performing the grizzly bear? Can -you, by any force of imagination, picture -Abraham Lincoln lost in the mazes of the -bunny hug? God forbid!</p> - -<p>As it is with dancing, so it is with art. The -poster insanity has hardly passed away and we -are already overwhelmed with a horde of symbolists -of one sort or another, who appear to -agree upon one point only—that pictures -should not in any way resemble nature. These<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">47</span> -ambitious daubers, Sir—I can not bring myself -to call them artists—have the impertinence -to assume that they can express life more fully -and clearly upon their hideous canvases than -the Author of the Universe has expressed it in -nature. As to the absurdity of their pretensions, -I need say nothing; it is apparent to all -who can lay claim to even the most ordinary -degree of intelligence. But as to the effect this -nonsense has upon the weak, the easily impressed, -I could never say enough. This insanity -has spread like a plague from painting to -poetry, and from poetry to all the arts that are -known. Originality, like charity, is made to -cover a multitude of sins. The creative artist -who has not the strength or the patience to win -distinction along recognized lines produces -something that is grotesque and defies us to -criticize his work, saying, “There is no standard -by which you can measure this, for it is absolutely -new. Nobody ever did anything just -like this before.” The obvious retort to this -would be that nobody ever wanted to do anything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">48</span> -like it before, but this would be lost upon -the artist, for the “original” of to-day is as impervious -to ridicule as he is to criticism.</p> - -<p>That music is better for being original, I do -not believe. Such an assumption is without -warrant in nature. There is no purer sweeter -melody than that of the birds. What says the -poet?</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“Hark! that’s the nightingale,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Telling the self-same tale</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Her song told when this ancient earth was young:</div> - <div class="verse indent0">So echoes answered when her song was sung</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In the first wooded vale.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Year after year, century after century, these -natural musicians continue to ravish and delight -all mankind with those same songs they -warbled on creation morn. It is no care of -theirs to mingle melody with horrid sounds; to -weld their notes into a dagger of discord -wherewith to stab men through the ear. They -do not strive to produce those damnable gratings, -shriekings and rumblings which so often<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">49</span> -pass for music in these days. Where, Sir, is the -originality of the nightingale, or of the mocking-bird? -Sir, all music may be noise, but that -all noise is music I do deny with all my heart. -That a noise is new does not recommend it to -my ear.</p> - -<p>Sir, I lay it down as a proposition not to be -refuted, that a good imitation is better than a -poor original, and while many men may create -passable imitations, very few can produce anything -which is both original and good. I do not -hold it against an author that he is not wholly -original. On the contrary, if he imitate good -models, I regard his imitation as an evidence of -sound sense. And, what is more, Sir, I believe -that most people are no more enamored of -originality than I am.</p> - -<p>Here is a secret, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, known to only a -few: We never grow tired of the things we -really like, but only of the things which have -appealed to us momentarily because of their -novelty. When we really like an author, we -like another author who is like him. When we -really like a melody, we like another melody<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">50</span> -which is like it. When we really like a place, -we have no desire to leave it. Early in life we -form attachments for certain things—our -homes, our parents, <i>Mother Goose</i> and the like. -This fondness we never entirely outgrow. We -like the books we used to like, the pictures, the -songs and the places. I am speaking now, Sir, -of normal human beings. There are some, ever -seeking new things, who never learn to like -anything. To them, old books are wearisome, -old pictures are uninteresting, old tunes insipid. -To them, all places are places to go from -or go to, but never to stay in. For them, the -past is closed and history is out of date.</p> - -<p>“Beware of imitations!” say the advertisements. -“Beware of originality!” say I. If we -were all original, there would be no living with -us. The original genius is well enough when -we wish to be entertained, but it is the old-fashioned -reliable imitator who makes this -world the pleasant place it is. And let us not -forget, Sir, that the most original thing in the -world is sin.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">David Duplex</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_51" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">51</span></p> - -<h2>A FLATTERING TRIBUTE</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: Some months ago I read in your -magazine an article in which you advocated the -keeping of a journal or diary, saying that by -this means one might always keep one’s self -well informed as to what progress one might -be making spiritually, morally and mentally -upon the journey through life. This suggestion -struck me very forcibly; so much so, indeed, -that I straightway determined to act upon your -advice and to begin forthwith such a record of -my intimate life as would enable me, at any -time when the spirit moved me, to inform myself -in this respect. Up to the time when I -read the article of which I speak, I had always -considered the writing of a diary as rather a -senseless occupation, since I could not see why -one need put down that which was already well -known to one’s self; but when I had read your -advice upon the subject, I soon came to see that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">52</span> -there is much which will inevitably escape, not -only the memory, but the attention as well, unless -committed to paper.</p> - -<p>Convinced, then, of the usefulness of such -an intimate record, I set myself to writing -down with great particularity all that I saw, -heard, said, did or read; so that I may now -look back at the end of the year and review -each day in all its details. As you may suppose, -I was much surprised to find myself given to -habits of which I had formerly been quite unaware. -I discovered that much of my reading, -for instance, was of a decidedly frivolous and -unprofitable sort. After considering this for -some time, I have come to the conclusion that -it is time for me to mend my ways and to abandon -my habit of indiscriminate and idle reading, -and I therefore request that you will cancel -my subscription to <i>The Idler</i>.</p> - -<p>Thanking you for the article on diaries, -which will, I am sure, prove a most valuable -suggestion to me, I am, Sir,</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">Truly yours,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Lucy Lackwit</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_53" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">53</span></p> - -<h2>THE RIDDLE OF A DREAM</h2> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot center"> - -<p>“Set a beggar on horseback and he will ride -a gallop.”<span class="in4"><span class="locked">—<cite>Shakespeare.</cite></span></span></p> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I have had a curious dream and -I am at a loss to account for it. I have consulted -an old dream book, which I have in my -possession, and which was formerly the property -of my old nurse, Aunt Betty S., but for -all my diligent searching therein, I have failed -utterly to find anything which might serve as -an interpretation of my vision. I called at the -public library of our village and asked for the -latest and most up-to-date work of this character, -but the librarian only laughed at my request -and assured me that she possessed no such -work and that as far as she knew there had -never been any such work upon her shelves. To -my protest that no library could be complete<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">54</span> -without at least a few volumes of this character, -she retorted that only fools and old fogies -any longer had any faith in the meaning of -dreams, and that if I was troubled with nightmare -the best thing I could do would be to stop -lying on my back or be more careful of what -I ate before going to bed.</p> - -<p>It would seem that I am a bit old-fashioned -in my faith in the meaning of dreams, though -I do not see how any one who pretends to a belief -in the Christian faith can scoff at the interpretation -and significance of them in the -face of the many notable instances cited in the -Bible, as, for example, the vision of Jacob and -the dream which caused Joseph to flee into -Egypt. I suppose, however, that I should not -be surprised at the light and irreverent fashion -in which the young people of to-day treat this -subject, when I reflect that a Christian clergyman -has recently suggested a revision of the -Ten Commandments. Notwithstanding the -apparently widespread heresy concerning the -futility and emptiness of dreams, I trust that -I am not the only Christian gentleman now<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">55</span> -living who clings to the faith of his fathers -and who has sufficient faith in the inspiration -of the Gospels to believe that a dream is something -more than a result of injudicious eating. -It is in the hope that some such person may be -a reader of your journal and that the result -may be a correct interpretation of my own -dream, that I am writing this to you. I observe -that your journal is somewhat behind the -times in many respects and therefore I assume -that some of your readers are likely to be as -old-fashioned and as “superstitious” as myself.</p> - -<p>The dream which I am about to relate came -to me in the following circumstances. I had -been out rather late the night before and had -partaken of a number of fancy dishes such as -I am not in the habit of eating at my own -table, but which my daughter, who is just back -from a young ladies’ finishing school, assures -me are much more pleasing if not more nourishing -than the ham and eggs which I was upon -the point of ordering for our supper after the -theater. It was in the morning of the next day -and we were out in our new automobile which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">56</span> -had only come from the factory the day before. -The automobile, or “car” as my daughter -calls it, is of rather expensive make and luxurious -to a degree. Being somewhat fagged by -my unaccustomed dissipation of the night before, -I leaned back upon the cushions and presently -I fell asleep.</p> - -<p>It appeared to me that I was no longer in -the automobile, but trudging along the road as -I was in the habit of doing in my younger -years. As I came to a turn in the road I was -confronted with a troop of horsemen, who -were by all odds the strangest company it has -ever been my lot to behold. All of them were -splendidly mounted on magnificent horses -which were caparisoned like the mounts of the -knights in some rich and gorgeous medieval -tapestry. Their bridles were of chased leather -with bits and buckles of solid gold; their stirrups -were of platinum and silver, and their -saddles were of silver and gold, upholstered in -plush and velvet. Silk and satin ribbons floated -from the bridles of the horses and flaunted in -the wind in gay and beautiful streamers. But<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">57</span> -with the horses and their trappings the magnificence -came to a sudden end. The riders -themselves were the most incongruous riders -for such noble animals that one could imagine. -They were, without exception, tattered and bedraggled -to the last degree of unkempt frowsiness. -Their faces were gaunt and drawn as -with hunger and their hair hung unbrushed -and uncombed upon their frayed collars. In -more than one instance a foot was thrust -through a silver stirrup while the toes of the -rider came peeping through the broken ends of -his boot. A more wretched company mounted -upon more beautiful chargers it would be difficult -to imagine.</p> - -<p>At sight of me the whole company came -to a sudden halt, checking their mounts as at -the command of a leader, though no word was -spoken. The leader of the cavalcade, who bestrode -a handsome gelding, rode out a little in -advance of his fellows, and removing his -crownless hat, swept me a bow, leaning low -over the pommel of his saddle. And when I -had returned his salutation, he addressed me in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">58</span> -these words: “I give you good morrow, gentle -sir, and I beg you in the name of Christ and -this our company that you spare us a few coins -of silver or of gold that we may partake of -food and drink, for the way is long and weary -and we can not travel without meat and wine to -sustain us on our journey.”</p> - -<p>Now this speech greatly astonished me, as I -had never seen so large a company of beggars -journeying together, and I was the more astounded -that men mounted in such splendid -fashion should be asking alms.</p> - -<p>“What!” I cried in amazement, “are you -begging then, while you ride upon such fine -horses, and your bridles and saddles are worth -a king’s ransom?”</p> - -<p>“Even so,” replied the leader, “and much as -I loathe discourtesy, I must remind you that -our time is short, so pray give us what funds -you can spare and let us be on our way, for we -hope to reach our destination by nightfall.”</p> - -<p>“And what is your destination?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“The City of Vain Display,” he replied. -“But we dally.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">59</span></p> - -<p>“But if you need money,” I protested, “why -do you not sell your horses and trappings?”</p> - -<p>At this the whole company cried out in protest, -and the leader answered: “Sell our -mounts? Never! Look at them. Are they not -beautiful?”</p> - -<p>And truly they were. And as I looked at -them I was seized with a great desire to feel a -horse of like magnificence between my knees, -and I cried, “I wish that I, too, had a horse like -that!”</p> - -<p>“Give me all the money that you have,” said -the leader, “and you shall have one.”</p> - -<p>So I gave him the money. Presently I -found myself riding with them and my clothes -were as tattered and torn as the clothes of the -others. And we set off at a furious pace, faster -and faster, until the horses panted with exertion, -and after a time one stumbled and fell, -sending his rider over his head to the hard -road. But nobody stopped, and looking back, -I saw the unfortunate fellow sprawling in the -roadway with his neck broken. On, on we -went, one horse after another giving a final<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">60</span> -gasp and falling down in the road, and as each -one fell we who were left urged our mounts to -greater exertions, plying whip and spur without -ceasing, until finally only the leader and I -were riding on. Then his horse stumbled -to its knees and rolled over on its side, and I -rode on alone. Lashing my horse I strained -onward till the poor beast came crashing down -with a jar that threw me headlong upon the -highway, where I fell so heavily that I woke.</p> - -<p>I have pondered over this dream ever since, -but I confess I can make nothing of it. I -must draw this letter to a close now, for my -daughter informs me that the automobile is -waiting, and I have not mortgaged my house -to secure the thing for the purpose of letting it -stand idle.</p> - -<p>I hope, Sir, that if you or any of your readers -can read me the riddle of this dream they -will be good enough to forward the solution to</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">Your humble servant,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Timothy Tinseltop</span>. -</p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Blufftown, New York.</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_61" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">61</span></p> -<h2>BEDS FOR THE BAD</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: It was Sancho Panza, if my -memory serves me right, who invoked a blessing -upon the head of the man who first invented -sleep; I think he had done better to -bestow his blessings upon the man who first -invented beds. I think it extremely doubtful -if sleep can be classed as an invention of -man; it is, rather, a function, like breathing, -and I doubt not that Adam fell a-nodding -before ever he knew the meaning of sleep at -all. The bed, upon the contrary, is without -question of human origin, for no other living -thing has constructed anything resembling it -except the bird, who makes his nest serve him -as both bed and house, and certainly no deity -could have occasion to use such an article, seeing -that eternal wakefulness is a necessary attribute -of godhood.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">62</span></p> - -<p>The bed, in my opinion, is the greatest of all -human inventions, without which sleep were -robbed of half its pleasure. Nowhere do we -enjoy such delicious refreshing repose as when -snugly ensconced in a proper bed, and for my -part, there is no other luxury which I could not -spare better than my bed. Napkins, tablecloths, -knives, forks, spoons—even the table, I -could forego without great loss of appetite, -but I can rest nowhere else than in a bed, and -I can rest well in no bed but my own. So -strong is my regard for this article of household -furniture, that, were I a poet, I should -ask no greater glory than to be the author of -those beautiful lines of Thomas <span class="locked">Hood—</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“O bed! O bed! delicious bed!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">That heaven upon earth to the weary head!”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">No truer words were ever spoken than those -of Isaac De Benserade when he said:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“In bed we laugh, in bed we cry,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And, born in bed, in bed we die;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The near approach a bed may show</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Of human bliss to human woe.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">63</span></p> -<p>A man may be without land or money and -still be happy; he may endure the loss of -friends and fortune, and he may preserve his -courage even in the face of shame and disgrace; -but, Sir, a man who has not a good bed -is no more than half a man. Without this -refuge from the trials and troubles of the -world, a man is robbed of the one consolation -which it should be the right of every man to -enjoy. Without a bed, his vitality is sapped, -his courage is broken down and his moral sense -is impaired. I maintain, Sir, that no man can -go bedless without becoming a menace to the -community, and this brings me to the subject -I had in mind when I sat down to write this -letter.</p> - -<p>I have observed, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, that though a -great many people of excellent intentions devote -themselves to the task of reforming and -reclaiming members of the criminal class, the -result of their labors is very far from being -satisfactory. In spite of the great number of -reformatories, prisons and houses of refuge -erected in all parts of the world; in spite of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">64</span> -numberless soup kitchens, missions, free sanatoriums -and the like, men continue to break the -laws and all our efforts to eradicate crime appear -to go for little or nothing. Now I am convinced -that there is a very good reason why this -is true, and it is my conviction that our failure -to abolish crime is directly due to our stupidity -and block-headedness in attacking the problem -from the wrong angle. Instead of trying -to reform our criminals by the fear of punishment, -we should prevent crime by diverting -their minds from evil-doing and direct them -into proper paths by the simple expedient -which I am about to lay before you.</p> - -<p>There is nothing in the world which is more -likely to put a man into a good humor with -himself, with other men and with existing conditions, -than a good night’s rest. As I have -said before, every man who lacks a bed is a potential -criminal and there are a number of reasons -why this is so. To lack repose naturally -wears upon the nerves and reduces a man to a -condition bordering upon insanity. It is conducive -to cynicism, self-pity, a feeling of resentment<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">65</span> -against all other men and a strong -sense of injustice. No matter what the cause -of his bedless condition may be, no man can -preserve an even temper when he wants to go -to bed and has no bed to which he may go. -Again, being out of bed and out of temper, -he is ripe for various sorts of evil deeds from -which he would turn in loathing after a good -night’s rest. He is driven for shelter and divertisement -into the haunts of vice and the -dens of iniquity. He beguiles his sleepless -hours in the company of vicious and dissolute -persons. He regards the world from an entirely -different point of view from the man who -has just passed seven or eight pleasant hours -in restful slumber. Sleeplessness and crime are -as closely related as insomnia and insanity. -Crime leads to sleeplessness and sleeplessness -leads to crime.</p> - -<p>Now, Sir, what I propose is just this: let us -put the criminals to bed. Instead of offering -the outcast a cold plate of soup or an inane -tract, let us offer him a warm comfortable bed -where he may lie down and pass at least eight<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">66</span> -hours of the twenty-four in dreaming that he -is John D. Rockefeller or some other such -harmless illusion. Let us offer him an opportunity -to recover his strength, his courage and -his moral balance in innocent sleep. I do not -believe that the perfect social state can ever be -brought about until such time as every person -in the world shall own his own bed; until such -time as beds shall be assigned by law to all -those who can not purchase them upon their -own account; until such time as a man’s bed -shall be sacred to his own use, exempt from -taxation or seizure by writ or other legal -process and as inviolate as the clothes upon his -back. I do not believe a perfect social state will -ever be attained until it shall be a crime for a -chambermaid to make a bed improperly or for -a merchant to sell an imperfect spring or a -lumpy mattress. I do not believe a perfect social -state can ever be reached until every man -in the world, and every woman and child, is -guaranteed a good night’s rest every night in -the year.</p> - -<p>But as we have not yet advanced to a state<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">67</span> -of civilization where it would be practicable to -provide every human being with a personal bed -of his own, let us do what we can. Do you believe, -Sir, that any but the most callow of -youthful roisterers prefer the disgusting atmosphere -of the all-night saloon or the bleak -cheerlessness of a park bench to the heavenly -comforts of a good bed? If you do, Sir, you -are vastly mistaken. Throw open to these men -an absolutely free lodging-house filled with -clean comfortable beds, where all may come -and go unquestioned as long as they enter at a -certain hour and remain a stipulated time, and -I warrant you that lodging-house will be filled -to its capacity every night in the year. Let -every community erect as many of these lodging-houses -as its financial condition will permit. -Let the vast sums that are now being -wasted upon futile missions and piffling soup-kitchens -be diverted to this legitimate end. -Once we have our criminals and our outcasts in -bed, we shall have them out of the streets, out -of the parks, out of the gambling hells, out of -the brothels and out of mischief!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">68</span></p> - -<p>The state plays the father in chastising disobedient -citizens; let the state also play the -mother in tucking them into bed. Go look -upon them when every face is wiped clean of -frown and leer; go look upon them when every -face is smooth and quiet as the resting soul -within</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“And on their lids</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The baby Sleep is pillowed ...”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p class="in0">and I warrant you, you shall find them, not -outcasts and outlaws, but poor tired children -whom you can not forbear to wish, as I now -wish you,</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig4">Good night, and happy dreams!</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Cadwallader Coverlet.</span> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_69" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">69</span></p> - -<h2>IS CHESTERTON A MAN ALIVE?</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: If I were a writer of biographical -sketches, I should begin these remarks -with the statement that Gilbert Keith Chesterton -was born in the year 1874; but I am not a -writer of biographical sketches. On the contrary, -Sir, I am one who aims to tell the truth -as often as it is possible to tell the truth without -appearing eccentric. I do not begin these -remarks in the fashion I have suggested because -I am restrained by scruples which would -never trouble a writer of biographies. The fact -of the matter is, I do not know that Gilbert -Keith Chesterton was born in 1874. I do not -know that he was ever born at all—at most I -only suspect it. I suspect it because I never -knew a man who had never been born to attract -so much attention. His books may be urged as -evidence of his birth, but they are by no means<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">70</span> -conclusive evidence. So far as my personal information -goes, he may be nothing more than -a name, like <em>Bertha M. Clay</em>. Perhaps he is -only a creature of the imagination, like <em>Innocent -Smith</em>, created by some author who chooses -to write under the name, “Gilbert Chesterton.” -I do not suggest these things as probabilities, -but only as possibilities. And yet, what could -be more improbable than Chesterton himself? -Is it not, after all, more probable that he has -been evolved from pen and ink, than from the -clay of Adam?</p> - -<p>We come now to the question which I borrow -from the title of this paper: Is Gilbert -Keith Chesterton a man alive? Is he not, -rather, a very amusing conception of what a -man might be? Let us consider the matter.</p> - -<p>Of course the fact that you and I have no -positive proof of his having been born does -not argue that he is not a living man. Every -day we meet men who are unquestionably as -real as ourselves (providing we do not lean to -the theory of Bishop Berkeley, that we can be -sure of no existence but our own), yet we know<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">71</span> -little or nothing of the origin of these men. -They may have been born, or they may not. If -you were to ask them, they would probably insist -that they were born at one time or another. -They believe this because they can not account -for their existence upon any other hypothesis. -But they believe it on hearsay evidence. Not -one of them really remembers anything at all -about it. People sometimes grow up to learn -that they are changelings; that they are not at -all the people they had thought they were. Is -it not possible, then, that here and there may -live a man who was never born at all? I should -not be so bold as to deny the possibility. There -have always been legends of men who can not -die—men who live on in spite of age and accident. -I see no reason why one man should not -escape birth if another may escape death. I do -not, therefore, insist that Mr. Chesterton prove -himself to have been born. It is only that I find -it hard to believe that he really exists in the -flesh.</p> - -<p>Now, Mr. Chesterton, in all his works, dwells -upon the subject of madness or insanity. Does<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">72</span> -this prove that Mr. Chesterton is mad? By no -means. As he himself has said, the man who is -really mad seldom suspects that he is unbalanced; -it is the man who fears madness who -finds madness a fascinating subject. Sir, Mr. -Chesterton is not mad, but I think he fears -madness. It is almost impossible to find one of -his essays in which there is no mention of madness. -I think it fair to assume that he writes of -madness because he has a fear—not necessarily -a terror, you understand, but still a fear—that -some day he may be afflicted with this malady. -Mr. Chesterton also writes a whole book upon -the subject of being alive. Are we to assume, -because of this, that he <em>is</em> alive? By no means. -It is quite possible that he only fears he may -some day come alive; that he may some day -cease to be the whimsical creation of some author’s -fancy and become a real man of flesh and -blood.</p> - -<p>Do you see no reason why he should fear -such a metamorphosis? Surely you must. -From time immemorial, men have shuddered -at the thought of becoming a spirit, an infinite<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">73</span> -being composed chiefly of memory; a purely -intellectual organism having nothing material -in its make-up. Now if men are disturbed, as -they are, at the prospect of becoming ideas, -why should not ideas be disturbed at the prospect -of becoming men? Is it likely that an idea, -immune from all the evils of mortal existence, -superior to the weaknesses of the flesh and -possessing, at least, a potential immortality, -would be pleased with the prospect of becoming -mere man? Would an idea willingly abandon -the clear atmosphere of a purely intellectual -plane for the muggy mists and murky -fogs of London? Assuredly not.</p> - -<p>Lucretius, ridiculing the theory of reincarnation -in his work, <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">De Rerum Natura</i>, drew a -ludicrous picture of disembodied spirits eagerly -awaiting their turn to enter a vacant -human tenement. Lucretius was thoroughly -appreciative of the absurdity of his picture. -He knew that no disembodied spirit would be -so foolish as to desire imprisonment in a mortal -frame. And as it is with spirits, so we may -suppose it to be with ideas. It is one thing to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">74</span> -be put into a book; it is quite another to be put -into a body. No matter how often an idea may -be put into a book, it can not be confined therein. -It is still free to travel where it lists. It -can leap from London to Overroads in the -twinkling of an eye—or it can be in both places -at one and the same time. It may appear to a -dozen different men in a dozen different aspects. -It possesses the Protean faculty of being -all things to all men. But confine that idea -in a human body; transform that idea into a -human being—and what is the result? Why, -the result is an immediate loss of liberty. The -man, who was formerly an idea, can no longer -flit about with lightning-like rapidity. If he -wishes to travel from Overroads to London, he -must go by train or motor-car. He can by no -ingenuity contrive to be in both places at the -same time. He must wear the same face wherever -or in whatever company he may be. -Whether the body which he inhabits is known -to its neighbors as Smith or Chesterton, the -result is the same—he has lost his liberty. And -what has he gained? He has gained the ability<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">75</span> -to prove his mortal existence—the right to say -that he has been born.</p> - -<p>It is easy enough to see why an idea should -fear to become a man. And when we consider -such an idea as Chesterton, the matter is even -clearer. Whimsicalities and contradictions -which may have been useful and even ornamental -in the fictitious Chesterton—in Chesterton -the idea—might, Sir, prove most embarrassing -to Chesterton the British Subject. You -can not prosecute an idea for treason, nor sue -it for damages. You can not even confine an -idea in a mad-house for being crazy. Most -ideas are crazy; none more so perhaps than the -one which I am presenting to you now. It is -true that a few ideas have been confined in a -mad-house, but of those few which have been -shut up with the persons claiming them, the -great majority have been quite sane. Just as -many sane men are devoted to crazy ideas, so -many sane ideas are devoted to crazy men; so -devoted to them that they will follow them anywhere—even -to a mad-house.</p> - -<p>If my idea that Mr. Chesterton is an idea is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">76</span> -correct, I am sure I do not know whose idea he -may be; but he is just such a crazy idea as -might belong to a sane man and should therefore -be safe in sticking to his originator. If -Mr. Chesterton <em>is</em> an idea and is thinking of -becoming a man, I should strongly advise him -against adopting any such course. I like him -much better as an idea. He is so much more -plausible that way.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">A. Visionary</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_77" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">77</span></p> - -<h2>FROM A HUNCHBACK</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I had the misfortune, through -no fault of my own, to be born a hunchback. -This, in itself, Sir, is an affliction sufficient -to render my life a hard one and to embitter -such happiness as I may snatch from the -hands of fate; but it is an affliction for which, -as far as I know, nobody is to blame, and one, -therefore, which I must bear with such patience -and fortitude as I can command. But I bear in -common with other cripples a far greater burden -than mere physical disability, and that is -the contempt and pity of my fellow men.</p> - -<p>I find that some men regard me with contempt -alone, some with contempt and pity intermingled, -and some with simple pity—and -of the three I think the last is, perhaps, the -hardest to endure with equanimity, since it is -the most sincere feeling of superiority which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">78</span> -prompts it. I do not ask the pity of my fellows; -I consider myself in much better case -than many men who have straight backs and -smooth shoulders; and certainly I can not see -why I should deserve the contempt of any one -merely because I happen to have been born -with a body unlike that of the majority of men. -Yet I find the hump upon my back a hindrance -in every venture that I undertake.</p> - -<p>A few years ago when I was younger and -more sanguine than I am now, when I still had -faith in the innate fairness of human nature -and in the spirituality of the love of women, I -fell in love. Fortunately, as I thought then, I -had not come into the world naked if I had -come crooked, for I possessed a comfortable -balance at the bank; a sum of money in point -of fact which was far in excess of the financial -resources of any of the other young men of my -acquaintance. Counting upon the good times -which my supply of ready money seemed likely -to afford them, a number of the more prominent -young men of my native town had taken -the trouble to cultivate my society during their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">79</span> -college days when they were often short of -money and found it convenient to have a friend -who could always be relied on to help out in -a pinch and who was not at all inclined to play -the dun if payments were somewhat slow. -Having, as I say, availed themselves of my -generosity and cultivated my company in those -lean years of study, these young men, upon entering -into the world of business and society, -could not, with a good grace, begin to ignore -me altogether, and they therefore made it a -point to look me up now and then and to invite -me about with them to such functions and entertainments -as I might enjoy, and at the same -time, enter into unhandicapped by my physical -deformity.</p> - -<p>I could not, of course, play tennis, golf -or any game of that sort. I was, in truth, -deterred from entering into any such sport -more by my natural horror of appearing ridiculous -than by reason of an actual lack of the -strength necessary to swing a racket or handle -a club. The fact is, I am not especially weak -physically, having always taken great care of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">80</span> -my health and having practised with some success -such physical exercises as might be practised -in the privacy of my own chambers or -such as would not be likely to excite comment. -But no matter how muscular a man may be, he -can not but appear absurd when he goes about -carrying a golf club nearly as tall as himself -or rushing about a tennis net like a lame camel.</p> - -<p>But though, as I say, I was not in demand -for such games as these, I did play an excellent -hand at whist, could thrum the guitar a bit, -play accompaniments upon the piano, sing a -little in a fairly good baritone voice and carry -on a conversation light or heavy as the occasion -seemed to require. Of course, I did not -dance, but I often sat at the piano and furnished -music for the others, thus making myself -useful and at the same time diplomatically -avoiding drawing notice to the fact that I was -disqualified as a dancer. Although I always -had a secret longing for theatricals and -knew myself to be possessed of histrionic ability -in no mean degree, I never joined our local -amateur dramatic club. I think perhaps I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">81</span> -might have done so had not some tactless member -of the club once sent me an invitation to -take part in a performance of <i>Richard the -Third</i>, which so incensed me that I never again -so much as attended a play given by that organization.</p> - -<p>It was during this time, when I was almost -enjoying life like an ordinary man, owing to -the careful manner in which my acquaintances -concealed their dislike and contempt for my -crooked back, that I met and fell in love with -a girl who seemed to me, at the time, a charming -and sweet-souled young woman. I saw a -great deal of her, owing to the fact that we -were both of musical tastes and often played -and sang together, and it was not long before -I came to the conclusion that if I were ever to -marry I might as well be about it then as any -time, and especially since I had the necessary -mate at hand, so to speak. To think was to act -with me in those days, and I put the matter to -her bluntly the very first time I saw her after -forming my resolution in this respect. You -may not believe me, but I swear to you that I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">82</span> -am telling the truth when I say that I had -grown so accustomed to having my friends -ignore my infirmity that I had quite forgotten -to take it into account in the case of the young -woman. In fact, I would have considered it an -unjust aspersion of her character to think her -capable of holding such a thing against me, our -relations having been always of the most spiritual.</p> - -<p>You can imagine, then, the shock it gave -me when I saw the horror growing in her eyes -which I had so often surprised in the eyes of -strangers! You can fancy, perhaps, the physical -and mental anguish I suffered in that moment -when I realized that even to her I was not -as other men—that she had played with me as -one might play with a child, and that she would -no sooner think of becoming my wife than she -would think of wedding with an educated -baboon. And yet, Sir, within the space of two -years I saw that same young woman stand at -the altar with a senile and decrepit old roué -who had never possessed the tenth part of my -own intellectuality and who had absolutely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">83</span> -nothing to recommend him but a fortune, -somewhat smaller than my own, and a straight -back. I am told that she is not happy with him, -and small wonder, since he is never at home -save when he is too drunk to be elsewhere; but -even so, I doubt if she has ever regretted her -answer to me, so strong is the prejudice of the -normal person against all forms of physical -deformity. The fact that her husband is more -crooked in his morals than I am in my back -would, I dare say, have no weight whatever -with her.</p> - -<p>I have heard people say that women are -often attracted by men of odd and unusual -personal appearance and that many women -find an almost irresistible fascination in cripples -and the like, but I have never encountered -anything in my personal experience to incline -me to this view. It is an idea upon which Victor -Hugo dilates in his romance, <i>The Man Who -Laughs</i>, where the duchess becomes enamored -of a monster. But I am of the opinion that -Hugo treated this matter more truthfully and -realistically in <i>The Bell Ringer of Notre<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">84</span> -Dame</i>, where the white soul and brave heart of -Quasimodo count for nothing with Esmerelda -when weighed against the physical attractions -of the philandering captain, who is a thoroughly -bad lot. I have heard it asserted that -Lord Byron owed much of his popularity with -the ladies to his club foot, but this I take to be -the sheerest nonsense. The fascination which -Lord Byron exercised upon the women was -not, I am convinced, due to his physical deformity, -but to what we may call his mental -and moral deformity. And this, Sir, brings us -to the milk in the cocoanut and the point of this -letter. I wish to ask you, and to ask your readers, -what I have so often asked myself: Why -is it that men and women find physical deformity -so hateful while they so often find mental -and moral deformity attractive?</p> - -<p>Shakespeare, learned in the ways of human -nature, laid particular stress upon the physical -shortcomings of Richard the Third, well knowing -that no amount of mere wickedness would -serve to turn the audience against him so -strongly as a hump upon his back. The villain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">85</span> -of the play, if he be handsome and brave, will -often oust the hero from his rightful place in -the esteem of the audience, so that presently -the pit, the galleries and the boxes are united -as one man in wishing him success in his villainy, -or at least in wishing him immunity from -his well-deserved punishment. Instead of hissing -him, the spectators are moved to applaud -him. And for this reason the playwrights and -the novelists have, until late years when the -worship of virtue is no longer considered an -essential part of art, caused the villain to appear -a coward or burdened him with some -physical deformity. And the devil of it all is, -Sir, that most of the villains in real life are like -the villains of the stage who oust the hero. -Charles Lamb once said that it is a mistake to -assume that all bullies are cowards; and in my -opinion it is an even greater mistake to assume -that a villain can not be attractive. If villains -had no charm, villainy would soon cease -through want of success.</p> - -<p>In the case of Byron, since I seem to have -chosen him for an example, the women were<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">86</span> -attracted on the one hand by his reputation as a -genius and upon the other hand by his reputation -as a rake. Byron, though a cripple, was an -unusually handsome man of the poetic type, -and I think we may safely assume that the -aversion which may have been created by his -club foot was more than offset by the fact that -he was otherwise of pleasing appearance and -was known to be an athlete. Now, of course, it -would be impossible to say whether more women -were fascinated by his genius or by his rakishness, -but on a venture I would be willing to -wager that nine out of ten of the women who -knew him would rather have read his love letters -than his poetry. Genius is a thing apart -from love, and, say what they will, I believe -that the mistress of such a man is more like to -be jealous of her lover’s genius than proud of -it, and especially so where she can not flatter -herself that it has been inspired by love of her. -She is interested in a poem in which she can -find herself, not because it is poetry, but because -<em>she</em> is in it. Therefore I incline to the belief -that Byron’s conquests were due to his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">87</span> -reputation as a rake, rather than to his reputation -as a poet. But given the combination of a -poet, a rake, a handsome man and a lord, it -would be unnatural if women did not love him.</p> - -<p>But Byron’s case is not the only one I have -in mind. It is a common thing for murderers -in jail to receive flowers and sentimental letters -from women. Women, too, who have never so -much as set eyes upon them and who know -them only by the stories of their crimes in the -newspapers. The maddest of religious fanatics -can always count upon a goodly number of -women as converts. The taint of insanity itself -seems to be less repulsive to women than physical -deformity. And the men are little better -than the women. A man will often knowingly -wed with a fool because she has a pretty face, -or vote a rogue into office because he thinks him -clever. The juries of men which try women -murderers are ready to grow maudlin over -them if the women happen to be good-looking.</p> - -<p>It is a problem, Sir, which I can not solve, -turn and twist it as I may. Sometimes I think -that we who are deformed in body are granted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">88</span> -the only straight minds to be found among -men, by way of compensation. And at such -times, Sir, I am inclined to thank God that He -has seen fit to put the hump upon the back and -not upon the mind or soul of</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="smcap">Harold Hishoulder.</span> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_89" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">89</span></p> - -<h2>FROM A HOTEL SPONGE</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I feel it my duty to publicly express -my disapproval of the recent ruling of -certain hotel proprietors of this city, and to -publicly protest against their hasty and ill-advised -agreement that hereafter they will discourage, -in every way possible, the visits of -outsiders who make use of their lobbies and -halls.</p> - -<p>I am myself one of the best-known non-resident -patrons of the hotels in this city, or, in the -vulgar language of the innkeepers themselves—a -hotel <em>sponge</em>. That is to say, I do not -register at these hotels as a guest, but I do -make it a point to drop into one or two of -them every afternoon and evening, and I think -I may say, without undue egotism, that you -will seldom see a more debonair and smart-looking -man than I appear upon these occasions.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">90</span> -I am, I believe, as my tailor says, “an -ornament to any assembly,” and my presence -in a hotel lobby or corridor is sufficient to stamp -that hotel as a proper place in the minds of all -those who are sufficiently acquainted with the -hall-marks of the <i xml:lang="fr" lang="fr">haut ton</i> to recognize a gentleman -when they see one.</p> - -<p>I have been a familiar figure about a certain -hotel on Thirty-fourth Street for the last ten -years, and though the tide of fashion which -once flowed through those corridors is now -somewhat diminished, having set in a northerly -direction, yet that hotel continues to hold its -own with the visitors from out of town. And -do you know why this is so, Mr. <i>Idler</i>? Do you -know why it is that this hostelry is still enabled -to present an appearance of smartness and exclusiveness? -I presume that you do not, and so -I shall tell you. It is simply that I have chosen -to continue to appear there. Though the social -leaders whose names are known across the continent -desert the place for the newer and no -less pretentious hotels farther up-town, this -place, by reason of my loyalty, has suffered no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">91</span> -loss of standing. I, Sir, am to the hotels of -New York what John Drew is to the American -stage. I am that rosy-faced, perfectly -groomed, elegant gentleman of leisure who -saunters through the halls and corridors at tea -time and at dinner time, and who confirms the -out-of-town guest in his opinion that he has -selected as a place to stop the one hotel which is -the resort of fashion.</p> - -<p>If it were not for me and for the other members -of my class, how long do you suppose these -hotels could go on charging the enormous -prices they now charge for food and lodging? -How long do you suppose they could induce -the thrifty countryman to part with such sums -of his hard-earned money if he were not provided -with the inspiring spectacle which I present -when arrayed in my full regalia? Not one -month, Sir. In less than a fortnight the word -would go forth to all parts of the United -States that these hotels had lost caste and were -becoming back numbers.</p> - -<p>It is to me, and to others like me, that the -great modern hotels of this city owe their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">92</span> -prosperity; indeed, I might say, their very existence. -It is we who set the pace in luxury and -style. The hotels merely live up to our standards. -The manager of a shabby hotel can not -see me walk into his lobby without feeling instantly -ashamed of the poor accommodations -he has to offer me. The hotel managers were -so irked at being put out of countenance by the -obvious superiority of the casual hotel visitor -that they set out to provide for him a proper -setting. Do you suppose, Sir, that the expensive -furniture, the music, the luxurious reading -and smoking-rooms, the glittering bars and the -comfortable armchairs of the modern, up-to-date -New York hotel were necessary to obtain -the custom and patronage of the provincial -visitors, or even necessary to hold that patronage? -No, Sir! But <em>I</em> am necessary to hold the -business of these people, and the luxuries are -necessary to hold me. All this is so plain, so -perfectly apparent to any observing person, -that it seems almost incredible that these managers -should dare to risk our indignation. -Drive us out, indeed! They will be very lucky<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">93</span> -if we do not withdraw altogether of our own -accord, after such a gratuitous insult. A strike -of waiters, Sir, would not prove one-half so demoralizing -as a strike of the <em>atmosphere creators</em>, -or, to use the insulting term of the hotel -men, the “hotel sponges.”</p> - -<p>Can you imagine, Sir, trying to paint a forest -scene without a tree in sight? That task -would be as easy as trying to conduct an aristocratic -hotel without an aristocrat in sight. -“But,” you say, “you fellows are not really -aristocrats—you are only imitation aristocrats.” -In so saying, Sir, you fall into the same -error into which these hotel men have fallen. -We are aristocrats. We are the ideal aristocrats, -and let me tell you, Sir, we are much -more convincing than those whom you would -doubtless call the real aristocrats. I have not -lived as a man-about-town for the last ten -years without coming to know these dyed-in-the-wool -aristocrats of yours very well indeed. -I assure you that you would be much -surprised and disappointed should you see -them, as I have seen them, at our leading<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">94</span> -hotels. They would no more correspond to the -countryman’s idea of an aristocrat than an Indian -Chief would fulfil the romantic maiden’s -ideal of a ruler of men. Sir, where I am urbane, -they are ill at ease. Where I am clad in -the very pink of fashion, they are often dowdy, -not to say shabby. Where I appear indifferent -and slightly bored, they are often irritable, -easily upset and worried-looking. Oscar Wilde -once said that he was very much disappointed -in the Atlantic Ocean, and I can imagine that -his disappointment was not deeper than that -of the rural visitor who happens to stumble -upon a member of what is known as our best -society.</p> - -<p>Doubtless you fancy that I and the others of -my kind concern ourselves with aping the dress -and manners of these society people. If so, -you were never more mistaken in your life. It -is they who copy and imitate us. They go -where we go, they wear what we wear, they -eat what we eat and they drink what we drink. -Only, as is always the case with imitators, they -fall far short of their models. How is it possible<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">95</span> -that any man can appear the perfect gentleman -of leisure unless, indeed, his life is -actually a life of ease and pleasure? We have -no cares and no responsibilities. They have a -thousand. We have no social duties to distract -our attention. They are constantly consulting -their watches. And, lastly, Sir, we have art, -and they have none.</p> - -<p>I can not imagine what has led these misguided -innkeepers to think that they can do -without us. But I can tell you, they will soon -regret their recent action, whatever motives -may have moved them to take it, for they will -find very shortly that their hotels are not nearly -so necessary to us as we are to their hotels. I -am, Sir,</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="smcap">Percival Pigeonbreast.</span> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_96" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">96</span></p> - -<h2>FROM SARAH SHELFWORN</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I have to complain of an abuse -which is daily growing greater and which, if -not checked, will soon assume the proportions -of a national menace. It is my purpose, Sir, -to call to your attention and to the attention of -all earnest thinking people, a pernicious influence -exercised by a certain portion of our daily -press—by those vulgar flaunting publications -known as “yellow journals”. Now do not misunderstand -me, Mr. <i>Idler</i>; this letter is no ill-considered -general attack upon the press; no -incoherent or fanatical outcry against the publication -of disagreeable facts. It is, on the -contrary, a protest against a certain idealism -which pervades the pages of these newspapers -and which unduly excites the imagination of -our young men. I do not refer to stories of -crime, extravagance or anything of that sort—but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">97</span> -to the publication of pictures of beautiful -women.</p> - -<p>You may ask, what possible harm can come -of the publication of these pleasing portraits? -Well, Sir, I will tell you; but in order that you -may understand my point of view, I must first -tell you something of myself and explain -somewhat, my own experience.</p> - -<p>I, Sir, am a school-teacher—an instructor in -English literature—and since the school where -I am employed is a public high school, it is -hardly necessary to add, I am a woman. Or -perhaps it would be more truthful to say I <em>was</em> -a woman once upon a time. When I was young -and fairly pretty, there was no more womanly -woman than I in all this section of the country, -but let me tell you, Sir, ten years of teaching -school is an experience calculated to unsex any -person, man or woman. We veteran school-teachers -constitute what a magazine writer recently -referred to as “an indeterminate sex.” -We have left in us nothing of the masculine -or feminine nature. We think, feel, argue and -reason like one another and like nobody else in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">98</span> -the world—we are neuter throughout. It is, -perhaps, for this reason that I can now look -back upon my wasted life with only a passing -regret, and that I can, without any feeling of -outraged modesty or womanly reserve, lay -bare to you the dreams of my girlhood and the -thoughts of my maturity.</p> - -<p>To begin, then, I have always lived in the little -town where I am now teaching, though to be -sure, since I became a teacher, I have traveled -more or less during my vacations. I have visited -many places in Europe and America at -one time or another. I have made a pilgrimage -to Stratford-on-Avon six times in as many -years, and it is perhaps for this reason that I -have never found time to read any of Shakespeare’s -works beyond the four or five plays -which we read in class. Be that as it may, -when I was a girl of seventeen or eighteen, I -was a bright, merry-hearted young creature -who had not a care in the world, nor a thought -for anything but pleasure. Not that I was -without sentiment, for truth to tell, I was as -sentimental as any, and let me tell you, Sir,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">99</span> -one girl of eighteen has more sentiment in her -composition than all of the old men in the -world. I say “old men,” because I have observed -that whereas sentiment comes to a -woman early in life, so that she is soon done -with it, men seldom become sentimental until -they have passed middle age. And that is why, -Sir, you will observe in the restaurants and -cafés of your city, young men with old women -and old men with young women. Like is naturally -attracted to like. The old man loves the -young woman for her romanticism which is -akin to his own, and the young woman loves the -old man because he is not ashamed to admit his -infatuation and glories in his subjection to her -charms. The young man, upon the other hand, -is attracted to the older woman by her knowledge -of the world, her masculine view-point, her -independence of mind, her air of good-fellowship, -and her frank acceptance of a temporary -affection. The old woman finds in the young -man the only sensible, sober and sane being -that wears trousers.</p> - -<p>As I say, Sir, I was as sentimental as any;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">100</span> -I had my girlish dreams of home and fireside, -of husband and little ones, but I was not obsessed -with this pleasant dreaming. I took all -that for granted as my natural birthright, and -a career which was guaranteed to me by virtue -of my very womanhood. I was cheerful, a -capable housekeeper, possessed of a clear complexion, -good eyes, sound teeth, a fair figure—in -short, I was passably good-looking. Why -should not I be married in due time, as my -mother was before me, and as the girls of my -native village had always been? I was not -hump-backed, bow-legged, nor squint-eyed. I -was neither a shrew nor a prude. I could manage -a house and (I had no doubt) I could manage -a husband; how could I fail to get him?</p> - -<p>Alas! Sir, my youthful optimism was my -undoing. I delayed my choice and I lost my -opportunity. I refused one or two offers of -marriage that came to me in the first flush of -my womanhood—and I have never since received -another! The young men of our town -had always married our home girls. With the -exception of a few prodigals who left home<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">101</span> -to see the world and who never returned, some -going to jail and some to congress, none of our -young men sought their wives among strangers. -They were well content with what they -found at home. How, then, could I anticipate -a sudden exodus of eligible young men? An -exodus, I say! For an exodus it was, and an -exodus it has continued, year by year, ever -since that fatal day when Willie Titheridge -Talbott went over to Ithaca and married Minna -Meyerbeer who won the Tompkins County -beauty contest!</p> - -<p>No sooner do our young men arrive -at that age when they can don a fuzzy -hat and coax a mustache without exciting the -ridicule of their little brothers, than they shake -the dust of this town from their feet and set -out to find a wife among those vampire beauties -whose portraits decorate the pages of our -Sunday papers. As for our girls, they are left -as I was, to choose between frank spinsterhood -at home, or to follow the young men out into -the world, there to become chorus girls, manicures, -stenographers—or to engage in some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">102</span> -other similar profession which exerts such a -glamour and fascination over the men as to -make up for their lack of classical beauty.</p> - -<p>And who, Sir, is to blame for this lamentable -state of affairs? The beauties? No, not altogether, -for if they were not so exploited by the -newspapers, our young men would never suspect -that they existed. For, Sir, even if he -were to meet her face to face, the ordinary -young man is so lacking in sentiment, so matter-of-fact, -that he would never suspect one of -those beauties of being anything extraordinary -if her beauty were not vouched for by some -newspaper. The young man who has not been -corrupted in this way, and who has not had -fostered in him by these newspapers the silly -notion that he is a knight errant searching the -world for beauty in distress, is a docile creature, -easily captured and easily managed. He -treats matrimony as he treats his meals, he -takes what is set before him and afterward -grumbles as a matter of course, but deep down -in his heart he is very well satisfied. It is the -editors, Sir, who have caused all of the trouble;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">103</span> -the editors with their silly beauty contests and -their simpering half-tone, half-world women of -the stage flaunting their coquettish graces and -flirting with our young men from the pages of -the Sunday papers.</p> - -<p>Now, Sir, I hope that you will not dismiss -this letter as a matter of no consequence and -the peevish complaint of a disappointed spinster, -for I assure you the roots of this evil go -deeper than appears at first glance. Our magazines -are asking, “Why do young men leave -the farm?” Our sociologists are asking why are -our villages becoming depopulated? Superficial -observers often reply that the young men -go to the city for the sake of money-making. -But I, Sir, know better. The young men are -leaving the farms and the villages to hunt for -wives because the newspapers, with their photographs, -have made them dissatisfied with what -they find at home. And now that you know -the cause of it, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, is there no hope that -you may devise some way to put a stop to it?</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Sarah Shelfworn</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_104" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">104</span></p> - -<h2>FROM ANNA PEST</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: Doubtless you are familiar with -some of the newer schools of poetry, as for instance, -that one which has abandoned rhyme for -assonance, which has led an ignorant and -prejudiced critic to say of it that its poetry -may be rich in assonance, but that he finds -in it more of asininity. Such is the treatment -accorded all independent artists by the hidebound -adherents of outworn ideals!</p> - -<p>Now, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, nobody is more convinced -than I am that we need new forms of poetry. -I have been writing poems for a number of -years and I feel that I speak with authority -when I say that the old classical forms are entirely -inadequate for modern poetic expression. -I have tried them all and I have found them -all wanting, for though I have written poems -in the form of sonnets, lyrics, triolets, quatrains,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">105</span> -couplets, rondels—and even in blank -verse—I was never able to produce a decent -poem in any of them. I therefore conclude that -what every modern poet needs is to shake off -the shackles of poetic convention and follow -a form suited to his nature. I have been greatly -encouraged by the introduction of the <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">vers libre</i> -in France and I am heartily in accord with the -aims of those pioneers of the new poetry who -are laboring to educate the public taste to modern -ideals, but I fear that in one or two instances -they have overshot the mark.</p> - -<p>Much as I admire the courage of Monsieur -Alexandre Mercereau, who has, with -splendid audacity, forsaken verse altogether -and determined to write all of his poetry -in prose, I do not believe it advisable -to attempt to accomplish the poetic revolution -at one step. I am more in sympathy with those -who have abandoned rhyme, but retained -rhythm.</p> - -<p>For my own part, I have invented a -form which I think better than either. I believe -that this form is as superior to the sonnet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">106</span> -as the sonnet is to the limerick. I call this form -the <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">duocapet</i> because it is, in a sense, double-headed, -having two rhyming words in every -line—one at each end. I have discarded rhythm -but retained rhyme. I had good reasons for -adopting this course. I regard meter as a useless -encumbrance. It is meter, not rhyme, -which hampers the true poet. The poet should -be free—free as the air—free as the birds. It -is a crime against art to bind him with silly -meaningless meters and rhythms which distract -his attention from his theme and serve only to -furnish critics with an excuse for picking flaws. -I hope that the happy day will soon arrive -when laymen will leave to the poets the settling -of all questions of form, but in the present -state of public ignorance and prejudice I think -it advisable to concede them something in order -that they may realize that we are writing -poetry. Later, when the public is sufficiently -educated to recognize poetry without any of -its ancient ear-marks, I may discard rhyme -also.</p> - -<p>For the present I think the <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">duocapet</i> is the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">107</span> -most logical and artistic of existing forms. -Writing in the <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">duocapet</i>, the poet has only one -rule to observe—that the first word of every -line shall rhyme with the last. I have, in fact, -reduced the couplet to a single line, making -the two rhyming words come one at each end -of that line, where they logically belong, one -opening and one closing the line, instead of -placing them one under the other in the manner -of Pope. Standing in this position they may -be likened to two sentries that guard the -thought of the poet. It is as if the rhyme at -the first end of the line called out, “Who goes -there?” and the other responds, “A friend!” In -the <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">duocapet</i> the poet may make his lines short -or long as best pleases him without regard for -the length of lines that go before or that -follow.</p> - -<p>This poetry is produced as all true poetry -should be produced, a line at a time. No whole -can be perfect which is defective in any part. -In the <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">duocapet</i> every line is a perfect poem, -complete in itself, every line contains a distinct -thought, and though the sentence may sometimes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">108</span> -extend from one line to another, this is -never necessary and rests with the discretion -of the poet. Should he choose, he might write -a whole poem consisting of nothing but complete -sentences, a sentence a line, with a period -at the end of each. The poem can be made ten -lines in length or ten thousand, and asterisks -and italics can be introduced at will. With the -exception of the rhyme, the poet is as free in -this form as in any form of <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">vers libre</i>. I append -an example of <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">duocapet</i> which should -give you a good idea of the possibilities of this -form:</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="smcap">Midnight</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Gone is the day and I look out upon</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Night bathed in Luna’s sad illusive light ...</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Dark are the shadows out in Central Park;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Hushed are the streets through which the traffic rushed ...</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>See! Underneath that weeping-willow tree</em></div> - <div class="verse indent0"><em>Prone lies a figure on a bench alone!</em></div> - <div class="verse indent0">Why should he lie there ’neath the sky?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Is there no home he can call his?</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Creeps now the moonlight where he sleeps ...</div><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">109</span> - <div class="verse indent0">Shakes then the outcast as he wakes,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Chill with the bitter winds that fill</div> - <div class="verse indent0">All of the Park from wall to wall.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Slinks then away in search of drinks.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Soon he will be in a saloon.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Still as I lean upon the sill</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And see the sky on every hand</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sprinkled with those same stars that twinkled</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Bright on that blessed Christmas night</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When angels sang good-will to men ...</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sore is my heart unto the core!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sick is my soul unto the quick!</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Sick is my soul ... my soul ... how sick!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>I hope that you will publish this poem and -letter in the interest of Poetic Art, and in order -that the world may know that we poets of -America are almost, if not quite, as progressive -as those of France.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Anna Pest</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_110" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">110</span></p> - -<h2>FROM SETH SHIRTLESS</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I am the victim of a most peculiar -affliction. I am suffering from what appears -to be a sort of disease and which can not -be classified. As I am not able to find the true -explanation of this matter myself and as physicians -seem to be equally at a loss in regard to -it, I have decided to appeal to the public at -large in the hope that some one who reads my -communication will be able to suggest a cure -or at least some method of alleviation.</p> - -<p>There is an old saying, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, borrowed -from some author, if I mistake not, that “the -apparel oft proclaims the man.” This I consider -a true saying aptly put; but I believe, Sir, -that apparel sometimes does more than proclaim -the man—that it sometimes actually -<em>makes</em> the man. It is well known that men are -often affected by the clothes they wear. Good<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">111</span> -clothing has a tendency to inspire confidence -in the breast of the wearer, while poor clothing -robs a man of his assurance, if not of his self-respect. -That all men are more or less subject -to the influence of their garments, there can be -no doubt, but I, Sir, am peculiarly susceptible -to it. It has been so all my life. Even in childhood -I became supercilious and insolent with -pride when clad in my best, and most envious -and depressed the moment I had changed to -my every-day wear.</p> - -<p>Since I have come to manhood, I have felt -this weakness growing upon me despite my -most earnest efforts to resist it, until now, Mr. -<i>Idler</i>, my character and my wardrobe are so inextricably -mixed together that I may be said -to change my nature with my clothing. When -I am richly dressed I <em>feel</em> rich, and my -thoughts and sentiments are those of a wealthy -person. At such times I am a firm believer in -all measures for the protection of property and -vested rights. I am a hearty adherent of the -established order and I am distinctly suspicious -of all so-called reforms and innovations in governmental<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">112</span> -machinery. When, on the other -hand, I am dressed shabbily, my views and my -feelings undergo a complete change. I am no -longer a believer in the sacredness of property -rights. Indeed, I look upon all rich men as -so many robbers who have seized upon the land -and the natural resources which should, of -right, be the common property of all mankind. -I feel that I have been defrauded of -everything they have which I have not. -Their insolence vexes me and their display -drives me into a very fury of rage which is -partly inspired by just indignation and partly -by simple envy. At these times I am fiercely -radical in politics. No measure of reform can -be too revolutionary for my taste. My dearest -wish is that the whole social fabric may be rent -to shreds and rewoven in a pattern after my -democratic heart.</p> - -<p>To such extremes of sentiment do my -clothes carry me. When I am fashionably clad -a Socialistic pamphlet irritates me as a red rag -enrages a bull. But when I am poorly dressed -and shod, <em>I write such pamphlets</em>. Write them,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">113</span> -and, Sir, incredible as it may seem, leave them -lying about my quarters for the very purpose -of irritating myself, and well knowing that -when my eyes light on them while in my conservative -frame of mind I shall fall upon them -and tear them to tatters. I, Sir, am as a house -divided against itself—I am a man at war with -his own soul!</p> - -<p>You have heard, I doubt not, of the celebrated -case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, -and of other instances of double personality, -where men, by reason of contending spirits -within them, have been forced to lead double -lives. I do not hesitate to say that such are -blessed when their lot is compared to my own -unhappy state, for I lead, not a double, but a -<em>treble</em> existence. In addition to these two personalities, -which I term for want of a better -nomenclature my Aristocratic and my Proletarian -selves, I am also possessed of a Normal -self which is in evidence only when I am completely -disrobed.</p> - -<p>Can you fancy, Sir, what this means to me? -Can you imagine in what straits a man must be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">114</span> -who can think clearly and logically only when -he is naked, and who, before he can decide upon -any matter of importance, must hurry home -and throw off his clothes lest he be led astray -by rabid prejudice or blind enthusiasm? That, -Sir, is precisely my situation. When I awake -in the morning I am compelled to make a -choice between my two antagonistic personalities. -My wardrobe stares me in the face as if -asking the eternal question, “Which is it to be -to-day—Aristocrat or Proletariat?” Always, -upon falling asleep at night, I am haunted by -the specter of the ordeal which awaits me in the -morning.</p> - -<p>In addition to this, my Aristocratic and my -Proletarian selves have recently conceived a -violent dislike for each other and they have -begun to vent their spite in many petty ways, -much to the disgust of my Normal self who -has small use for either of them. For example, -about a fortnight ago, my Proletarian self indulged -himself freely in gin, a drink which is -loathsome to my Aristocratic self. He stayed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">115</span> -in this condition for a matter of four days -and upon his return to my—perhaps I should -say <em>our</em> chambers, he wantonly destroyed a new -top hat which my Aristocratic self had carelessly -left lying upon the hall table. By way -of retaliation, my Aristocratic self seized some -overalls belonging to my Proletarian self and -flung them into the ash-barrel. Altogether, -they behave, Sir, in a fashion to make me thoroughly -ashamed of them both.</p> - -<p>Possibly you are wondering how it comes -that I am in the habit of changing my clothing -so frequently and varying the quality of my -dress in this way. I may as well tell you that -for many years I was a professional politician, -much in demand as an orator, and that I was -called to speak before audiences of widely different -character, so that I sometimes found it -expedient to dress in evening clothes and at -other times it was necessary for me to appear -a workingman. My constantly changing political -convictions made it impossible for me to -continue in this work, but by the time I gave it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">116</span> -up I had come to know these two personalities -so well that I was unwilling to trust myself -for long in the hands of either of them. I have -thought of purchasing a decent outfit of ready-to-wear -clothing, but I realize that the result -of such a step would be to render me hopelessly -middle-class, a condition I have hitherto escaped. -I have no desire to add a fourth personality -to those I already possess.</p> - -<p>I have consulted my tailor without good result, -and the best that my physician has been -able to do for me was to suggest a period of -rest in the country. I am now very comfortably -lodged in a quiet house in the suburbs, -where I came upon the advice of my doctor -and two of his colleagues with whom I discussed -my trouble.</p> - -<p>I am very well content here for a man who is -virtually a prisoner. Not that I am confined by -force, Sir, but I have determined never to put -on another suit of clothes until I have solved -the problem which confronts me, and I can not -leave my room without dressing; the landlord -of this place objects to my doing so. Here,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">117</span> -then, I expect to remain until I hit upon some -solution of my difficulty or until some other -person is good enough to suggest a way out -of my dilemma. I am, Sir,</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="smcap">Seth Shirtless.</span> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_118" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">118</span></p> - -<h2>SARTOR-PSYCHOLOGY</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I am a social worker, and it -is in this capacity that I address you upon a -subject which appears to me to be of vital importance -to all classes of society. I have, Sir, -hit upon a plan which will, if generally adopted, -work the greatest reform that has ever been -effected, and which will, I am convinced, completely -do away with the necessity for long-term -sentences to imprisonment. In simple -honesty I must admit that this idea is not entirely -my own. It was suggested to me by the -extraordinary and very interesting communication -from Mr. Seth Shirtless which appeared -in your January issue.</p> - -<p>The influence of clothing upon character has -long been recognized, but I do not remember -ever to have heard of another case so well illustrating -that influence as the case of Mr. Shirtless.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">119</span> -His story of his experiences was profoundly -interesting from a psychological point -of view, and while reading it I conceived the -plan of which I spoke just now. It occurred to -me that the influence of dress might be of great -use in reforming men of evil habit and temperament. -It is well known to all social workers -that many criminals cherish a spirit of bitter -animosity toward society at large, and that not -a few habitual criminals have embarked upon -a career of crime urged on by the mistaken belief -that the hand of every man was against -them. Having once plunged into evil ways, -these misguided creatures come to be more and -more of the opinion that they are not as other -men; that they have lost for all time to come -any hope of being treated with respect and that -they must live and die outside the pale of respectability.</p> - -<p>It must be confessed that the treatment -now accorded them, both in jail and after -their release, lends some color of truth -to this conviction. To win these men back to a -useful way of life it is only necessary to show<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">120</span> -them that they are wrong; that a temporary -fall from grace does not involve an eternal and -perpetual atonement. They must be made to -feel that they are still members of the Brotherhood -of Man and that they may again become -members in good standing. Once they are convinced -of this, they will certainly mend their -ways and gladly conform to right standards of -living. Society is coming to realize, as it never -did before, that the true purpose of imprisonment -is to reform, and not to punish; that our -criminals and law-breakers are susceptible to -the same methods as our children, and that our -proceedings against them should be corrective, -rather than retaliatory. These men are sick, -sick in mind if not in body, and it is the duty -of the state to reclaim them.</p> - -<p>In consequence of this awakening to the -real purpose of imprisonment, many of our -prisons have given up the hideous practise of -dressing convicts in the degrading and brutalizing -uniforms which were formerly so common -as to be almost universal in penal institutions. -Men have pretty generally come to see<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">121</span> -that the use of the striped zebra-like suit for -prisoners was a mistake; an added infamy -which served no good purpose, but only deepened -the convict’s sense of shame and resentment. -But though the old garb for prisoners is -rapidly becoming obsolete, all reform of this -character has, so far, been negative in its nature. -The method which I propose is positive. -Why should we be content with relieving the -convicts of their shameful uniforms? Why not -go a step further and institute a constructive -reform in their dress? Why not array them in -such a fashion that their self-respect must be -reawakened and their sense of responsibility -quickened into life? Why not bring to bear -upon their characters the influence of clean -linen and a respectable wardrobe?</p> - -<p>What I propose, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, is just this: Let -every convict and prisoner be clad in clothing -suitable for a substantial citizen and a respected -member of the community. Let every inmate -of our prisons and penitentiaries be supplied -each week with a liberal allowance of clean -linen and underwear. Let every man of them<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">122</span> -be furnished with a decent wardrobe; say, two -or three business suits of good quality and correct -cut, a walking-coat or frock for afternoon -wear, evening dress, a silk hat and a dinner -coat. We already provide for them good books -to elevate their minds; let us now give them -such attire as will increase their respect for -their persons.</p> - -<p>Now, there is no denying that a well-dressed -man makes a better impression upon strangers -than a sloven; and if this is true of strangers, -what shall we say of the effect upon the man -himself? While few of us are so strongly affected -as Mr. Shirtless, yet we are all of us, I -think, affected in some degree. A pleasing -image in a mirror increases our self-respect, -but when we see ourselves unkempt and ill-clad -we are ashamed. When we have made our -prisoners presentable, I believe we should give -them the satisfaction of seeing how much they -are improved, and I therefore suggest that a -mirror be placed in each cell where the inmate -can see himself at full length. Thus, if in spite -of his new outfit he occasionally feels a disposition<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">123</span> -to backslide, he has only to glance into -the glass to be restored to respectability. In -this way he can be led to see the possibilities -within him. Let a man look into a looking-glass -and see there a reflection which might -well be that of a statesman, and his subconsciousness -will at once inquire <em>why not</em>? The -inspiring sight will reawaken his ambition.</p> - -<p>Though it will be a great step forward to -dress these convicts like decent citizens, yet this -is hardly enough. There must be a corresponding -reform in their occupations and employments. -There is certainly something incongruous -in the thought of a man clad in a frock coat -and silk hat breaking stones with a hammer. -Such a thing must appear bizarre even to the -dullest of these unfortunates. To keep them at -such labor would seem as if we were making -sport of them. It will therefore be advisable -to devise for each inmate of our prisons -some employment which will be in keeping -with his clothes and, at the same time, congenial -and respectable. Here is a man, let us say, who -has been convicted of larceny. We will make<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">124</span> -a promoter of him. Here is another who has -been sentenced for gambling. He would make -a good broker. A third, who has been an anarchist, -will make a good magazine editor. A -fourth, confined for highway robbery, can be -transformed into a hotel proprietor. And so -on down the list.</p> - -<p>Of course it will be necessary to release -some of them upon parole when the time -comes for them to begin the practise of -their professions, but by the time they have -mastered the details of their new callings this -will probably be safe enough. If a carpenter -has been sent to prison for burglary, it is not -reasonable to keep him employed at the same -trade while in confinement, for then he is released -knowing no more—and no better off—than -he was when incarcerated. Perhaps it -was carpentry which drove him to crime. No, -Mr. <i>Idler</i>, we should elevate him.</p> - -<p>As for those who are merely dissolute and -idle, we will make gentlemen of them. We will -dress them in the latest fashion and establish -for them a club where they may follow their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">125</span> -natural bent and continue in their usual habits, -only now with the sanction of society.</p> - -<p>If the system I have outlined should be -adopted in all of our prisons, Sir, I see no reason -why our convicts should not soon be a -credit to the community.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig4">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Al. Truist</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_126" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">126</span></p> - -<h2>MR. BODY PROTESTS</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: It is with a feeling of dismay—nay, -I may even say terror—that I read in my -morning paper the statement that during -last year there were made and sold in the -United States no less than 8,644,537,090 cigarettes! -Nearly nine billion of these devil’s -torches, or almost one hundred of them for -every man, woman and child throughout the -country. And not only that, but an increase of -150,000,000 cigars and 15,000,000 pounds of -manufactured tobacco over the production of -the preceding year.</p> - -<p>To what, Sir, is this country coming, when -such things are possible? Can it be that the -whole nation is bent upon suicide? I have read -that a single drop of the pure essense of nicotine -dropped upon the back of a healthy and -robust flea will cause the unfortunate beast to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">127</span> -fall into convulsions, frequently terminating -in a partial paralysis or total dissolution. Now, -it is well known to all who make the slightest -pretense to any knowledge of entomology that -the flea, or <i>Pulex irritans</i>, is one of the most -hardy insects known to man and is extremely -hard to kill. Indeed, it is a matter of record -that the fleas of Mexico encountered the army -of Bonaparte and Maximilian and gave such -a good account of themselves that the French -soldiers were more in awe of the fleas than of -the natives. If nicotine, then, has such a disastrous -effect upon such a hearty and well-protected -beast as the flea, what must be the -effect of its poison upon man, who is, perhaps, -the most easily killed of all living creatures? -It is too horrible to contemplate! I have, -by most careful calculations, proved to my entire -satisfaction that the American people have -already been totally exterminated through -their persistence in this evil habit of using tobacco; -and if, as may be said, the facts do not -seem to fit in with my figures, I can only say -that I am convinced that their survival is in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">128</span> -nowise due either to their hardiness or to the -innocuous character of the herb, but solely to -the kindly interposition of Providence, who, -unwilling to see so young and so promising a -nation perish by reason of this folly, has deliberately -set at naught the wiles of the Devil -and robbed him of his prey by fortifying and -strengthening the constitutions of this people -to withstand the dread effects of this evil practise. -But how long can people given over to -this wicked practise look to Providence for -patience and protection?</p> - -<p>I have but now spoken of the American people -as a promising nation, but I am not sure -but that I should amend this to “a once promising -nation.” I believe that this nation can -never become truly great until it has become -a nation of non-smokers. Did the Greeks -smoke? No. Did the Romans smoke? No, -again. Not in the history of any of the great -nations of antiquity do I find a single reference -to tobacco smoking. The Boers are reputed -to be great smokers, and it is to this that -I attribute their defeat at the hands of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">129</span> -English. I have heard that the Boers even -went into battle with their pipes alight, and I -have no doubt that it was due to their distraction -and lack of attention caused by their habit -of scratching matches to keep their pipes burning, -that they lost many important engagements. -Do you imagine, Sir, that Troy could -have withstood the assault of the Greeks for -ten long years, had Hector and his fellow warriors -lolled upon the battlements puffing on -cigarettes? Can you fancy, Sir, the grave and -dignified Cicero pausing in the midst of one of -his philippics to expectorate tobacco juice? Yet -I am told upon good authority that this may -be witnessed among the learned justices of our -own Supreme Court.</p> - -<p>The almost total destruction of the American -Indian, I attribute chiefly to the debilitating -effects of this narcotic. Of all of the -American Indians, the Peruvians attained the -highest state of civilization. And why? Because, -Sir, they alone used tobacco only as a -medicine and in the form of snuff. Had they -forborne the use of snuff, it might well have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">130</span> -been that the Incas had conquered the Spanish -and colonized the coast of Europe. Snuff, I -consider the least harmful of all forms of tobacco; -but only because it is the least frequently -used. There is a lady of my acquaintance, -in all other respects a most estimable -woman, who so far forgets her duty as a -mother as to permit her offspring to utilize as -a plaything a handsome silver snuff-box which -she inherited from her grandfather. I, Sir, -should as soon think of giving my children a -whisky-flask for a toy. I am well aware that -many who have been termed “gentlemen” have -been addicted to the use of snuff; nay, that it -was even at one time a fashion among men and -women of the mode to partake of it. But I -think none the better of it for that. As much -might be said for rum.</p> - -<p>Lord Chesterfield said that he was enabled -to get through the last five or six books of Virgil -by having frequent recourse to his snuff-box; -but I say, if the taking of snuff is necessary -to the enjoyment of Virgil, why then, it -were better never to read that poet. I had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">131</span> -rather fall asleep over Virgil than to inhale -culture tainted with snuff. I had rather, indeed, -snore over the classics, than sneeze at -them. <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">Trahit sua quemque voluptas</i>—I suspect -that his Lordship did not so much find -snuff an aid to Virgil as Virgil an excuse for -snuff.</p> - -<p>Tobacco, Sir, won its way into Europe by a -ruse—a pretense. It wormed its way into the -confidence of the European peoples masquerading -as a medicine—a panacea. Introduced -by Francesco Fernandez, himself a renowned -physician, and endorsed by many other men -supposed to be learned in <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">materia medica</i>, it -was taken on faith and retained through weakness. -At the very outset some of the wiser -heads saw the danger of it. Burton sounded a -note of warning in his <i>Anatomy of Melancholy</i>: -“Tobacco, divine, rare, super-excellent -tobacco, which goes far beyond all the panaceas, -potable gold, and philosopher’s stones, is -a sovereign remedy in all disease. A good -vomit, I confess, a virtuous herb if it be well -qualified, opportunely taken, and medically<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">132</span> -used; but, as it is commonly abused by most -men, which take it as tinkers do ale, ’tis a -plague, a mischief, a violent purge of goods, -lands, health,—hellish, devilish, and damned -tobacco, the ruin and overthrow of body and -soul.”</p> - -<p>King James, of blessed memory, was not deceived -by the fictitious virtues of this plant, -and he condemned it in his noble work, <i>The -Counterblaste</i>. Would that more had been so -blessed with wisdom!</p> - -<p>The absurdity of the extravagant claims -made for the curative powers of this herb is -well illustrated in the words of Master Nicholas -Culpepper, author of <i>The English Physitian</i>, -published so late as 1671:</p> - -<p>“It is a Martial plant (governed by Mars). -It is found by good experience to be available -to expectorate tough Flegm from the Stomach, -Chest and Lungs.... The seed hereof is -very effectual to expel the toothach, & the ashes -of the burnt herb, to cleanse the Gums and -make the Teeth white. The herb bruised and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">133</span> -applied to the place grieved by the Kings-Evil, -helpeth it in nine or ten days effectually. -<i>Manardus</i>, faith, it is a Counter-Poyson -against the biting of any Venomous Creatures; -the Herb also being outwardly applyd to the -hurt place. The Distilled Water is often given -with some Sugar before the fit of Ague to -lessen it, and take it away in three or four times -using.”</p> - -<p>Such vaporings were, indeed, as little -worthy of credence as the empty chatter of -Ben Jonson’s Bobadil: “Signor, believe me -(upon my relation) for what I tell you, the -world shall not improve. I have been in the -Indies (where this herb grows), where neither -myself nor a dozen gentlemen more (of my -knowledge) have received the taste of any -other nutriment in the world, for the space of -one and twenty weeks, but tobacco only. -Therefore it can not be but ’tis most divine. -Further, take it in the nature, in the true kind, -so, it makes an antidote, that had you taken -the most deadly poisonous simple in all Florence<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">134</span> -it should expel it, and clarify you with -as much ease as I speak.... I do hold it, -and will affirm it (before any Prince in Europe) -to be the most sovereign and precious -herb that ever the earth tendered to the use of -man.”</p> - -<p>Such were the absurd claims of those who -held tobacco to be a medicine. But I contend, -Sir, that tobacco has never been proven of any -real medical value whatever; that it is a poison -and not a blessing. I have been told, indeed, -that it sometimes destroys the toothache; but -for my own part I had rather taste the toothache -than tobacco; and as for deadening the -pain, so, for that matter, will opium or prussic -acid.</p> - -<p>I contend, Sir, that tobacco will eventually -bring to grief every nation which makes use of -it. Who can contemplate the present distressing -state of Portugal without recalling that it -was from Jean Nicot, a Portuguese, that the -poison, nicotine, received its name?</p> - -<p>Tobacco destroys all that is noble in man. -There is no more noble sentiment than chivalry;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">135</span> -and tobacco has destroyed the chivalry of man. -How else could we applaud that English poet -who sang,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“A thousand surplus Maggies are waiting to bear the yoke;</div> - <div class="verse indent0">And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke”?</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Tobacco is offensive to all high-minded people -of delicate sensibilities; it is offensive to -me. Nay, the smoker himself sometimes involuntarily -recoils from his slavery and feels -disgust for the vile weed, as is shown by the -cry of the modern poet, whose name for the -moment escapes me, in that <span class="locked">line—</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“Then, as you love me, take the stubs away!”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Oh, Sir, it is now high time for all men of -sound judgment and unselfish nature to unite -in stamping out this nefarious traffic! Let -every state pass laws forbidding the manufacture, -sale <em>and use</em> of tobacco in any form. Let -the government suppress with stringent law -and heavy penalty that wicked and seductive<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">136</span> -book of J. M. Barrie’s called <i>My Lady Nicotine</i>; -that work which has, without doubt, led -many young men to contract this evil habit and -confirmed many older men in it against their -own better judgment. Let all books in praise -of tobacco be destroyed publicly, as is befitting -a public menace.</p> - -<p>For my own part, having suffered all my -life from a quinsy which I contracted early in -youth, and which my family physician assured -me would be greatly aggravated by the use of -tobacco, I have been saved from the vile effects -of even the slightest contact with that noxious -plant. But, Sir, being a man of tender sensibilities -and imbued with an almost paternal -love of humanity, it has grieved me to the heart -to see my fellow men falling ever deeper and -deeper into the clutches of this sinful practise. -Owing to the distress I suffer from the fumes -of tobacco, I have often been compelled practically -to abstain from the company of men, -otherwise estimable citizens, who have contracted -this habit. Everywhere I go I see -young and old blowing out their brains with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">137</span> -every puff of smoke, until I am sometimes -tempted to blow out my own in sheer despair -of ever making them see the evil of their ways. -And they smoke, Sir, with such an air of innocent -enjoyment as is enough to fair madden -one whose counsel they scorn and at whose -warnings they scoff.</p> - -<p>I have been told, Sir, that you are, yourself, -a victim of this evil habit of tobacco using, and -I have been warned that you will refuse, with -the infatuation of a confirmed smoker, to grant -me space in your publication for these honest -and unprejudiced expressions of opinion upon -this subject. I have refused, however, to credit -these scandalous reflections upon your character, -and I hope that you will refute them and -cause the utter confusion of your calumniators, -as well as help enlighten an ignorant and misguided -people, by printing this communication -in full.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig4">I am, Sir, very truly yours,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">B. Z. Body</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_138" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">138</span></p> - -<h2>ON A CERTAIN CONDESCENSION IN FASHION -WRITERS</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: Some writers have an unhappy -faculty of adopting a superior tone which is -very offensive to most readers. Even in a -writer of acknowledged excellence this dictatorial -style is a blemish, and, moreover, it is an -impertinence. Not only does the writer assume -to be superior to the majority of his readers, -but, by implication, to all the world, since his -book is addressed to mankind at large. And if -this air of condescension is hard to bear from -men of parts, how much more galling it is -when we suffer it at the hands of insolent nobodies—writers -who seek to hide their obscurity -behind the shield of an imposing pseudonym. -I have in mind, Sir, that pestiferous -crew who mar the pages of our theater programs -with their uninvited discourses upon -men’s fashions.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">139</span></p> - -<p>It may be that I am confessing to an unmanly -weakness when I confess that I invariably -peruse that column in my program which -is signed <i>Beau Nash</i>, <i>Beau Brummel</i>, or something -equally ridiculous; but if it is a weakness, -I am convinced that it is one which is -shared by nine out of ten men in the audience. -I say I am convinced, because, suspecting that -I might be alone in it, I took the trouble to -observe the men about me upon several occasions, -and I always caught them at it at some -time during the intermissions. They read it -furtively, to be sure, but they read it none the -less. Of course, I can not be sure what effect -these essays upon sartorial matters have upon -others, but I fancy they are affected much as I -am, and for my part they distress me exceedingly.</p> - -<p>In the first place, I am not overly pleased -that some unknown hack writer has assumed to -instruct me in such a personal matter as the -clothes which I put upon my back, and in the -second place, I strongly resent the implication -that I am interested in such foppish literature.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">140</span> -But, what is worse than all else, these anonymous -arbiters of dress are continually putting -me out of countenance by criticizing explicitly -and in detail the very clothes that I have on! -It seems to me that these fellows have a devilish -faculty of knowing beforehand just what I -shall be wearing every season.</p> - -<p>Now, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, you must not suppose that -I am one of those silly fellows who aspire to -lead the fashion or to play the dandy, for, indeed, -I am nothing of the sort. I do not believe -there is a man living who more heartily -despises those empty-headed creatures who are -variously known as fops, dudes and dandies. -It has never been my ambition to be the introducer -of a new style of neckwear or footgear; -indeed, I fear my very indifference to such -matters lays me open to the vexation caused by -these miserable scribblers who prey upon my -peace of mind. Were I in the habit of consulting -long and earnestly with my tailor and -haberdasher, no doubt I should be fortified with -a sound and sure confidence in the appropriateness -of my apparel. But the fact is, I leave<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">141</span> -these things largely to the men who make a -business of them, and content myself with -choosing what seems to me to be sufficiently -modish and yet in good taste.</p> - -<p>And yet, Sir, though I am no macaroni, I -am not utterly indifferent to my personal appearance. -If I am not a fop, neither am I a -sloven. I am one of those who have faith in -the old saying, <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">In medio tutissimus ibis</i>. I -would not be</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“The first by whom the new are tried,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Like most practical men, I have a positive -horror of appearing queer. I shun eccentricity -in dress as assiduously as I shun eccentricity in -manners. I sometimes envy poets and artists, -not for their poetry or their art, but for that -sublime egotism which enables them to take -pleasure in making themselves ridiculous. This -seems to me a vanity which is almost beautiful, -a self-confidence which is a greater blessing -than personal bravery. Many a man, otherwise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">142</span> -not extraordinary, may prove himself a -hero of physical courage when the occasion offers, -but few there are who can deliberately -challenge attention by their freakish appearance -and go out among their fellow men with -an air which seems to say, “I know I look like -the devil and I am proud of it.”</p> - -<p>Now I, Sir—I should not be proud of it. I -should be miserably ashamed. And so I am -ashamed when I read in my program that -which brands me as a man of no taste or discrimination. -I am horribly humiliated when I -discover in the column of Beau Nash that I -have brazenly shattered every commandment in -the sartorial decalogue. I give you my word, -Sir, I break into a cold perspiration whenever -I recall the harrowing experience I had last -Saturday-week. It so happened that when I -prepared to go to the play, I found no fresh -white waistcoats. This did not greatly trouble -me at the time, for I am a resourceful man, -and I at once recalled that I possessed a black -waistcoat which my tailor had made for me at -the same time he had made my dress suit. This<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">143</span> -I donned in blissful ignorance of my impending -ordeal. I arrived at the theater rather late -and had no opportunity of reading the program -before the curtain rose. That first act is -the one bright memory I have of that awful -evening. I enjoyed the first act. But, Sir, I -did not long remain in ignorance of my disgrace. -In the first intermission my eyes were -drawn by an irresistible fascination to the column -headed, “What Men Wear,” and in letters -which seemed fairly to jump out of the -page I read, “<em>The black waistcoat worn with -evening dress is the height of vulgarity and is -not tolerated.</em>”</p> - -<p>Sir, you can imagine with what a sudden -shock my care-free contentment dropped from -me. There I sat in the full glare of the electric -light, conscious that I was surrounded by hundreds -of men who had read that damning paragraph -which stamped me as an ignorant underbred -boor, who had attempted evening dress -without knowing the very rudiments of the art. -I cast a hasty glance about the theater, and the -fleeting hope which had sprung up died within<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">144</span> -my breast. <em>There was not another black waistcoat -in sight.</em></p> - -<p>How I lived through the rest of that intermission -I can not say. I only know that I could -feel the contemptuous eyes of the audience -upon that dreadful black waistcoat, like so -many hot augurs boring holes in the pit of my -stomach. Hastily hiding my face behind my -program, I slumped down in my seat in the -vain hope of hiding my disgrace, while drops -of anguish trickled down my brow and fell -splashing upon the cruel words which had rendered -me an object for pity and contempt. -When the curtain rose upon the second act, I -crept out of the auditorium under cover of the -kindly darkness and slunk away home to hide -my shame.</p> - -<p>I do not think I shall ever attend the theater -in this city again. In vain I argue and seek to -persuade myself that what I read in the program -was only the opinion of one man, and a -man at that who, in all probability, never -owned a dress suit in his life. Whoever he may -be, whatever his knowledge or ignorance of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">145</span> -dress may be, he writes with such a saucy assumption -of omniscient authority that my reason -stands abashed before his insolence. As -aloof and austere as the Olympian gods, he -crushes my spirit and fills my soul with humility. -No, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, I do not believe I shall ever -attend the theater here again. The mental suffering -these fashion writers inflict upon me is -too great a price to pay for the pleasure I extract -from the drama.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Maurice Mufti</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_146" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">146</span></p> - -<h2>OF LOOKING BACKWARD</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: It is a constant source of surprise -to me that men continue, at all ages but -the earliest, to look back upon the past with a -wistful eye, recalling, with many expressions -of regret, the days that are no more. Thus, -while still in the twenties, the youth begins to -feel the burden of worldly cares already pressing -heavily upon his shoulders and sighs when -he thinks of the irresponsible school-days of his -teens. At thirty, he is convinced that he has -missed the best part of his youth and would -fain be a youngster of twenty once more, his -greatest care the sprouting down upon his upper -lip. Come to forty, he is sure that he should -have been most happy when thirty, over the -first rawness of youth, but not yet sensible of -any physical deterioration and quite unmarked -by the passage of time. At fifty, he envies the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">147</span> -lustihood of forty, and at sixty he longs for the -activity and the muscular ease which he enjoyed -at fifty. And so it goes on, so that we -can readily imagine a patriarch of ancient days -exclaiming, “Oh, if I were but two-hundred-and-twenty -once more! How I should enjoy -life!”</p> - -<p>Now, to me, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, things do not appear -in this light at all. I can not conceive that had -I been Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of -France, I should have longed to be an obscure -youth in Corsica. It is easier, of course, to -understand why he might, at St. Helena, regret -the departed glories of St. Cloud; but for -myself, I do not believe I should ever, whatever -my former station might have been, wish -to lay down the present for the past. I have, -it is true, some hope for the future (I am now -but fifty), but even if this were denied me, and -I were assured that my condition ten years -hence would be no more enviable than it is at -present, yet I think I should not care to reassume -my youthful aspect, or to take up my -life where I left it long ago.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">148</span></p> - -<p>There is, in truth, no period of my past life -upon which I can look back with complete -complacency. I was, at all times, very well -satisfied with myself, barring occasional and -inevitable spasms of self-reproach. I am, to -say the truth, well enough satisfied with myself -as I am to-day. But experience has taught -me that the time will come when I shall look -back upon to-day and will not be pleased with -my present self at all. At thirty I remembered -the Me of twenty as a callow and conceited boy. -At forty I beheld in the Me of ten years gone -a lazy careless idler. At fifty I recollected the -man of forty as a pompous and affected ass. -Now, while the most careful scrutiny of my -person and character fails to reveal to me, at -this time, any serious flaw or defect, yet I -doubt not that the future Me, the Me of Sixty, -will have grave fault to find with the individual -who is inhabiting my skin at the present moment.</p> - -<p>“We live and learn,” says the proverb, and -since we do, it is unnatural if we do not feel a -sort of shame in the ignorance of our former<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">149</span> -selves. I feel no shame for my present ignorance -because I do not know wherein that ignorance -consists, but be assured I shall, as soon -as I have found myself out.</p> - -<p>It is, I like to think, one of the wisest provisions -of a merciful God that no man is ever -permitted to see what a consummate simpleton -he is, but only what a simpleton <em>he has been</em>. -A complete and certain revelation of a man’s -folly to himself would, without a doubt, result -in an immediate and lasting loss of self-respect. -And to lose one’s self-respect is to lose one’s -identity and become a stranger to one’s self. -The inmost mind, however the outward actions -of the body may seem to contradict it, still -clings to the noblest principles, so that no man -can be truly said to be <em>unprincipled</em>. He may -be debauched and depraved, but he is not without -principle so long as his subconscious personality -has the power to arise and accuse his -conscious person. Where there is no such accusation -there can be no loss of self-respect, -for surely a man must possess a thing before he -can lose it. As some say of another, “He is his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">150</span> -own worst enemy,” so it may be said that every -man should be his own best friend. None other -is empowered so to befriend him. His life and -his character must be, to a very great extent, -of his own making, for every man truly lives -to himself. He is the central character of the -drama in which he is both actor and spectator. -Others may come and go, but he alone remains -throughout the play.</p> - -<p>For all our intimacy with ourselves, we never -come to know ourselves completely. We discover, -day by day, ideas and opinions which -we never suspected ourselves of possessing. -We are wrung by emotions which take us completely -by surprise. We are angered by slights -which our reason tells us are beneath our notice. -We are moved to compassion when we are most -determined to remain firm and unmoved. We -take a liking for this person whom we have decided -to dislike, and we develop an inexplicable -aversion for another whom we have deliberately -chosen for a friend. Whence come these -impulses, these orders which we can not disobey? -These commands which override our<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">151</span> -conscious desires and break down our natural -wills? Where, indeed, but from that Inner -Man, that Unknown Self whose power we feel -but can not comprehend? Where else but from -that second and stronger, if submerged, personality—the -human soul? Is it not, indeed, -this unanswerable argument, this inexplicable -conviction of another and better Self within, -joined with and yet distinct from, the ordinary -self, which persuades men that mankind is -immortal, no matter how ably the Brain may -play the Infidel, nor how aptly the Tongue -may second him?</p> - -<p>For our outward selves, our “every-day -selves,” as we might say, we know whence they -are derived. We know that we are born of -woman and fathered of man. We can trace to -the one or the other this feature or that, this -trait or the other, but there are yet to be accounted -for those strange whims and fancies, -those impulses and ideals which come neither -from the father nor the mother, and which, in -very truth, <em>make</em> us ourselves, make us to be -different from our sisters and our brothers,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">152</span> -and without which all the offspring of the same -parents would be as like as so many peas in a -pod. And it is these things which convince us -that we have within us another Ego, another -Self which comes to us from some unknown -place, to guard and to guide us upon the perilous -path of life. We may sometimes close our -ears to his counsel, but he never suffers us to -go wrong unadvised. Is it to be wondered at, -then, that we grow to feel for ourselves an affection -which is not wholly selfish, and to take -in ourselves a pride which is not wholly egotistic? -I do not feel under any obligation to -the man who wears my face and bears my -name; he has made me ridiculous too often for -that. But I do feel a duty to that other <em>Me</em>, -the <em>Me</em> that is not wholly of my own choosing. -And so, I am convinced, do most men.</p> - -<p>As I was saying, or about to say, the keenest -shame we ever feel is the shame we feel for -ourselves. Shame for others may be tempered -with forgiveness, but it is very difficult to forgive -one’s self. There is no question there of -giving the accused the benefit of the doubt.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">153</span> -There is no doubt. I feel a certain shame for -the young man that I once was because I naturally -feel a tenderness for him. I can forgive -him much more readily than I could forgive -myself as I am to-day. Yet I would not, if I -could, change places with him. My taste in -Selves, as in other things, has changed as I -have grown older. I blush for the weak-mindedness -of that youth who was the Me of twenty -years ago; yet I feel, in a way, relieved from -the sense of direct responsibility, for am I not, -in fact, another and a different person from -the man I was?</p> - -<p>As the delightful Holmes once expressed it, -that youthful self is like a son to me. A bit of -a cub, but on the whole, not at all a bad fellow. -He is related to me, but he is not me. And he -<em>never was</em> the man that I now am. He wore my -body for a time, that was all. We were never -the same, for I was not born until he had ceased -to be. I am no more that young man of twenty -years ago than I am that other young man who -interrupts me now—(No, I haven’t. Can’t you -see I’m busy?)—to borrow a match to set his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">154</span> -ugly bulldog pipe alight. A vile habit—pipe-smoking! -Unsanitary and beastly annoying to -those who have better sense. That young man -we were speaking of—not the one who asked -for the match, you know, but the one who had -the impudence to pass himself off for me -twenty years ago—<em>he</em> used to smoke a bulldog -pipe. I stopped it some time ago myself. Bad -for the heart, the doctor said, and—well, I’m -getting on and I can see for myself the folly -of it. Decidedly, I should not like to exchange -my own calm judgment for his youthful carelessness -and addiction to tobacco. Unless—well, -say, unless for twenty minutes after -dinner!</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig8">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Oliver Oldfellow</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_155" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">155</span></p> - -<h2>THE LITERARY LIFE</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I have read a great many references, -at one time or another, to something -which is known as “the literary life”. I have -read of it in novels, in essays, in criticisms and -in the reports of the daily newspapers. Everybody -seems to know of it, and everybody speaks -of it as of something to be taken for granted; -but though I have made an earnest effort to -discover just what it is and where and by whom -it is lived, I have been quite unable to do so. -I had been a newspaper writer for several -years when I first began to take an interest in -this curiously illusive sort of existence. It was -in a novel, I think, that I had read it upon the -occasion when my curiosity aroused me to action. -“There it is again,” I said to myself. -“What is this literary life, anyway? Who lives -it and in what does the living of it consist?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">156</span> -How does one go about finding out the secret -of it?”</p> - -<p>So I set out on my quest. As all good reporters -should do, I first took stock of my possible -sources of information, and having done -so, I did what reporters usually do when they -wish to find out anything—I asked the city -editor.</p> - -<p>“How the devil do I know?” said he in his -unliterary way. “You’re a reporter, ain’t you? -Get busy and find out. If you get anything -worth writing, make a story of it.” That is the -way with city editors; they have no thought for -anything but “stories”, no thirst for knowledge -that is not in the way of business, no soul -for the higher things in life.</p> - -<p>With this source of information closed to -me, I turned to the staff. I knew I could learn -nothing from the books where I had found the -term used. The books merely referred to “literary -life” just as we say “prison life” or -“army life” and expect every one to understand -what we mean. The first man I asked about it -simply laughed and said, “That’s a good one!”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">157</span> -The second man told me to go away and stop -bothering him. He was writing an interesting -article about the price of onions. The third -man asked me if I thought I was funny. That -nearly discouraged me. I tried one or two -others without success, and then I determined -to try a more subtle method of investigation.</p> - -<p>I had failed to gather my desired information -as a reporter; I would try my hand as a detective. -I took to following the members of the -staff home from the office. It was an afternoon -newspaper and that was easy to do. The result -of my shadowing was that I learned much of -the habits of these men, but little of what I -wanted to know. The police reporter went -from the office direct to the butcher shop. -There he made a purchase which he tucked under -his arm and went home. He stayed at home -every night that I watched him. The court reporter -spent his evenings in a little saloon on -a side street playing poker with a particular -friend of his who was a boilermaker. The hotel -reporter covered the same ground every evening -that he had covered during the day. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">158</span> -went from one hotel to another, playing pool -or billiards and shaking dice with traveling -men. After about a fortnight of investigation -I gave up trying to learn anything about the -literary life from newspaper men. I looked -up a few magazine writers and the result was -the same: <em>No two of these men lived the same -life at all!</em></p> - -<p>I was astonished. I asked myself how it -came about that these men had overlooked their -obvious duty of living the literary life. If literary -men knew nothing of the literary life, -then who would? I resolved that I would solve -that problem if it took me a year. From the -magazine writers I went on to the novelists -who seemed to have even less in common than -the two former classes had. The publishers -were so widely scattered in so many different -suburbs that I had not the courage to seek -them out.</p> - -<p>After a conscientious search which covered -a period of six months or more, I began to -think that the literary life might be one of those -traditions handed down from another age; one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">159</span> -of those things which continue to be spoken of -in books long after they cease to have any real -existence. Perhaps the authors of other days -had lived the literary life, even if the authors -of my own time did not. I would see. I began -to read biography. In Johnson’s <i>Lives of the -Poets</i> I found that:</p> - -<p>Abraham Cowley was the son of a grocer. -He showed early signs of genius; he was expelled -from Cambridge. He was, for a time, -private secretary to Lord Falkland. Afterward -he spent some time in jail as a political -prisoner. Upon emerging from prison he became -a doctor, and thinking a knowledge of -botany necessary to one of his profession, he -retired into the country to study that science. -For some reason, he abandoned botany for poetry -and from that time on he wrote poetry. -He died peacefully of rheumatism.</p> - -<p>Edmund Waller was the son of a country -gentleman. He attended Cambridge and was -sent to Parliament before he was twenty. Rich -by birth, he added to his wealth by marrying -an heiress who died young and left him free<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">160</span> -to marry again, which he did. He lived among -people of fashion and wealth, and though he -was sent into exile for a short time because of -a treasonable conspiracy in which he engaged, -he was soon restored to general favor. He died -in good circumstances of old age.</p> - -<p>Thomas Otway was the son of a rector. He -left college without a degree. He went into -gay society and mingled his literary labor with -dissipation. He was, for a short time, an officer -in the army. He fell upon evil days, and when -threatened with starvation, borrowed a guinea -from a total stranger. With this he bought -himself a roll, but he was so ravenous that he -attempted to bolt it at one mouthful and so -choked himself to death.</p> - -<p>Which one of these men might properly be -said to have led the literary life?</p> - -<p>You need not be surprised to find in your -paper some morning an advertisement to this -effect: “Wanted—Some definite information -concerning the character and habitat of the -Literary Life.” But if you know anything -about it, don’t wait for the advertisement, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">161</span> -send on your information at once. I think -maybe I would be willing to try it myself. -Certainly <em>somebody</em> ought to live it.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">A. J. Penn</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_162" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">162</span></p> - -<h2>THE POETIC LICENSE</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: Your recent strictures upon a -certain poem by John Masefield, and the general -tenor of several other volumes of verse -recently published, have moved me to address -you upon a subject which holds considerable -interest for me; and that, Sir, is the scope and -legitimacy of what is commonly called “the -poetic license”. To what does this license extend -and by whom is it granted? Is there no -way in which it may be regulated by law?</p> - -<p>This matter of the poetic license is a source -of continual annoyance to me. I find it invoked -upon all occasions. I find that it is considered a -sufficient answer to any criticisms or charges -that may be brought against a poet. I am curious -to know if there is any real authority for -it; if it is not, in fact, a mere figment of the imagination,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">163</span> -a polite fiction of letters invented by -men of letters for the purpose of confounding -the layman and depriving him of his natural -right to pass an opinion upon all that he reads?</p> - -<p>I confess I am no poet. This being so, I may -be lacking in sympathy for the art, as some of -my poetic acquaintances have averred. But I -protest that a man need not be a poet to be a -judge of poetry, any more than he need be a -vintner to be a judge of wines, or a cook to -be a judge of preserves. I may lack the finer -ear of the poet when it comes to a question of -complicated rhythms, but I am not lacking in -an elementary knowledge of grammar, as some -of our poets appear to be. I never could see -any reason why a poet’s grammatical or orthographical -errors should be condoned merely -because he chooses to write in verse. We do -not condone such defects in a prose writer, why -then in a poet? It may be urged that the poet -has a harder task than the prose writer; that it -is more difficult to express one’s self in verse -than in prose. No doubt it is, but is that any -reason why incompetent writers should be excused<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">164</span> -their errors? Or their laxness? Or their -laziness? Why write poetry at all if they can -not write it properly? Why not choose prose -for a medium? There are men, no doubt, who -find prose as difficult as most men find poetry, -but do we therefore overlook their mistakes or -their vagaries?</p> - -<p>Sir, it appears to me that the leniency shown -to verse writers in this respect has worked a -great injury to the art of poetry. It has encouraged -men to write verses, who were in no -way fitted to write verses. It has led tyros to -choose poetry rather than prose because in the -former they feel more secure from the well-merited -censure of their readers. It has degraded -really good poetry to the level of very -poor poetry by allowing virtue where there was -none and by holding verses full of defects to -be equal in merit with verses marred by no such -violations of the common rules of grammar -and orthography.</p> - -<p>All this, Sir, was bad enough, but I was prepared -to pass over it since it is a practise inaugurated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">165</span> -and upheld by professional critics -who will allow us laymen no word at all in the -matter. But, Sir, when these poets attempt to -extend their poetic license to clothing, to manners -and to morals, I think they go too far.</p> - -<p>Not long since, I ventured some remarks, -not altogether complimentary, upon the personal -appearance of a certain poet, or poetaster, -as I prefer to call him, in the presence of -a literary woman. “Oh, yes,” she replied. -“There’s no denying it—he <em>is</em> a sloven. But -really one of his spirituality could hardly be -expected to be finicky about his clothing and -that sort of thing.” Upon another occasion, I -spoke harshly with regard to the manners of a -well-known versifier, and I was rebuked for -my hasty judgment with the assurance that the -oddity of his conduct ought not to be ascribed -to boorishness or rudeness, but to his poetic -temperament. And, Sir, only yesterday, when -I condemned the unbridled license and immorality -of a recent book of poetry, I was informed -that a poet could not be expected to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">166</span> -view a moral question from the same angle as -an ordinary uninspired mortal.</p> - -<p>Sir, if these scribblers of verse are to be allowed -any license, why should they not qualify -for it as do pedlers, saloon-keepers and the like? -Why not require them to prove their fitness for -the business of writing poetry? Let them secure -their license from the civil authorities, and -let those licenses be revoked at the first indication -of abuse of privilege.</p> - -<p>As affairs now stand, any one who chances -to possess a pen, a windsor tie and a wide-awake -hat can pass himself off for a poet and -can claim indulgence for his bad verse, bad -manners and bad morals upon the plea of poetic -temperament. Therefore, to insure the -public against such imposture, I suggest that -every poet be compelled, like every chauffeur, -to wear his license in a conspicuous place, and -that if he fail to comply with this requirement, -he be immediately impounded.</p> - -<p>This arrangement, I think, would operate as -an effective check upon the too exuberant poetic -temperament, and would also be an excellent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">167</span> -thing for the public, for, Sir, if every poet -were required, like every dog, to wear his license -attached to a collar, the pound would -soon be full of poets.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">P. Rose</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_168" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">168</span></p> - -<h2>THE NECESSITY FOR BEGGARS</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: It is with alarm that I observe -the increasing activity of our charitable organizations -and the consequent disappearance -of beggars from our city streets. I, who was -formerly constantly importuned for alms -whenever I stirred abroad, have not now been -approached by one of those needy tatterdemalions -for a period of six months or more. -This fact has, for me, a deep significance. It -means nothing less than that the ancient fraternity -of street beggars is rapidly dying out. -Surely you must have noticed that yourself. -Where are the old blue-spectacled men one -used to see standing upon the corners, bearing -the once-familiar placard, “I am Blind”? -Where are the legless men who used to wring -discords from little squatty hand-organs? -Where are the street-singers, the match venders,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">169</span> -the orphans, the lost children, the paralytics? -Where, even, is the Italian organ-grinder -with his begging monkey? These -charitable organizations, Sir, have spirited -them away, and now instead of being approached -by the beggars themselves, we are -visited by the agents of the societies.</p> - -<p>Now, Sir, my regret at the passing of the -beggar is not altogether sentimental, like -Charles Lamb’s complaint in <i>The Decay of -Beggars in the Metropolis</i>. There may be a -certain amount of sentiment in it, for certainly -in the loss of beggars we not only lose a picturesque -class of people, but we also suffer a -spiritual loss. The spiritual glow which came -of personal giving is entirely, or almost entirely, -absent in making checks for these beggars -by proxy. But, Sir, I am a practical man -and I can plainly see that the beggar, so far -from being a mere nuisance and eyesore, as -charity-workers would have you believe, is a -very useful and necessary member of the social -order.</p> - -<p>Beggars, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, are the natural scavengers<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">170</span> -of the human race. They live upon the -scraps we throw from our tables; they dress in -our cast-off garments. In short, Sir, they make -to serve a useful purpose, that which would -otherwise be sheer waste. These humble people -are the economists of humanity. They save -what we squander. Every time one of them -goes without a meal, there is that much more -food left in the world for the rest of us. James -Howell wrote of the Spaniard in 1623, “He -hath another commendable quality, that when -he giveth alms he pulls off his hat and puts it -in the beggar’s hand with a great deal of humility.” -Let us say, rather, with a great deal -of respect and gratitude. Truly the Spanish -grandee had reason to be grateful and respectful -to the beggar who made possible his own -magnificence.</p> - -<p>Now, Sir, what are these charitable organizations -trying to do? I will tell you—they are -trying to teach the beggar that he wants the -comforts of life. They are trying to teach him -to desire good clothes and good food. They -are trying to awaken in him that selfish desire<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">171</span> -to appear better than his fellows, which we call -“self-respect”. <em>They are even trying to teach -him to work!</em> What folly!</p> - -<p>“But,” you say, “it would be an excellent -thing if all of these vagabonds could be induced -to work, for heretofore they have been -mere idlers and parasites.” To which I answer, -“You are wrong, it would <em>not</em> be a good thing.” -Is it not perfectly clear that, once these beggars -become workers, they will immediately demand -the means to enable them to maintain a -higher standard of living? Which do you think -costs you the more, the beggar who begs perhaps -a dollar a week, which he has not earned, -or the bricklayer who charges you six dollars -a day, of which he has earned only a part? It -has been some years now since the notorious -Coxey led his army of unemployed to Washington, -and since that time the number of unemployed -workers has been steadily increasing. -Do you think, then, that we need more laborers? -Have we so much wealth that we must -force it on those who were content to be without -it?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">172</span></p> - -<p>Why, Sir, I tell you this corruption of beggars -should be put down with a firm hand. -These charitable organizations should be legislated -out of existence before they do an irreparable -mischief.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Henry Hardhead</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_173" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">173</span></p> - -<h2>THE ABUSES OF ADVERSITY</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: In the course of a long and not -uneventful life, I have, upon more than one -occasion, looked upon adversity in its various -forms, and I have, therefore, given the subject -some attention, both in the light of my -own experience and in the light of the opinions -of others. I have heard a great deal of the -“uses of adversity”; that adversity is like a -great training-school for character which -brings out whatever strength and resolution -there may be in a man, and much talk of a like -character. But I must confess that I have not -often seen adversity, nor its lessons, put to any -good use whatever, while I have often seen it -abused most shamefully.</p> - -<p>So far from learning useful lessons from -ill-fortune, it seems to me that most men are -inclined to turn misfortune to the basest of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">174</span> -uses, making it serve as an excuse for shirking, -for moral lapses, for dishonesty and for an utter -lack of charity toward others. I find that -many people boast of their misfortunes as if -they were actually entitled to some credit because -they have befallen them, wearing woe -like a feather in the cap and holding themselves -somewhat better than their fellows because they -appear to have excited the wrath of the Goddess -of Fortune. It is as if they said: “See, -we are the Unfortunate Ones who are of sufficient -importance to be singled out from among -men to receive Sorrows which you are unfit to -bear. Look upon our afflictions and reflect -upon the happiness of your own lot, and do not -forget to do us honor for the fortitude with -which we bear our miseries.”</p> - -<p>I count among my friends and acquaintances -a number of these habitual boasters of -misfortune, who are always ready, day or -night, to relate their trials and tribulations with -a conscious air of distinction and superiority.</p> - -<p>There is an old fellow of my acquaintance -who suffers, or so he declares, the torments of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">175</span> -the damned, by reason of his gout, a disease -which has held him in its grip for the last -twenty years. There is no manner of doubt -that he has himself to blame for this painful -malady, which is, without question, the result -of his injudicious and riotous manner of life -in his youth. Yet this old man is as proud of -his infirmity as many another man is of physical -soundness, and he relates his pangs and -twinges with the greatest relish in the world. -Nor does the fact that he has suffered from -the disease for nearly a quarter of a century -have any effect upon the eagerness with which -he always turns the conversation upon his favorite -topic. Despite the fact that he has told -and retold his pains and symptoms ten thousand -times, the subject never seems to lose its -novelty for him, and to-day he discusses his infirmity -with as much gusto as he did when I -first met him ten years or more ago. It makes -no difference what may be the subject of the -company’s discourse, this man can not bear to -go twenty minutes without intruding the matter -of his lame foot.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">176</span></p> - -<p>Politics, business, history, music, literature, -art or the drama—all these are but verbal stepping-stones -to his one supreme subject. Does -some one speak of Napoleon at the foot of the -great Pyramids, the mere mention of the word -“foot” is enough to set him discoursing of the -inflammation in his great toe. Does some one -call attention to the flaming crimson of the sunset, -he swears that it is not so red as his own -instep. He never enters a conversation, in -short, but to put his foot in it, and so persistently -does he dwell upon this malformed pedal -extremity as to render him fit company for -none but chiropodists. He has no interest in -life but his gout, and he is forever talking of -the pain it causes him, though I dare say it has -never caused him a tenth part of the misery -that it has caused his friends and acquaintances.</p> - -<p>Another person whom I have the misfortune -to know is a widow lady of some nine years’ -standing, who has never put off her weeds and -who never tires of bewailing the loss of the -dear departed. The bare mention of death is a -sufficient warrant for a flood of tears, and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">177</span> -sight of a hearse sends her into hysterics which -abate only at the prospect of a sympathetic audience -for the old story of her bereavement. -She goes about the neighborhood casting the -shadow of death upon all our innocent pleasures -and brings with her into our happy homes -the gloom of the mortuary chamber. Her long-continued -mourning and complaint are the less -deserving of patience and sympathy when we -reflect that her husband was already past the -age of seventy-five when he died, so that nobody -but the most infatuated mourner could -speak, as she does, of his having been “cut off -in his prime.” One would think, to hear her -speak of him, that other men were in the habit -of living to the age of Methuselah and that no -other woman in the world had cause to mourn -her spouse. For my part, I think the old man -had small reason to complain of premature demise, -and I know that were I her husband I -would ask nothing better. To cast the slightest -suspicion upon the genuineness of her -grief or the sufficiency of the cause thereof -would be to lay one’s self open to a tongue<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">178</span> -which can be most bitter when it chooses; so I -fear we shall have to bear her complaints and -her mourning until she dissolves in tears like -Niobe, or until Death gives ear to her publicly -expressed desire to join her mate beyond the -grave.</p> - -<p>My cousin, Robert Wasrich, is forever telling -of the wealth and luxury which were his in -his younger days and complaining of the -lowly estate into which he is fallen in his middle -age. The quarters in which he now resides -are of the humblest, but he speaks of them most -ostentatiously to all who have not visited them, -referring to them as “chambers” and adding -that, while they are far above the average, they -are not at all what he has been used to in other -years. When we have him for our guest, which -we do out of pity at Christmas and such seasons -when it seems shameful to neglect one’s -own kin, he upsets our whole household with his -constant complaints and exactions.</p> - -<p>So, far from trying to make himself -as little a nuisance as possible, he must -needs take his breakfast in bed because<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">179</span> -that was his custom in the days of his -prosperity, and he must be supplied with -all sorts of dainties and extra dishes because -his stomach, so he says, craves them, having become -accustomed to them when he was wealthy. -He finds fault with the cooking, saying that it -probably seems well enough to us, who have -never been used to anything better, but that it -is death to the palate of one who has been in -the habit of eating and drinking of the best. -He picks flaws in our pictures and decries our -taste in furnishings, and so sends my wife off -to her chamber in a fit of indignant weeping. -And not content with all this, he is forever -borrowing of me small sums of money which -he declares he stands in need of to pay off certain -obligations to friends whom he has known -in his better days and who have seen fit to ask -him to dinner or to the play. To allow such obligations -to go unpaid would be most offensive -to his acute sense of honor and would cast discredit -upon his honored name. In fact, Mr. -<i>Idler</i>, he is twice as arrogant and proud in his -poverty as he was when he was well-off. And<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">180</span> -more than once I have wished with all my heart -that he might be rich again, and so take himself -off and leave us in peace.</p> - -<p>To come nearer home, my wife is the victim -of a nervous disorder which totally incapacitates -her from doing our housework, though -we can ill afford a servant, but which, oddly -enough, does not interfere with her attendance -at matinées or card-parties given by her women -friends. This is doubtless due, as she says, to -the fact that exertion which is in the nature of -a diversion takes her mind from her trouble -and so mends her condition for the time being. -Though this disorder is not in the least dangerous, -it is most obstinate and causes her, so -she assures me, the most acute mental anguish -and the most terrible physical suffering. It is -of such a peculiar nature that any mention of -the amount of the month’s bills sets it instantly -in motion, and disappointment in the matter -of getting a new hat is enough to cause her to -take to her bed for a week. But though, as you -can readily see, this indisposition puts her to a -great deal of trouble and annoyance, she will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">181</span> -not consent to enter a sanatorium where she -might be cured of it, nor will she follow the -advice of the doctor whom she calls in from -one to three times a month; so that I am forced -to conclude that she is actually proud of being -an invalid. And I am the more of this -opinion, since when I complain of feeling ill -or indisposed, she always assures me that I do -not know what suffering is and that I never -can know because I was not born a woman.</p> - -<p>These and other cases which have come under -my observation have convinced me that -people are more proud of their afflictions than -of their blessings, and that the most common -use of adversity is to make life miserable for -others.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">I am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Edward Easyman</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_182" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">182</span></p> - -<h2>THE SCIENCE OF MAKING ENEMIES</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: As I am about to open a school -of an unusual nature, I have determined not -only to secure for the same as much publicity -as possible, but also to explain to the public the -nature of the instruction which will be furnished -in my new academy. My course of -study is, I think, unique; and I fear that without -explanation it would probably prove quite -incomprehensible to the public at large and to -those who may chance to hear of the school -through friends or to read my advertisements -in the press.</p> - -<p>In this connection, it seems to me not out of -place to acquaint you, in some sort, with the -reasons which led me to settle upon the plan of -my proposed course of instruction, and this I -shall accordingly do to the best of my ability.</p> - -<p>I entered at an early age upon my present<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">183</span> -profession, which is, as you may have surmised, -that of an educator. I became, in turn, -an instructor, a tutor and a professor of sociology. -I have ever been of an independent -character of mind, and in the course of my -work I have been prone to draw my own conclusions -without, I confess, much consideration -of, or regard for, the opinions of others who -assume, or have assumed, to be authorities upon -the subject. Society, I believe, is a subject -which must be studied at first hand. Text-books -and treatises may be well enough as stimulants -to study, but the real essential is a -knowledge of people. I, therefore, devoted -myself to the study of mankind, and I studied -the students of my classes with more enthusiasm -and with more application, I dare say, than -my students studied their text-books. But I -did not stop with the study of others, I also -studied myself. I studied myself as an isolated -individual, and I studied myself in relation to -others, and it was as a result of this study that -I finally made a most disconcerting discovery—a -discovery which was not made until I had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">184</span> -entered upon my professorship, and which -shocked me inexpressibly and bade fair, for a -time, to put an end to my career as a teacher.</p> - -<p>Though at first it was only a suspicion, it soon -became a conviction. I discovered that I was -<em>unpopular</em>. Not unpopular with a few only, -for all of us are that, but generally and hopelessly -unpopular; a man without any friends -and with a great many enemies. I do not now -recall what first called my attention to this -matter, but I do remember that I gave it a -great deal of thought and attention and I -studied the case in the same impartial manner -that I would study any other case of social -phenomena. I took careful note of the demeanor -and behavior of my students and my -fellow members of the faculty, and I soon settled -beyond any reasonable doubt all question -as to my popularity. I had never established -myself upon a footing of familiarity or -friendship with my students and I now came -to see the reason why this was so. My students -did not like me and they would have nothing -more to do with me than was absolutely necessary.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">185</span> -It was the same with the members of the -faculty. I was retained in my position because -I was an able instructor and an indefatigable -worker. There was no sort of favoritism in my -case and I knew that my colleagues as well as -my students would have been glad to see me -guilty of some blunder which would justify -my removal.</p> - -<p>As you may suppose, this was not only a -hard blow to my vanity, but a very painful -thing to think upon. Like most men, I had -always assumed that people were glad to know -me and to have me about, and it distressed me -exceedingly to learn that this assumption was -without foundation or justification. It is one -of the enigmas of human nature—this conviction -of personal popularity. No man can conceive -of himself as a pariah, nor even as a very -unpopular person, until he actually finds himself -in that situation. Even the greatest bores -seldom realize that they <em>are</em> bores. But most -bores are not sociologists.</p> - -<p>Now, when I had become fully convinced -that my unpopularity was a fact and not a figment<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">186</span> -of my imagination, I began to turn the -matter over in my mind and to direct my attention -to the study of popularity and unpopularity -both as to cause and effect. My study led -me to several discoveries. The first was this: -that some people are born with the attribute of -popularity and possess the faculty of making -friends without any conscious effort on their -part, while others have a trick of making enemies -without actually being guilty of any offense. -This is not what is called positive and -negative “magnetism,” but it is something like -that. When a man possesses this faculty for -making friends he will make them whether or -no, even though he be lacking in all the qualities -which men find admirable. He may be -selfish, cold, over-ambitious and ruthless of the -rights of others, and yet exercise a fascination -upon other men. Such a man was Napoleon -Bonaparte, who called forth the greatest personal -devotion and enthusiasm in the men -whom he destroyed for his own ends. Contrariwise, -a man may be noble, generous, affable<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">187</span> -and everything that a popular man should be, -and yet be practically without friends.</p> - -<p>But I made another and greater discovery -which reconciled me to my unpopularity and -which, indeed, completely revolutionized my -views upon the subject—<em>I discovered that the -greatest men in the world have been the ones -who had the most enemies!</em></p> - -<p>And it was upon making this discovery, Sir—the -most important, in my opinion, that has -been made by any sociologist of our time—that -I determined to set up my school for the exposition -of the science of making enemies. All -men, said I to myself, are naturally ambitious; -they desire fame, honor and riches. They have -but to be shown the way and they will enter -eagerly upon it.</p> - -<p>Elated as I was at my great discovery, I -could not but wonder that men had not discovered -this secret long ago. How could such -men as Spencer, Lecky, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche -and the others have overlooked a thing so -<em>simple</em> and so obviously true?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">188</span></p> - -<p>Here, I rejoiced, I have a discovery—not a -theory, not an hypothesis—but a fact! A fact -which may be tested and proven in any field of -human activity—in government, in commerce, -in religion, in literature, in art—in everything! -No religion can live without first enduring persecution; -no government can survive without -the patriotism bred of the fear of enemies and -the hatred of foes; no general can become -great without war; no author becomes a classic -without criticism; no prophet can conquer without -opposition. Nothing great can be done -without enemies.</p> - -<p>For generations, for ages, men have been -proceeding upon an entirely erroneous theory -that friends are more necessary to success than -enemies. Such stupidity! Such utter disregard -of the evidence to the contrary which confronts -us upon every hand! Our park benches are -lined with men who had too many friends, our -charitable institutions are overflowing with -them. Think of the most popular man you -know and then of the most successful! Are -they the same? Of course not. Once you stop<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">189</span> -to think of it, the truth of my discovery is self-evident. -No matter where you go you will find -that the greatest man is the one who has the -most enemies.</p> - -<p>Friends are not only not necessary to a man’s -success, but they are often a positive detriment. -A man surrounded by friends is like a man -blindfolded—he can not see where he is going. -How do you improve? By correcting your -faults. And who points out your faults, your -friends or your enemies? An enemy is a spur. -An enemy is an inspiration. Your friends -sympathize with you, commiserate with you, -agree with you and flatter you; but your enemies -<em>advertise you</em>.</p> - -<p>Whistler once wrote a book called <i>The Gentle -Art of Making Enemies</i>, and I suspect that -Whistler had caught an inkling of the truth -of my great discovery, but his title was a misnomer. -The making of enemies is not an art, -but a science. Some people have a special gift -for it, as I have, but almost any one can learn -how. By observing a few simple rules in this -connection, any man should be able to acquire<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">190</span> -all the enemies he may desire. But any man -may save himself a great deal of time and -trouble by taking my course of instruction. -When he receives his diploma from the Sourface -Training School he will be so well versed -in this science that he will thereafter follow the -principles of the school without any thought -whatever, but purely from force of habit.</p> - -<p>Judging from the number of people I see -about me who are trying in an amateurish way -to acquire enemies, the academy should have a -large attendance from the start, and since I -have never met a more unpopular man than -myself, I know of no one more eminently -qualified to conduct such a school. I can not -afford to make public my method of instruction -because such an action would open the field -to a host of imitators, but I can assure you that -the course is most effective.</p> - -<p>There is only one doubt in my mind about -the success of the school, and that is this: I -fear that when the public realizes the tremendous -import of my discovery and appreciates -the great work which I am doing for humanity,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">191</span> -I shall become so popular that I will be in -great danger of losing the success which I have -labored so hard to attain and which I so richly -deserve.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">Truly yours,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Samuel Sourface</span>, -</p> - -<p class="in0 in2"> -<span class="in1">Headmaster, Sourface Training School.</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Cranktown, New Jersey</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_192" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">192</span></p> - -<h2>THE FATE OF FALSTAFF</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I am an actor; a follower of -Thespis, an interpreter of men and emotions. -To become such was the dream of my boyhood’s -ambition. At an early age (I shall not -state when, since you would probably be incredulous) -I used, Sir, to act plays for my own -amusement and afterward for the amusement -of my elders. Where other children were content -to play in careless fashion, without attempting -anything like an exact reproduction -or imitation of Nature, I was most particular -in this respect. If I played Julius Cæsar, I -had, to satisfy my artistic instinct, to carry a -short sword and not a long one; I must needs -wrap myself in a sheet and swear by the -heathen gods. Nothing short of this satisfied -me. I could not, as so many children do, thrust<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">193</span> -a feather duster down the neck of my jacket -and play at being an Indian chief; on the contrary, -I must have the feathers in my hair and -my complexion darkened until I bore some actual -resemblance to the aborigine. Without -these aids to illusion I could not enjoy myself -or get any manner of amusement from the -sport. I was so close a student of details, even -at that age, that in playing Indian I acquired -a habit of toeing-in which caused my mother -much distress and which clung to me for many -months.</p> - -<p>Nor was I less particular in the matter of my -speech. I was forever mouthing sentiments -and speeches culled from my father’s library, -some of them, I dare say, weird and bizarre -enough upon my youthful and innocent -lips. However this may be, I had an abiding -horror of all sorts of anachronisms, and I preferred -Ben Jonson to Shakespeare for the -reason that he was less frequently guilty of -offending my artistic sense in this respect.</p> - -<p>It was not long before my parents were impressed -with my natural bent in this direction<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">194</span> -and encouraged me in my favorite diversion by -taking the part of an audience, while my -younger brother was pressed into service with -his harmonica and rendered the overtures and -the interludes to the best of his somewhat limited -ability; for I could no more act without an -orchestra than I could act without a make-up. -Incidentally I came to practise the art of elocution, -and it was said in our neighborhood that -I could interpret <i>Horatio at the Bridge</i> in a -most telling fashion, and that not Riley himself -could improve upon my rendition of <i>The Raggedy -Man</i>.</p> - -<p>With such a wealth of youthful experience, -it was not surprising that I found myself at the -age of twenty-one a supernumerary in a -theater, nor that soon afterward I was -given a speaking part and rose, before long, to -the dignity of “leads” in a stock company of -the first class. It was at this time that I was -given my first opportunity really to distinguish -myself. A prominent manager, who shall be -nameless, sent for me and told me that he had -chosen me to play Falstaff in a production of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">195</span> -<i>Henry the Fourth</i> which he intended putting -on the following winter.</p> - -<p>Elated as I was at this splendid opportunity -for a display of my genius for acting, I could -not forbear voicing certain conscientious scruples -as to my ability to do the part justice.</p> - -<p>“I can undoubtedly interpret the character -to your most complete satisfaction,” said I to -the manager, “but there is an obstacle, which, -while by no means unsurmountable, must, nevertheless, -be overcome at once or not at all.”</p> - -<p>“And what is that?” he inquired.</p> - -<p>“Why,” said I, “I am not fat enough.”</p> - -<p>“What odds?” he answered; “while there are -pads and pillows, this should be no matter for -despair. You have only to stuff your doublet -and pad your hose until you are as swollen as -you like.”</p> - -<p>“That,” I protested, “may do very well for -your merely commercial actors who have no -concern in their acting beyond the matter of -drawing a salary; but I, Sir, am an <em>actor</em>, not -a mere buffoon, not a vulgar clown to waddle -about a stage wagging a hypocritical belly and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">196</span> -passing off feathers for fat. If I am to play -Falstaff, I will be Falstaff, in the flesh as well -as in the spirit. My corporosity shall be sincere, -my puffing and grunting shall be genuine; -I will eat real food and drink real liquor -upon your stage, and when I waddle I shall -waddle as Nature intended fat men to waddle—because -I can not help it. My calves shall be -as natural as Sir John’s own, so that if I am -pricked with the point of a rapier, I shall give -utterance to a howl which is not mere mockery, -but as real as a howl may well be, and which -will delight the audience as no feigned howl -ever could do.</p> - -<p>“No, no! I shall not play Falstaff like a -clown in a pantomime, but like that very -knight himself. My performance shall be as -real as the performance of Nature. I will be -Sir John redivivus. Falstaff shall live again -in me. He shall be I and I will be he, and there -is an end of it.”</p> - -<p>Well, Sir, to be brief, the manager was so -struck with my unusual and, I may say, unaffected, -sincerity, that he voluntarily advanced<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">197</span> -me a portion of my salary and agreed to my -proposal that, instead of wasting valuable -time in rehearsing a part in which I was already -practically letter-perfect, my part in the -rehearsals should be taken by a substitute, -while I retired to the country and devoted myself -to my labor of love—to the task of putting -on so much flesh as would be necessary to act -with fidelity the pursy knight errant. And this -I did to so good purpose that from my normal -weight of about one hundred and ninety -pounds, I soon came to weigh upward of two -hundred and eighty, and was as fat as any one -could wish when we opened in <i>Henry the -Fourth</i> in the Autumn.</p> - -<p>To say, Sir, that my performance was a success -is to do scant justice to the literary ability -of William Shakespeare and to my own histrionic -powers. It was not merely a success—it -was a triumph! Ah, Sir, if I could but whisper -in your ear the name by which I was known -in those days of superlative glory, you would -recall in the flash of an eye the days when the -whole of the English-speaking world was convulsed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">198</span> -with merriment at my performance and -when press and public were vying with each -other to do me honor! Never was such a performance -of Falstaff given before, and never, -I fear, will such a performance be given again. -I was Falstaff to the very life! Falstaff in person -and not to be mistaken for any one else. -You could have sworn that I had stepped -bodily out of the pages of the folio edition and -thrust my way into the theater of my own volition, -usurping the place of the actor.</p> - -<p>Four whole seasons we played to crowded -houses—New York, Chicago, San Francisco -and London—and everywhere the critics all -agreed that never had such a perfect Falstaff -been seen before. This we followed with <i>The -Merry Wives of Windsor</i>, repeating our success -for two seasons, so that for six years I was -known to every actor and patron of the theater -as the greatest Falstaff that ever was.</p> - -<p>But Fate, alas! however prodigal she may -appear for a time, is not constant in her favors. -All things come to an end sooner or later, and -our production of <i>The Merry Wives</i> ran its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">199</span> -course in time. How well do I remember that -last night of all—the glitter of the electrics -overhead, the glare of the footlights, the music -of the orchestra, and, oh, above all else, the -thunderous applause that greeted me when I -appeared before the curtain, clad in trunks and -doublet, to make my farewell speech! There -ended our production, and there ended my -greatness and my life. My grossness I have -still, but my greatness has fled forever! Disconsolate -I wander through the haunts of -stageland, a fat pale ghost of my former self; -a Falstaff out of place and out of time; a Falstaff -without jollity or joy. I, Sir, have become -that thing which I hate above all other -things in the world, I have become an Anachronism!</p> - -<p>Conceive, if you can, my consternation when -I discovered my dilemma. Having no further -need for my excessive flesh, I sought to reduce -my weight only to find that I could not lose it! -Six years of playing Falstaff had made me -Falstaff for good or ill. No fighter of the -prize-ring, no beauty of the court, ever labored<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">200</span> -as I labored to struggle back to slimness. -No Hamlet ever cried more earnestly than I,</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indentq">“Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt!”</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Like Sisyphus, I toiled for months with my -burden, rolling off flesh only to have it roll on -again, until at last I gave up in despair.</p> - -<p>No manager would employ me to play for -him—I was too fat. Too fat to act, too fat to -play at any part but one. Once only since that -time have I tried to obtain an engagement and -that was when I saw an advertisement of a revival -of my own great play, <i>Henry the -Fourth</i>. But would you believe it, Sir, the -manager had the impudence to laugh in my -face, to deny the truth of my story and scoff -at my insistence upon my identity. He called -me, Sir, <em>a fat slob</em>! In desperation I tried a -Dime Museum, only to be told that no “fat -freaks” were employed who weighed less than -three hundred and fifty pounds. At last I fell -into my present disgraceful situation; I was -employed by a restaurant-keeper as a decoy. -In the window of one of the cheapest and vilest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">201</span> -cafés in this city I sit for eight hours daily -drawing a crowd about the place while I toy -with a knife and fork and pretend to eat of a -meal that I would not feed my most bitter enemy. -I do not eat it. I can not eat it. And so, -Sir, here I sit each day, a mere husk of my -former self, a hulk, a wrecked Leviathan! A -fraud and a freak; a delusion and a snare. -This have I suffered in consequence of my devotion -to an ideal—I who was for six years the -greatest Falstaff the world has ever known!</p> - -<p class="sig"> -T. P. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_202" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">202</span></p> - -<h2>THE REWARD OF MERIT</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I am an ashman, or, as they call -me nowadays, a scavenger. It may appear to -you, Sir, a queer thing that a man in my station -in life should address a letter to an editor and -upon such a subject, but when I have made -you acquainted with the facts of my case, I -think it will not seem so strange.</p> - -<p>It is true that I am now employed as a scavenger, -but I was formerly the occupant of a -very different station in life; I was formerly a -physician. I wish to lay before you what I -consider the causes of my descent in the social -scale. When a man who has once been a member -of an honored profession is reduced to -manual labor of a peculiarly disagreeable sort, -the common opinion is like to be that he is in -some way responsible for his own downfall; -that he has fallen a victim to drink or drugs,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">203</span> -to a passion for gambling, or to some other injurious -habit. In my own case, I will not deny -that the change in my circumstances is probably -due to my own conduct, though I do assure -you that it was not caused by my indulgence -in the habits which I have mentioned -above. To be brief, Sir, I am of the opinion -that my present poverty and obscurity is nothing -more nor less than the reward of merit.</p> - -<p>It has been my observation that most of the -favorite theories of the human race are erroneous. -They come into being as mere suggestions, -they grow into convictions, they thrive -as platitudes, and they die as superstitions. -There have been millions of them since the -world began, and I have no doubt there will be -millions of others before the last man has vanished -from the face of the earth. Some of these -theories live on long after they have been -clearly demonstrated to be without foundation -in fact, and sometimes they work great harm -to the innocent persons who accept and act -upon them in good faith. Such has been my -sad experience, and the theory which was responsible<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">204</span> -for my present unpleasant situation -was the theory that merit is always rewarded.</p> - -<p>As a boy I was of a confiding and trusting -nature. I believed all that was told me, and I -put especial faith in the admonitions and advice -of those who were set to instruct me in -manners and morals. One of the first lessons I -learned was that merit is always rewarded; -and another, that industry is the certain road -to success and advancement. These things I -firmly believed to be true. Sundays, when -other boys of my acquaintance stole away to go -fishing or swimming, I went to Sunday-school, -firm in the conviction that my virtue and self-denial -would be amply rewarded, though I was -a bit hazy as to the manner in which this would -come about. It was often a severe temptation -to hear the truants boasting of the pleasures -they had enjoyed at the swimming-pool or at -the fork of the creek where they went to angle. -At the end of my first summer of Sunday-school, -I was given a crude picture card showing -two cows of peculiar construction who appeared -to be enjoying themselves immensely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">205</span> -in the very river I had shunned so religiously. -Upon this card there was printed a conspicuous -legend: “The Reward of Merit.”</p> - -<p>While this result of my season of piety was -not what I had expected, I continued to hope -on until I had acquired quite a collection of -similar cards, some of them varied a little as to -subject, but all of the same order of art, and all -bearing the familiar legend. Being of a naturally -optimistic and sanguine disposition, I -soon convinced myself that my mistake lay in -looking for material rewards in return for -spiritual industry.</p> - -<p>When I entered the profession of medicine, -I still clung to my theory of the reward of -merit, and no sooner did I get a patient than I -set to work to cure him as quickly as possible. -If a patient really had nothing the matter with -him, I sent him about his business. I was not -a nerve specialist and I did not care to be bothered -with hypochondriacs. Though I started -with an unusually good practise for a young -physician, the result of this course of conduct -was that I found myself in two years’ time<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">206</span> -sitting idle in my office with my waiting-room -absolutely empty. I had cured all my patients -who were really ill and I had offended all who -only thought they were ill. It seems that one -can not offend a man more than by telling him -he is well when he prefers to think that he is -unwell. My patients who had been cured had -no further need of me, and those whom I had -refused to treat had no further use for me, so -that the tongue of malice completed the work -which my own energy had begun. And thus, -for the second time, my theory of the reward -of merit had failed to work out. Having made -one failure as a doctor, I could never again establish -myself in the practise of medicine. -Wherever I went, the story of my failure had -preceded me, so that presently I found myself -dropping down and down in the social scale -until finally I awoke one morning to find myself -a scavenger.</p> - -<p>“Now,” said I to myself, “I have touched -bottom and I must presently go up again like -a man who sinks in the water.” But my hopes -were not realized. I remained a collector and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">207</span> -remover of garbage. My study of hygiene had -taught me the evils of filth and I could not, -therefore, neglect my work as a less intelligent -scavenger might have done. I knew that my -clients were depending upon me, in a great degree, -to protect them from typhoid and kindred -evils, and even though I realized that this -dependence was more or less unconscious upon -their part, I could no more have shirked my responsibility -than I could have gone into their -houses and killed them in cold blood. So I went -to work earnestly and I flatter myself that -there is no more thoroughgoing workman in the -whole body of scavengers than myself.</p> - -<p>Since I have been engaged in this work I -have made another discovery. I have discovered -that industry is by no means a sure road -to advancement. When my work is well done -I am paid, but I am not complimented. The -thoroughness of my methods does not attract -the attention of my clients. Nobody seeks me -out with a proffer of more congenial employment. -Everybody appears to take it for -granted that I like to collect garbage. I do not.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">208</span> -I have never been a collector of anything from -choice. I used to think that any man who collected -stamps must be lacking in intelligence, -but I see now that one may be engaged in collecting -worse things than stamps. Nobody -says anything at all about my work unless -something goes wrong. And this, I believe, is -usually the case.</p> - -<p>I recently read a copy of the <i>Memoirs of -Lieutenant-Colonel Paul von Pulitz</i>, which I -retrieved from the ash-can of one of my clients -who is of a literary turn, and it was through his -receptacle for discarded matter, by the way, -that I first made the acquaintance of your excellent -publication.</p> - -<p>In these <i>Memoirs</i>, which are unusually interesting -in many respects, I came upon an anecdote -which seems to have a direct bearing upon -the question which we are now considering. It -appears that Colonel von Pulitz was discussing -with a number of other officers the chances and -mischances of a military career. Several of the -officers had volunteered the causes to which they -attributed their success. Colonel von Pulitz<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">209</span> -then related this anecdote, the truth of which -he indorses elsewhere, and in this he is borne -out by the editor of the autobiography, Professor -Rudolph Ubermann, of Berlin University.</p> - -<p>“When a young man,” writes Colonel von -Pulitz, “I fell into disgrace with my family -because of a certain youthful escapade—no -matter what—and so forfeited my opportunity -for entering the Prussian Army as an officer. -I therefore determined to gain by my -wits what I had lost by my folly. I was, as you -who know me can testify, an unusually tall -and fine-looking young man. Now it occurred -to me that if I could once attract the attention -of the king (he is here referring to Frederick -the Great) he would undoubtedly desire me as -a recruit for his ‘tall’ regiment, and if I had -an opportunity to explain to him my situation, -I might, after all, secure my coveted commission. -I therefore secured a situation as a servant -in the king’s own household, under a fictitious -name, of course; and I was highly delighted -when I found that I had been delegated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">210</span> -as one of the waiters at table, for, -thought I, now is my great opportunity certainly -at hand. But alas for my hopes! The -king bestowed upon me no notice whatever, -and for all the attention my height secured -from his majesty, I might have been a dwarf.</p> - -<p>“So it went on for weeks, and I had nearly -despaired of my commission when I hit upon -the audacious scheme which solved the problem. -I determined to attract the king’s notice -at any cost, and when next I waited upon him, -I deliberately pretended to stumble, and with -an air of awkwardness I emptied down the -neck of his majesty a plate of exceedingly -hot soup. In a moment there was an uproar. -The king was in a fury of temper and the -majordomo was in a fair way to die of fright -and chagrin, but my purpose was accomplished. -The king had looked at me. He observed -my height and my aristocratic bearing. -He questioned me, and I told him my whole -story frankly, omitting nothing but the ruse -whereby I had brought myself to his notice. -I secured my commission in his regiment, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">211</span> -from that time on I advanced steadily. The -king never forgot me, but kept a friendly eye -upon me. He once said in my presence: ‘Gentlemen, -I never see a plate of hot soup that -I do not think of my good friend the Lieutenant-Colonel -Paul von Pulitz.’”</p> - -<p>Now, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, I have no opportunity for -spilling hot soup down the necks of my clients -and my conscience will not permit me to attract -their notice by gross neglect of duty. My effective -work has failed to bring upon me their -favorable regard. Finding myself so situated, -and being, even yet, hopeful of some opportunity -for bettering myself, I have written you -this letter. I have done so in the hope that it -may meet the eye of some one of my clients, -perhaps that of the literary gentleman through -whose barrel I first made your acquaintance -and the acquaintance of the ingenious Lieutenant-Colonel -Paul von Pulitz.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig8">I, am, Sir,</span><br /> -<span class="sig2">Your humble servant,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Charles Clinker</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_212" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">212</span></p> - -<h2>THE BLESSINGS OF THE BLIND</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: Those who are blessed, as the -saying is, with two eyes and the gift of sight, -are much given to expressing sympathy with, -and sorrow for, the blind. It would be churlish -to quarrel with so unselfish a sentiment, for it -is, indeed, very good-natured of those who are -busily engaged in seeing the sights of the -world to spare the time and the thought which -they give to the sightless. Yet I often wonder -if the blind do not sometimes question, as I do, -if a great deal of this sympathy is not wasted?</p> - -<p>I, Sir, am blind. Totally and irretrievably -blind. I have been blind all my life, having -been, as the Irish say, “dark” from my birth. -Born blind, in fact. My “affliction,” as it is -called, being natural, I was born with no blemish -to betray my infirmity, and it has so happened -upon several occasions that, being<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">213</span> -thrown into the company of those who had not -previously been warned of my condition, I -have been compelled to make them acquainted -with it myself. This information has invariably -been the signal for apology and sympathetic -pity. From which I infer that men generally -feel that the blind are to be pitied and -consoled. Also I have read a great deal of the -hardship of being blind, though I have never, -I confess, been quite able to see wherein that -hardship lay. You are surprised, perhaps, to -hear me say that I have “read” of this, but I -assure you there is no reason to be surprised. -If you are at all acquainted with the progress -of science, as I suppose you are, you must have -heard of raised type. Oh, yes, I read quite as -naturally as you, yourself, though I accomplish -with my fingers what you do with your -eyes.</p> - -<p>The result of my reading has been that I -have come seriously to question the theory that -sight is necessary to human happiness and efficiency. -It has been borne in upon me that men -possessed of two good eyes are often apparently<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">214</span> -unable to make use of them. I read that -men often fall in love with women who seem, -to all others, extremely ugly; and that women -as often do the same by men. And not only -that, but that they are quite frequently completely -deceived in the characters of the persons -whom they marry, women discovering -their husbands to be bullies, and men finding -their wives to be viragoes and shrews; and all -this when the nuptial knot is tied hard and fast -and the damage is beyond repair.</p> - -<p>If eyes are really of as much use as those who -see seem to think them, how is it possible that -people should make such mistakes? Blind as I -am, such a thing could never happen to me, nor -do I think it could befall any sightless person; -certainly not one who has been, as I have, blind -from birth. I know the voice of a shrew the -moment she opens her mouth, no matter how -pleasantly she may speak at the moment. I can -point out to you the drunkard, the hypocrite -and the boor the moment I have heard them -speak. In the tone of his voice every man carries -his true certificate of character, be it good<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">215</span> -or bad. An ill-tempered man may conceal his -vice from you, who look only at his face and -judge his speech by his words, but he can not -deceive me, for I know him by his voice. I -have been engaged in business for the last -thirty years and I have never once been taken -in by a swindler. I have never yet been mistaken -in the character of a man with whom I -dealt. How many <em>seeing</em> men can say as much?</p> - -<p>Excepting the human being, we know of no -such active or intelligent creature as the ant—the -ant who lives in total darkness. Yet does -he not build his cities and fight his battles as -wisely as we do our own? I sometimes wonder -if the possession of the power of sight is not -a hindrance, rather than a help, in labor? The -ant, who can not see at all, goes straight to his -object. He is never distracted by the sight of -things along the way. The fly, on the contrary, -is possessed of a great many eyes; his head, in -fact, is practically <em>all eyes</em>. Yet what is the fly -but a parasite, a nuisance, a very vagabond of -insects? Attracted hither and thither by everything -that meets his gaze, he lights first upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">216</span> -one object and then upon another, without -rhyme or reason save his overweening curiosity, -until he finally falls into a trap and dies an -ignoble death in a spider’s web, or caught fast -upon a sticky paper. The fly has no social organization, -no family life, no mating in any -proper sense of the word. He pollutes all that -he touches. His entire life is a life of destruction, -as opposed to the ant’s, which is a life of -construction.</p> - -<p>According to the Grecian mythology, the -largest race of men the world has ever known, -the <em>Cyclops</em>, had but a single eye, and that in -the middle of the forehead. The stupidest of -all characters of the Grecian myths was <em>Argus</em>, -who, though he had more eyes than all the gods -and heroes together, yet allowed <em>Hermes</em> to -pipe him to sleep and so cut off his head. In -the tail of <em>Hera’s</em> peacock, his eyes were of as -much use to him as in his own head. <em>Eros</em>, the -god of love, was blind; yet he was of all the -gods the most joyful. And in this, our own -day, is not <em>Justice</em> blind?</p> - -<p>Is there, in all this, no significance? Is there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">217</span> -no hint of an understanding of the secret that, -as he who would save his soul must first lose -it, so he who would see must first be blind?</p> - -<p>Men see, as we say, with the mind as well as -with the eye. Men also see with the spirit. Saul -never could see the truth and beauty of Christianity -until he was stricken blind upon the -road to Damascus. But <em>while</em> he was blind, he -<em>saw</em>, and so became Paul. Would Homer have -been the giant of poets had he had his sight? I -doubt it. Would Milton have attained his -heights of inspiration, had he retained his vision? -I can not believe it. For the man who -has physical sight looks upon the earth and the -works of men; but he who has only the spiritual -sight, lifts up his eyes to God and His -angels.</p> - -<p>The shepherd lad who has never traveled beyond -his native valley dreams a beautiful -dream of the world that lies beyond the hills -that hem him in. But the tourist lives a life of -constant disillusion, for he finds in distant -lands, where he had thought to find the abiding-place -of Romance, the same humdrum life<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">218</span> -of the commonplace that he left at home.</p> - -<p>We who are blind, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, are the shepherd -boys of this life. Enclosed in our valley -of darkness by the everlasting shadow of our -endless night, we dream of the world that lies -beyond as a place of beauty and happiness. -For us there is no sad disillusion. For us there -is no rude awakening from the delights of -fancy. For us the sky is always fair and the -earth is always sweet. For us the woods are -thronged with nymphs and the grasses with -the little people of fairyland. We do not know -the gloom of age or the horror of decay. We -do not know the sight of death.</p> - -<p>Do not imagine, Sir, that because we can not -see, we can not create images. We can, we do. -We dream of the earth as fair as other men -may dream of heaven. Because we have never -seen beauty, to us all things are beautiful. -When I walk in the garden, the scent of the -rose rises to my nostrils with a sweetness which -is but intensified because I can not see the blossom -whence it springs. I finger its fragile petals, -and I rejoice in its beauty of form, for you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">219</span> -must know that one can <em>feel</em> beauty as well as -see it. I lean my head against the friendly and -sturdy oak and I hear the beating of his heart. -For to me all these things <em>live</em>. What does it -signify that they can not see, or hear, or speak? -<em>I</em> can not see; am I the less a man for that? I -learn that nowadays it is possible to communicate -with people who are born not only blind, -but deaf and dumb as well. That it is possible -to teach them to read and to speak, even as I -was taught to read and speak. Is it not possible, -then, that some day, if we will only try, -we may be able to break through the long silence -that has separated us from our brothers -and sisters of the woods and fields? Already, -we who are blind can almost understand the -whispered syllables of the rustling leaves and -the waving grass. May not some other, one -perhaps more closely shut in with God than we, -reach downward as well as upward, and bring -about the <em>universal</em> understanding? I hope it -may be so.</p> - -<p>My wife, who had the sweetest voice of any -girl I ever knew, is as fair to me to-day as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">220</span> -upon the day when I first fell in love. Her -voice, if anything, has grown more pleasant as -she has grown older. She, too, is blind, and together -we enjoy a state of happiness which -comes as near to being perpetual youth as it is -possible for mortals to attain. How infinitely -better this seems to me, than to be compelled, -day after day, to watch the fading of that -flower of my early love! To observe anxiously -the lines of care creeping into that dearly beloved -countenance; to see the snow of many -winters slowly whiten her soft smooth hair! -What a kindness of the good God is this, that -she remains forever young to me, as I do to -her, and that our passion knows nothing of the -insidious poison of departing comeliness!</p> - -<p>Curiously enough, our only child, the dearly -beloved son who was the fruit of our attachment, -has a perfect vision. And this, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, -odd as it may seem to you who are accustomed -to look upon this matter from a different point -of view, is the one worry of my life. Many -a night have I lain awake, listening to the gentle<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">221</span> -breathing of my wife at my side, and turned -over and over in my mind the dangers which -he must face because of his condition. Often -have I prayed God that He might watch over -him and turn aside his eyes from the ugliness, -the sin and the temptation, which his mother -and I have mercifully been spared! It is hard, -in any case, to have the child grow up and go -out into the world. But it is infinitely more -hard to know that he is almost as though he -were of another race of beings, and that he -must endure the sight of pain, of misery, of -squalor, of poverty and of age! That he must -be subject to temptations for which I can not -prepare him, having never met with them -myself.</p> - -<p>I once read a story of a man who became -mysteriously possessed of the power to read -the thoughts of all those with whom he came -in contact. At first he was transported into the -seventh heaven of delight, reveling in the -sense of his new-found power. But soon he -came to realize what a curse had fallen upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">222</span> -him. Turn where he would, he found the minds -of men filled with envy, malice and evil. The -fairest faces served to hide from others, but -not from him, the most ignoble minds. Beneath -the frankest and most friendly manner -he often read the secret hatred and jealousy. -Confronted upon all sides with the evidence of -the wickedness and baseness of his fellows, he -was at last driven to despair, and by one desperate -act destroyed both his power and his life.</p> - -<p>Mr. <i>Idler</i>, were I suddenly to be granted the -gift of sight, I think that I should feel like -that. It is hard enough to read of some things. -I should not care to look upon them.</p> - -<p>There have been those who, hearing me speak -so of sight, have answered, “That is because -you have never been able to see. You do not -know what a blessing sight is, because you have -never enjoyed it!” Sometimes I comfort myself -with the thought that it is like that with -our son. He can see, but he was born that way -and he will never know the difference. Gradually -he will grow used to looking upon things -which I could not endure to behold. God has<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">223</span> -chosen to give him the harder part; may He -grant him the strength to bear it!</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig2">I am, Sir, your sincere friend,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Noel Nightshade</span>. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_224" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">224</span></p> - -<h2>A TALE OF A MAD POET’S WIFE</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I have long been an interested -reader of your interesting periodical, though I -have not hitherto presumed to address you, -either personally or in your character as editor. -I have ever had an aversion for that type of -person who is constantly rushing into print to -air personal troubles and casting upon the -shoulders of the public the burdens which -should rightly be borne upon his own. I have -observed, however, that a great many of your -readers do not scruple to address you in this -respect and are quite in the habit of writing -you for advice upon their personal affairs, and, -since you do not appear to find this burdensome, -I have determined to make known to you -my own pitiable plight, in the hope that you, -or some of your readers, may be able to suggest -some method of relief; for, indeed, I am<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">225</span> -deep in trouble, from which I seem utterly unable -to extricate myself by my own devices. -Lest I weary you, I shall tell my sad story in -the fewest possible words.</p> - -<p>While yet a very young woman I fell in love -with a poet. In this there was nothing especially -noteworthy, since, I suppose, all women -go through this experience at some time of life. -The unfortunate feature of my own affair was -that it ended quite as I wished it to end—in -my marriage. I soon learned that the qualities -which make the poet so satisfactory a suitor do -not always appear in so favorable a light when -he has become a husband. I found it very -sweet and charming during our courtship that -my lover should be concerned with my spiritual -welfare and that his thoughts should never descend -to the common affairs of life. It would -have seemed almost like sacrilege to ask him -to consider with me the sordid problems which -are commonly inflicted upon young men of -grosser clay when they have proposed marriage -to a young woman. So certain was I that any -mention of such trivialities would mortally offend<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">226</span> -my fiancé that I would permit neither my -father nor my brothers to question him upon -the subject of his financial condition. For this -sentimental whim I very nearly paid with my -happiness, for I found soon after we had been -wed that these questions must inevitably be -considered sooner or later, and whereas it had -formerly been only a question of the expediency -of my marriage, it was now become a matter -of vital importance.</p> - -<p>Fortunately, I have always been of an -excellent <em>wheedling</em> disposition, so much -so that my father used to say I could -coax a Scotchman into extravagance or -a politician into honesty by merely smiling -upon him. I turned this natural gift to account -in the case of my husband by inducing -him to constitute me his business agent. I then -went about among the editors selling his verse, -and in this I was so successful that he was soon -supplying <em>no less than a third</em> of the current -verse which was printed in the six or seven leading -monthly magazines published in this city. -No doubt you have often heard poets express<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">227</span> -surprise at the amount of rather mediocre poetry -which finds its way into the columns of -standard publications. You may understand -this more readily when I tell you that several -other writers of magazine poetry, learning of -our own arrangement, immediately set about -acquiring handsome and attractive wives, to -whom they turned over their output, never appearing -at the offices of the editors in person -but always sending their wives as their representatives.</p> - -<p>In this way we managed very well for several -years, though latterly I have encountered -one or two editors who were apparently either -very near-sighted or peculiarly unsusceptible. -We were doing very well, however, and my -husband had acquired a wide reputation, so -that he was often invited to lecture before associations -of one sort or another and to give -readings at entertainments in private dwellings. -This added to our income, but both -of us by now being under the necessity of always -appearing dressed in the very neatest and -most attractive fashion, we soon found that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">228</span> -whatever sum we had left over from current -living expenses went for keeping up appearances; -so that we were able to live very well -but were by no means enabled to lay by a competence -for the future.</p> - -<p>It was at this stage of our career, which is to -say some three years gone, when we were doing -better than we ever had before, that the sad -blow fell upon us which has cast a shadow over -our household, and which has left me, at the -age of forty, a widow in all but name and a -pauper in anticipation, if not already one in -fact. My husband had been invited to speak -before a certain literary club or society, and as -was always his custom, had accepted without -hesitation. Little did he realize, when he carelessly -mentioned this appointment to me, that -it would be his last public appearance for a -long time to come—perhaps forever! Little -did I know when he left our apartment that -evening, looking so debonair and engaging in -his faultless evening attire, that I should next -behold him a pitiful wreck—a driveling idiot!<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">229</span> -Yet, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, this was, alas! what befell your -wretched correspondent. He came back to me -from that reading a man without understanding, -a mental incompetent, a man who, despite -his stalwart frame and glowing health of body, -exhibited all the symptoms of senile decay! A -man who could scarcely scrawl his own name in -legible fashion, to say nothing of inditing sonnets, -quatrains and ballads.</p> - -<p>And what, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, do you suppose those -heartless wretches who composed that literary -society had done to my innocent and harmless -husband? Not content with having him read -his verses, <em>they had insisted that he explain -them</em>! And he, poor weak man that he was, -yielded to the unhappy vanity which is the -birthright of all poets, and had attempted to -comply with their request. The result you already -know. His mind was completely overturned. -He has spent the time since that dreadful -evening in dictating to an imaginary stenographer -a critical appreciation of each rhyme -in <i>Mother Goose</i>. Only once has he attempted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">230</span> -anything in the way of original poetry, -which I hastened to jot down in shorthand, -and which was so puerile, so empty of -all meaning, that I could not forbear to weep -heartbrokenly as I transcribed my notes.</p> - -<p>Now, Mr. <i>Idler</i>, what redress have I against -those inhuman creatures, those compassionless -brutes, who brought my husband to this pass? -Can I sue them in a court of law? Or must I -bear without compensation the dreadful sorrow -which has befallen me? I beg of you, advise -me at once, as I do not know which way to -turn.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">I am, Sir, distractedly yours,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Bedelia Bardlet</span>. -</p> - -<p>P. S.—All is come right after all, Mr. <i>Idler</i>. -After writing you the above, yesterday morning, -I determined to make one more desperate -trial. I took around to an editor the one original -poem, of which I spoke, which my husband -had dictated in his madness. That editor has -just called me on the telephone to say that the -poem will be printed in the next number of his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">231</span> -magazine, and that he finds it by far the best -that my husband has ever submitted. And so, -please God, it may turn out that his misfortune -will prove to be a blessing in disguise.</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_232" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">232</span></p> - -<h2>THE LOCK-STEP</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: Thackeray once said: “Every -one knows what harm the bad may do, but who -knows the mischief done by the good?” It appears -to me that there is a valuable suggestion -in this query which merits the consideration of -all men who live under a civilized government, -and especially the attention of young men who -are about to enter upon the serious business of -life. Young people, being by nature somewhat -lacking in logic, are prone to consider -everything that is good <i xml:lang="la" lang="la">per se</i> as a thing which -must necessarily be good in its effect, and similarly -to class all thing which are bad in themselves -as bad in their effects. Nothing could be -more erroneous than this assumption. There is -no man who will maintain that a beating is a -thing which is good in itself; yet I am old-fashioned -enough to believe that many a beating<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">233</span> -has been very salutary in its effect. Early -in life, I fell into this common error of confusing -the inherent quality of an act with the -quality of its effect, and it is in the hope that I -may save some worthy young man the miseries -resulting from such an error that I am writing -this letter.</p> - -<p>As Mr. James Coolidge Carter points out in -his book, <i>Law: Its Origin, Growth and Function</i>, -and as Blackstone and others pointed out -before him, all law originates in custom. As a -custom becomes general—so general as to be -termed the common custom among a given -people—it is usually enacted as law. And even -where such legislative sanction is wanting, a -general custom takes on the force of law and -operates as law, as is the case with the great -body of the common law of England. Thus, -a custom, which in the beginning all are free -to adopt or to reject as they may see fit, -eventually acquires the force of a rule to which -all are obliged to conform, whether from strict -legal necessity or merely by force of public -opinion.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">234</span></p> - -<p>The law, theoretically at least and actually -in most cases, is merely the expression of a public -sentiment. It is the constant tendency of all -uniform and generally prevalent customs and -opinions to take on the form of law. The general -disapproval of profanity, for instance, results -in laws providing penalties for the use of -profane language in public places. Practically -all ordinances may be traced to the same source -of public sentiment. Not all laws, however, -represent the will of the majority. Certain of -our laws are representative of the general opinion -of all mankind, others of the sentiments of -a majority of mankind, and still others of the -ideas and prejudices of an active minority. To -the extent that such habits, ideas, customs, -opinions and prejudices become crystallized -into law, the members of a community become -enslaved to those habits, ideas, customs, opinions -and prejudices; since a departure from -them is followed by penalties and punishments. -And there are some customs which, while not -actually laws, exert quite as strong an influence -upon the average citizen as the duly enacted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">235</span> -statutes. The fear of social ostracism is -often quite as effective a check upon the inclinations -of an individual as the fear of legal -punishment.</p> - -<p>Now, as every man is the slave of general -laws and customs, so, in a lesser sense, is he the -slave of his own personal habits. And oddly -enough this is more often true of good habits -than of bad ones. Should the town drunkard -make a sudden resolution to reform, the town -may laugh, but nobody will condemn his resolution -to mend his ways; nobody will be scandalized -at his change of habits. But should the -leader of the local prohibitionists suddenly resolve -to test the joys of inebriety, what a protest -would go up on all sides! Even the town -drunkard would sneer and despise him as a -man who had fallen from his high estate. -Much as the inebriate may dislike the sincere -teetotaler, he dislikes the ex-teetotaler even -more. No, every man is a slave to his good -habits and he can not hope to change them -without exciting the animosity of all who know -him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">236</span></p> - -<p>I recall reading not long ago a story of an -eastern governor who was caught in the act of -smoking a cigarette. Now, there was nothing -especially horrifying about the fact that he -smoked cigarettes except for the fact that he -was the vice-president of an anti-cigarette society. -Under the circumstances this governor, -who is in all probability a capable and fairly -honest executive, has endangered, if he has not -destroyed, his political future—and all for the -matter of a cigarette! While it may seem an -injustice to him that he be made to suffer a -political eclipse for so slight a lapse, there is -hardly a smoker who will not heartily agree -with the idly busy people who make up the -anti-cigarette league, that the governor deserves -all the punishment his outraged associates -may choose to inflict upon him. He has -been a double renegade; for he has betrayed -his fellow smokers by publicly indorsing the -aims of the society, and he has betrayed his -fellow members of the society by privately indulging -in the very habit which the society condemns.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">237</span></p> - -<p>And the general public may very justly -condemn him not because he smokes cigarettes—but -because he has played the hypocrite. -This statesman is evidently one of -those foolish men who believe that it pays to -appear better than one really is, and that an -undeserved reputation for abstinence and virtue -is better than none. And of all the possible -attitudes that he might have assumed in this -connection, the one which he did assume was -the worst, for it was the most hypocritical and -insincere. And what monumental folly! For -the sake of a cigarette he has jeopardized his -career—by such a slender thread is the Damoclean -sword of public opprobrium suspended!</p> - -<p>But I am digressing. I did not intend to -write you a dissertation upon the follies of -politicians, but to set forth, in some sort, the -results of my own stupidity in failing to discover -early in life the tyranny of custom and -habit.</p> - -<p>I am, as you may possibly have conjectured, -a member of the legal profession; which profession -I have followed with some degree of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">238</span> -success for the last thirty years. I think I may -say without boasting that I have attained an -enviable reputation among my colleagues of -the bar as an able advocate and a man possessed -of a logical mind and a rather extensive knowledge -of the “delightful fictions of the law.” I -have no complaint to make upon the score of -my professional career. If it has not led me -to eminence, it has at least preserved me from -want. My practise, while general and not so -profitable as that of some legal specialists of -my acquaintance, is yet sufficiently lucrative to -enable me to maintain a comfortable establishment -at home and to pay without pinching the -expenses of my son’s collegiate and my daughter’s -“finishing school” education. I have a -comfortable home, a healthy and happy family, -a prosperous business, a large number of -congenial friends and a hale and hearty constitution. -Doubtless you will say that I am -blessed beyond the majority of mankind. -Doubtless I am, and doubtless, too, beyond my -deserts. But for all these blessings, which are -obviously much to be desired, there is, so to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">239</span> -speak, a fly in the ointment of my contentment. -And that is just this—<em>I have too good a reputation</em>! -In me, Sir, you may behold a man who -has become an abject slave to good Reputation. -Totally unknown to the great majority -of my millions of fellow countrymen, -and having but a modest degree of celebrity -among the members of my own profession, I -am yet compelled to be as careful of my speech -and as circumspect in my actions as if I were -the Czar of all the Russias! I am bound hand, -foot and tongue by the ties of a lifetime; I am -manacled at the cart-tail of Respectability; I -am pilloried in the pillory of Dignified Demeanor! -If you will bear with me a bit longer, -I shall endeavor to explain my present situation.</p> - -<p>I was born and reared in the little Missouri -town where I now reside. I am personally acquainted -with practically every man, woman -and child in the place, which, while not exactly a -village, is hardly large enough to be called a -city outside of the columns of our local newspapers. -The present county attorney is a young<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">240</span> -man of thirty whom I trotted on my knee -and for whom I made kites many years ago. -The county judge and I fell out many years -ago because he insisted that we had been playing -marbles for “keeps”, while I maintained -that we had been playing merely for fun. We -are now the best of friends, however, and there -is no judge in the state who passes heavier sentences -on convicted gamblers than he. The pastor -of the church which I attend is a lad who -in former years was a member of the Sunday-school -class I taught and which used to embarrass -me with all sorts of questions concerning -the wives of Cain and Abel and the origin -of the inhabitants of the Land of Nod. And -so it is; I know them all and they all know me.</p> - -<p>“Jimmy” Vance is our family physician; he -is the family physician for at least a third of -our population. He has been helping the people -of our town to be born and to die for more -than thirty years—but he is still “Jimmy”. -Jimmy and I were born in the same year. It -was once a joke with us to call ourselves -“twins” on this account. But Jimmy and I are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">241</span> -“twins” no longer. Jimmy is still a smooth-faced -boy at fifty-five, while I am a gray-bearded -oldster. You may gather something of -my life when I tell you that though my Christian -names are Jeremiah Samuel (I do not -give my surname for reasons you will understand), -I have never, since my twenty-first -year, been addressed either as “Jerry” or -“Sam”. My wife calls me “Jeremiah”, as do -my other relatives, while my business associates -and friends never grow more familiar than -“Jeremiah S.”</p> - -<p>When I determined to enter upon the study -and practise of the law, my maternal uncle, -who was himself a practising attorney, became -a sort of supplementary preceptor to me by -virtue of his avuncular relationship. He assisted -me in my studies and when the time -came for me to be admitted to the bar, he gave -me a deal of what he no doubt considered sound -advice as to my future conduct. “Jeremiah,” -said he, “there is no profession on earth which -is a more serious business than the law. Men -do not go to law for fun. Nobody brings a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">242</span> -lawsuit for mere amusement. When clients -come to you they will come because they have -serious business on hand and they want a sober -competent man to attend to it for them. It is -no joke to them and they don’t want you to -joke about it. Now, my advice to you—which -you may take or leave as you see fit—is always -to keep a straight face. No matter how funny -a case may seem to you, don’t laugh. Your -dignity will be more than half your capital; -see that you don’t forget your dignity.”</p> - -<p>Such was the advice of my maternal uncle. -And such was the character I assumed upon -entering the practise of the law. From the day -I drew my first real brief I became the very -essence of dignity. I even wooed and won my -wife in the character of a dignified young man -of serious mind and purpose. She has never -in all these years suspected my innate frivolity. -Should I yield to my natural impulse and indulge -in the nonsense and fun which has ever -been so dear to my heart, I am convinced that -she would at once lose all respect for me, if, indeed, -she did not think me suddenly insane. I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">243</span> -am grave. Under all conditions and circumstances -I am as grave as an undertaker. I do -smile now and then, but it is generally the indulgent -superior smile which I labored so hard -to acquire when young and which I can not now -shake off. I have been dignified so long that -my dignity has become a part of me—not -really a part of my inward personality—but -a part of my outward appearance; I should -feel naked and ashamed without it; it would -seem like going about half-dressed. I am so -grave that nobody ever tells me a funny story -excepting the kind that one tells a minister. -They are afraid to be natural when in my -presence. As Midas turned everything he -touched to gold, so I turn all my friends to -bores. No sooner do I come into my house than -the whole family stops talking and waits to -hear what I have to say. Nobody dares to interrupt -me; nobody presumes to contradict me, -unless it be old Brownly, who is our oldest inhabitant -and so considers himself somewhere -near my own age. Every one is grave when -with me. That is, every one but Jimmy.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">244</span> -Jimmy has always seen through my pose and -Jimmy takes a malicious pleasure in pretending -he is young when with me.</p> - -<p>From the day I entered upon the practise of -the law, I modeled my conduct upon that of -my maternal uncle who was, as my boy Tom -says, “as cheerful as a crutch.” I abandoned -the bright colored scarfs which have always delighted -my eye, and I donned the sober black -bow tie which I wear to this day. Striped and -checked clothing gave way to the non-committal -pepper-and-salt suit of indefinite hue -which has been my unvarying garb from that -day to this. And I grew that Vandyke beard, -to which, I am convinced, I owed my early -reputation for learning and even now owe a -good part of the respect which I command. -My beard is as fixed an institution as our local -literary club. Fashion has at least relieved me -of the necessity of wearing a top hat, or “plug” -as we call it here; but fashion will never relieve -me of my beard, for beards may come and -beards may go, but mine grows on forever. -Should I shave that beard it would electrify<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">245</span> -the community. My wife would regard me -with suspicion, my children with pity, my -friends with mirth and my clients with horror. -I verily believe that old Brown the banker, who -is my best client, would be less shocked should -I tell him that I had forgotten how to frame a -complaint or draw a mortgage, than if he -should walk into my office and find me clean-shaven.</p> - -<p>And as it is with dress, so it is with other -things. Jimmy Vance, although a doctor, -never affected that dignity which has come to -be my strongest personal characteristic. -Jimmy never imitated anybody’s dignity. And -as a consequence Jimmy is as free as the wind. -If he wants to smoke, he does it. If he wants -to drink, he takes a drink. If he wants to go -roller-skating, he goes. And nobody ever -thinks of objecting to anything he does. -Jimmy has never led any one to expect any -particular sort of conduct from him. He is -full of surprises and nobody likes him the less -for it. I can drink at my club—occasionally—or -at a banquet, or at home; but I can not go<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">246</span> -into a bar like Jimmy and shake dice with a -traveling man. I can smoke, but I could not -chew tobacco. I can read, but I can not read -light novels—that is, not unless I hide away -to do it. If I were to go into our public library -and ask for <i>The Siege of the Seven Suitors</i> I -honestly think that old Miss Peters, our librarian, -would faint dead away. Now it isn’t -that I want to <em>do</em> these things which irks me, -so much as the fact that I want to be able to -do them if I feel like it. I thank God I have -escaped the gravest danger which lies in the -acquisition of too good habits—I have never -become what so many men of super-excellent -reputations do become—a hypocrite. I have -been a poser, a pretender, a rebel—ah, I have -fairly seethed with rebellion against the -tyranny of this fictitious self at times!—but I -have never broken my habits on the sly. I have -lived up to the straw man I so foolishly put in -my place; I have gone around and around in -my lock-step of respectability when I felt that -I might gladly have died for a single year of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">247</span> -absolute personal freedom; I have made my -bed and like Damiens I have lain chained to it -with iron chains for years; and never before -now have I cried aloud!</p> - -<p>And Jimmy! What a life is Jimmy’s! -Jimmy is as prosperous as I; as respected as I; -far happier than I; and ah, how much more is -Jimmy loved than I!</p> - -<p>When the girls go away to boarding-school, -Jimmy kisses them good-by; when they come -home again, Jimmy kisses them hello. Jimmy -never misses an opportunity to kiss them, coming -or going. But who cares? Nobody. “It’s -only old Jimmy,” the girls say. “It’s only old -Jimmy,” echo their sweethearts. “It’s only -Jimmy’s way!” giggle their mothers—for -Jimmy kisses them, too; Jimmy is no fool. But -suppose I should try it? Who would say, “It’s -only old Jeremiah?”</p> - -<p>Since there is small danger that your magazine -will ever be read by any one who will recognize -me in this letter, I don’t mind confessing -that I did try it once; it is the only sin<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">248</span> -of the sort that I have on my conscience after -twenty-five years of dignity, domestic and foreign. -It was last year that it happened. The -girl had been visiting one of my daughter’s -chums for the Christmas vacation and she was -one of the guests at the Christmas party we -had at our house. I came into the front hall -and found her standing all alone, directly under -the mistletoe. I looked at her standing -there so sweet and pretty and so unconscious -of the mistletoe, and I wondered how it would -feel to kiss some one on the lips. I have been -kissed on the forehead for years. Even my -children kiss me on the forehead. They learned -to do that early, when they explained that my -beard was “cratchy”. I looked at the girl -again. I was tempted and I fell. That is, I -tried to fall, but she wouldn’t let me.</p> - -<p>“Why not?” I asked her. “You let my boy -Tom do it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but <em>he’s</em> only a boy!” she said.</p> - -<p>“Well,” I insisted, “you let Jimmy do it!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but he’s an <em>old</em> man!” she exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“Yes!” said I, “and so am I an old man!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">249</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, but,” she protested, “you’re not <em>that -kind</em> of an old man!”</p> - -<p>That’s it! That’s always been it, and that always -will be it—I’m not <em>that kind</em> of an old -man!</p> - -<p class="sig"> -J. S. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div id="toclink_250" class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">250</span></p> - -<h2>THE FRUIT OF FAME</h2> -</div> - -<p class="sal"><i>To the Editor of The Idler.</i></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sir</span>: I have told many strange and -distressing stories in my time; tales of struggle, -of suffering, of sorrow and of bitter disappointment; -for I, Sir, am an author, and -the telling of tales has long been my vocation. -But of all the tales which I have spun from -the thread of my inner consciousness, there is -none, I believe, more strange or more filled -with disillusionment than the true story which -I am about to tell you now.</p> - -<p>I began writing at an early age. Indeed, I -was writing short stories while yet in the high -school and selling them before I had done with -college. The history of my younger years -does not differ greatly from that of most -young authors; it is the history of an existence -which would have been inexpressibly sordid -had it not been glorified by youthful hope and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">251</span> -ambition. I married young and was forced to -write constantly in order to make both ends -meet. The years went slipping by almost unnoticed -until suddenly one day I awoke to find -myself upon the verge of middle age and realized -that for years I had been postponing the -writing of my first real book, meanwhile falling -unconsciously into the habit of giving all -of my attention to the market value of what I -wrote and growing more and more indifferent -to the question of its literary merit. I had, in -fact, become a confirmed hack-writer.</p> - -<p>The discovery shocked me into action. I determined -then and there that I would write a -novel worthy of my powers if I had to give -to that task the time which should be employed -in rest and sleep. I had never taken many -holidays; now I took none at all. Every odd -moment was employed on the great task which -should lift me out of the rut and transform -me from a mere fiction machine into a creative -artist. I shall not bore you with the details -of that work; how I toiled far into the -night and arose before daybreak to finish a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">252</span> -chapter or retouch a paragraph; how I struggled -with my style which had become corrupted -and florid from the writing of sensational -stories of adventure; how I tossed in my bed -when I should have been sleeping, made wakeful -by the excitement under which I labored. -Suffice it to say, through infinite pains and -toil I finally wrote the last line of <i>The Pin-headed -Girl</i>, and sent it off to Messrs. Buckram -and Sons with a high heart. It was accepted.</p> - -<p>The publishers, according to their usual custom, -offered me a royalty of ten per cent.; for -you must know, Sir, that it is only the established -and successful author who can make his -own terms. We poor devils who are appearing -in cloth for the first time must be content with -what is offered, for no publisher considers a -meritorious manuscript a recommendation in -any way equal to a well-known name. The -book of a famous author, like a notorious brand -of soap, is supposed to sell itself, whereas, in -the case of an unknown scribbler, a demand for -the work must be created by advertising. Now<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">253</span> -it is an axiom with publishers that a modern -novel, unless it happen to be a story of extraordinary -vitality, is dead in six months. With -the birth of the autumn list, the spring list -dies, which is to say, when the books which appear -in the autumn are thrown upon the market, -the demand for those which appeared in -the spring is immediately checked and often -dies out altogether. In six months novels are -<em>old</em>; good only for bargain sales, second-hand -stores and circulating libraries. It is therefore -necessary that a book achieve a good sale in -the first six months if it is to enjoy such a sale -at all.</p> - -<p>Realizing this and taking into consideration -the fact that <i>The Pin-headed Girl</i> was the -work of a literary nobody, my publishers set -industriously to work to create a reputation for -me. I will say for them that they spared no -expense in making my name familiar to the -public. It was flaunted on every side, so that -no man could ride in the subway, pick up a -magazine or open a theater program without -being made acquainted with the fact that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">254</span> -Hackett A. Long was the author of <i>The Pin-headed -Girl</i>. No man could read a literary -supplement or a monthly review without learning -that I took coffee with my breakfast; had -a fondness for Russian boar-hounds (never -having owned one); preferred reading opera -scores to hearing the singers; did most of my -work between the hours of three and five in -the afternoon; disliked Bohemian restaurants; -bought my cigarettes by the hundred; wore a -wing collar; and many other things, some of -which were true and some not. If you glanced -at any of the illustrated papers at that time, -you must have seen me riding in my six-cylinder -roadster (loaned for the occasion by the -obliging publisher), sitting upon the stoop of -my cottage by the sea, or seated, pen in hand, -at my desk in the very act of producing literature. -I assure you, Sir, your correspondent -was no inconsiderable figure in the public eye -at that time.</p> - -<p>This activity upon the part of my publishers -was not without results. The first person -to show the effect of my sudden leap into notoriety<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">255</span> -was my wife. She assured me that as -a well-known author I must pay some heed to -appearances. I must no longer lodge in a third-class -apartment-house without hall-boys or -elevators. When my fellow celebrities sought -me out to offer me congratulations upon my -masterpiece, they must find me in a suitable -environment. We must have an apartment -fitting for an author already notable and soon -to take a well-deserved place among the foremost -writers of the day; an apartment which -should be expensive without being pretentious, -furnished in such a fashion that any one could -discern at a glance the touch of the man of taste -and refinement, the natural aristocrat, the man -of temperament; in a word, the artist. Having -settled the question of the apartment, she -next turned her attention to my wardrobe, -which was, I confess, sadly in need of attention. -I must no longer go about in ready-made -clothing. I must patronize a fashionable -tailor, I must dress for dinner, I must -buy me a soft hat with a bow at the back. I -must cease my writing of lurid short stories<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">256</span> -and hair-raising serials; to do pot-boilers for -cheap monthlies and weeklies was beneath the -dignity of an author of recognized standing. -You may well believe that this unaccustomed -notoriety was not without its effect upon me, -but I was not so carried away by it as was my -optimistic mate. I hung back a little; I protested.</p> - -<p>“It is all very well, my dear,” said I, “to talk -so glibly of giving up my short stories and my -serials, but we must consider that they have -been, and still are, my chief if not my only -source of revenue. They are nothing to be -proud of, I admit. They are cheap, shoddy, -stupid and entirely unworthy of the pen that -wrote <i>The Pin-headed Girl</i>. But, my dear, -they <em>pay</em>.”</p> - -<p>“That,” said my wife, “is a consideration -which had some weight before the publication -of your novel, but an author so well known as -you now are can certainly have no need to depend -upon such puerile compositions for his -income.”</p> - -<p>I thereupon called her attention to the fact<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">257</span> -that my contract with the publishers called for -a semi-annual accounting and settlement, and -that under this agreement, no matter how -much money might be due me, I could not -hope to collect any of it until six months after -the date of publication. To which she replied, -truthfully enough, that it would be easy for -me to obtain anything we might want on -credit. The upshot of it was, Sir, that I -yielded to her persuasion and began to live in -a manner which was little short of princely as -compared with our previous hand-to-mouth existence. -I stopped writing pot-boilers and set -to work upon my second novel which I named, -very aptly as I then thought, <i>Out of the -Woods</i>. Where my first novel had been three -years in the making, my second was finished -in five months, for I now had plenty of time -at my disposal, and I sent it off confidently -enough to Buckram and Sons, and with it, a -letter in which I made it clear that I would -expect a larger share of the profits upon my -second story than I had been content to accept -in the case of <i>The Pin-headed Girl</i>. For, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">258</span> -I pointed out to them, whereas the author of -<i>The Pin-headed Girl</i> had been an unknown -scribbler, the author of <i>Out of the Woods</i> was -a well-known novelist who possessed the <em>name</em> -which had been wanting in the first instance.</p> - -<p>You can, perhaps, fancy my surprise and -consternation when I received a letter from -Buckram and Sons enclosing their statement -of the sales of <i>The Pin-headed Girl</i> and a -check for seventy-two dollars and fifty cents -in full payment of all royalties to date. <em>In -spite of the money expended in advertising, -the sale of the book had not exceeded five hundred -copies.</em> The letter further stated that -Messrs. Buckram and Sons regretted to inform -me that they were returning the manuscript -of <i>Out of the Woods</i>, as they could not -consider publishing another of my books upon -the heels of such a failure as <i>The Pin-headed -Girl</i>.</p> - -<p>This sudden collapse of my castles in Spain -left me completely demoralized, but it had no -such effect upon my wife. She was astonished -at the failure of the book, but she held firmly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">259</span> -to her position that whatever the fate of the -book might be, the fact remained that I was -now a celebrated man. I could not be blamed, -she argued, because the book had proved a -failure. It was my part of the business to -write the book, it was the publisher’s part to -sell it. I had performed my part, but Buckram -and Sons had most lamentably failed to -perform theirs. If they could not sell a book -which had been so well advertised as <i>The Pin-headed -Girl</i>, that simply went to show that -they had a very poor selling organization, and -the very fact that they had spent so much -money in advertising a book which afterward -proved a failure, was in itself a proof that they -were no business men. In short, the only thing -for me to do was to find a new publisher for -<i>Out of the Woods</i>; preferably some energetic -young man who would not only make a success -of the second book, but who would realize -something from the advertising expended -upon the first.</p> - -<p>This unanswerable argument encouraged -me a little and I submitted the second book to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">260</span> -Franklin Format who, although a young man -and a new man to the business, already had -several “best sellers” to his credit. A few days -later he sent for me and when I was seated in -his office, he told me that he had read my manuscript -with interest and had found it most -entertaining, but before making me any offer, -he would like to know if the book had been -submitted to my regular publishers. His was -a young house, he said, and he could not afford -to antagonize so influential a firm as Buckram -and Sons by stealing away one of its authors. -I replied that the book had been offered to -them but that they had refused to publish it. -He raised his eyebrows at this and asked the -reason for their refusal. In my innocence I -answered truthfully that Buckram and Sons -did not want my second book because they had -been unable to sell my first. On hearing this -he remarked sympathetically that it had been -a very bad season for novels and that several -on his own list had fallen quite flat. Indeed, -his own losses had been so great that he had -been looking about for some author with a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">261</span> -“selling name” to help him out of his difficulties. -Under the circumstances, however, it -would be rank folly, not only upon his part, -but upon mine, to issue another novel bearing -my name at a time when the memory of my -first ill-starred book was still fresh in the -minds of the booksellers; for while the public -might know nothing of the failure, the booksellers -would most certainly recall it upon seeing -my name on a wrapper, and without orders -from the booksellers one might as well burn a -book in manuscript as to let it die more expensively -in covers. The best thing for me to -do would be to wait a year or two until the -memory of <i>The Pin-headed Girl</i> had completely -faded from their minds. In two years’ -time it would certainly be as completely forgotten -as if it had never been written, and I -then might venture, with some hope of success, -upon another novel.</p> - -<p>And there, Sir, the matter rests. In some -mysterious way the word has been passed -around among the publishers that <i>The Pin-headed -Girl</i> was a disastrous investment and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">262</span> -not one of them will touch <i>Out of the Woods</i>. -My wife threatens to leave me if I abandon -novel-writing and go back to my pot-boilers; -she says she could not bear the disgrace of -acknowledged failure and that I must maintain -my present position as a celebrated author -at all hazards. I have applied to several editors -of my acquaintance for editorial positions -and they have all replied that they had nothing -to offer me which would be worth my consideration -or worthy of my talents. My first -novel has left me with a reputation, a two-years -lease of an expensive apartment, a load -of debts, an angry wife, a scrap-book filled -with favorable reviews, an unsalable manuscript -and a prospect of bankruptcy.</p> - -<p>This, Sir, is the true story of a writer who -achieved his ambition of becoming a well-known -novelist. If any reader of your journal, -now engaged in hack-writing and enjoying -comfortable obscurity, cherishes an ambition -like mine, let him be warned by my example, -lest through the blighting touch of the -publicity agent he be forced, as I am, to choose<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">263</span> -between beginning life anew under an assumed -name or slowly starving to death in the -midst of luxury.</p> - -<p class="sig"> -<span class="sig6">I am, sir,</span><br /> -<span class="smcap">Hackett A. Long</span>. -</p> - -<p> </p> -<hr /> -<p> </p> - -<div class="chapter"><div class="transnote"> -<h2>Transcriber’s Note</h2> - -<p>Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made -consistent when a predominant preference was found -in the original book; otherwise they were not changed.</p> - -<p>Simple typographical errors were corrected; unpaired -quotation marks were remedied when the change was -obvious, and otherwise left unpaired.</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_1">Page 1</a>: Transcriber removed redundant book title.</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_27">Page 27</a>: The chapter title was printed as -“A PURITIAN IN BOHEMIA,” but was changed here -to “A PURITAN IN BOHEMIA,” as that matches the -spelling in the Table of Contents and in other -uses of the word elsewhere in the book.</p> - -<p><a href="#Page_173">Page 173</a>: The chapter title was printed as -“THE ABUSES OF ADVERSISY,” but was changed here -to “THE ABUSES OF ADVERSITY,” as that matches -the spelling in the Table of Contents and in -other uses of the word elsewhere in the book.</p> -</div></div> - -<p> </p> -<p> </p> -<hr class="pgx" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW BROOMS***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 65583-h.htm or 65583-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/5/5/8/65583">http://www.gutenberg.org/6/5/5/8/65583</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed.</p> - -<p>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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