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diff --git a/22699-h/22699-h.htm b/22699-h/22699-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..392371e --- /dev/null +++ b/22699-h/22699-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8094 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Pipefuls, by Christopher Morley</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; } + +/* LISTS */ +ul { position: relative; + width:80%; + margin-left:5%; + list-style-type:none;} +li { margin-top: 0.25em; + line-height: 1.2em; } + + body{margin-left: 15%; + margin-right: 18%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 90%; + font-size: 85%; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .blockquot{margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; font-size: 95%;} + + .bbox {border: solid 2px; margin: auto; width: 40%; padding: 1em;} + + .totoc {position: absolute; left: 2%; font-size: 75%; text-align: right;} + + .ff {font-size: 200%; font-weight: bold; font-family: "Old English Text MT", serif; font-style: normal} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold; font-size: 85%} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + +/* FOOTNOTES */ + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px; margin-top:1em; clear: both;} + .footnote {margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; font-size: 90%;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:15%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left; font-size: 95%;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i1 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 6em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 0em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + border: solid black; + height: 5px; } + pre {font-size: 75%; } + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Pipefuls, by Christopher Morley</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Pipefuls</p> +<p>Author: Christopher Morley</p> +<p>Release Date: September 21, 2007 [eBook #22699]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PIPEFULS***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Audrey Longhurst, Marcia Brooks,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.pgdp.net)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[Pg i]</a></span></p> +<h1>PIPEFULS</h1> +<div class="figcenter"><a href="images/cover.jpg"> +<img src="images/cover_t.jpg" alt="cover" title="Pipefuls" /></a></div> +<div class="figcenter"><span class="caption">Original Cover</span></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[Pg ii]</a></span></p> + +<div class="bbox"> +<h4><i>Other Books by the Author</i></h4> +<span class="smcap">Parnassus on Wheels</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">The Haunted Bookshop</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Shandygaff</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Mince Pie</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Kathleen</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Songs for a Little House</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">The Rocking Horse</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Hide and Seek</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">Travels in Philadelphia</span> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</a></span></p> + +<h1>PIPEFULS</h1> + +<h3>BY</h3> +<h2>CHRISTOPHER MORLEY</h2> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 243px;"> +<img src="images/illo_title_page.jpg" width="243" height="250" alt="title page" title="Title page" /></div> + +<h4>ILLUSTRATED<br /> +BY<br /> +WALTER JACK DUNCAN</h4> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<center> +GARDEN CITY NEW YORK<br /> +DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY<br /> +1920</center> + +<br /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 15%;" /> + +<h5> +COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY<br /> +DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY<br /> +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION<br /> +INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN<br /> +</h5> +<hr style="width: 15%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p> + +<center> +THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED<br /> +TO<br /> +THREE MEN<br /> +<br /> +HULBERT FOOTNER<br /> +EUGENE SAXTON<br /> +WILLIAM ROSE BENÉT<br /> +<br /> +BECAUSE, IF I MENTIONED ONLY ONE<br /> +OF THEM, I WOULD HAVE TO<br /> +WRITE BOOKS<br /> +TO INSCRIBE TO THE OTHER TWO<br /> +</center> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/illo_vii.jpg" width="500" height="148" alt="illiio_vii" title="Preface" /></div> +<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h2> + + +<p>Sir Thomas Browne said that Eve was “edified +out of the rib of Adam.” This little book was +edified (for the most part) out of the ribs of two +friendly newspapers, The New York <i>Evening Post</i> +and The Philadelphia <i>Evening Public Ledger</i>. To +them, and to <i>The Bookman</i>, <i>Everybody's</i>, and <i>The +Publishers' Weekly</i>, I am grateful for permission to +reprint.</p> + +<p>Tristram Shandy said, “When a man is hemm'd in +by two indecorums, and must commit one of 'em +let him chuse which he will, the world will blame +him.” Now it is one indecorum to let this collection +of small sketches go out (as they do) unrevised +and just as they assaulted the defenceless +reader of the daily prints; and the other indecorum +would be to take fragments of this kind too gravely, +and attempt by more careful disposition of their +pallid members to arrange them into some appearance +of painless decease. As Gilbert Chesterton +said (I wish I could say, on a similar occasion): +“Their vices are too vital to be improved with a +blue pencil, or with anything I can think of, except +dynamite.”<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span></p> + +<p>These sketches gave me pain to write; they will +give the judicious patron pain to read; therefore we +are quits. I think, as I look over their slattern +paragraphs, of that most tragic hour—it falls about +4 <span class="smcap">p. m.</span> in the office of an evening newspaper—when +the unhappy compiler tries to round up the broodings +of the day and still get home in time for supper. +And yet perhaps the will-to-live is in them, for are +they not a naked exhibit of the antics a man will +commit in order to earn a living? In extenuation it +may be pleaded that none of them are so long that +they may not be mitigated by an accompanying pipe +of tobacco.</p> + +<p style="text-align: right;">THE AUTHOR.</p> +<p>Roslyn, Long Island,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">July, 1920.</span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span></p> +<a name="toc" id="toc"></a> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="TOC" width="80%"> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'></td><td align='right'>PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#PREFACE"><b>Preface</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_vii">vii</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#ON_MAKING_FRIENDS"><b>On Making Friends</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#THOUGHTS_ON_CIDER"><b>Thoughts on Cider</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_10">10</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#ONE-NIGHT_STANDS"><b>One-Night Stands</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_18">18</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#THE_OWL_TRAIN"><b>The Owl Train</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#SAFETY_PINS"><b>Safety Pins</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_29">29</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#CONFESSIONS"><b>Confessions of a “Colyumist”</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_34">34</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#MOVING"><b>Moving</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#SURF_FISHING"><b>Surf Fishing</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_48">48</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#IDOLATRY"><b>“Idolatry”</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#THE_FIRST_COMMENCEMENT_ADDRESS"><b>The First Commencement Address</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_60">60</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#THE_DOWNFALL_OF_GEORGE_SNIPE"><b>The Downfall of George Snipe</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#MEDITATIONS_OF_A_BOOKSELLER"><b>Meditations of a Bookseller</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#IF_BUYING_A_MEAL"><b>If Buying a Meal Were Like Buying a House</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#ADVENTURES_IN_HIGH_FINANCE"><b>Adventures in High Finance</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#ON_VISITING_BOOKSHOPS"><b>On Visiting Bookshops</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#A_DISCOVERY"><b>A Discovery</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#SILAS_ORRIN_HOWES"><b>Silas Orrin Howes</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#JOYCE_KILMER"><b>Joyce Kilmer</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#TALES_OF_TWO_CITIES"><b>Tales of Two Cities</b></a></td><td></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>I.</td><td align='left'><a href="#PHILADELPHIA"><b><i>Philadelphia</i>:</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#AN_EARLY_TRAIN"><b>An Early Train</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#RIDGE_AVENUE"><b>Ridge Avenue</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#THE_UNIVERSITY"><b>The University and the Urchin</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#PINE_STREET"><b>Pine Street</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#PERSHING_IN_PHILADELPHIA"><b>Pershing in Philadelphia</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#FALL_FEVER"><b>Fall Fever</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#TWO_DAYS_BEFORE_CHRISTMAS"><b>Two Days Before Christmas</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#IN_WEST_PHILADELPHIA"><b>In West Philadelphia</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#HORACE_TRAUBEL"><b>Horace Traubel</b></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td>II.</td><td align='left'><a href="#NEW_YORK"><b><i>New York</i>:</b></a></td><td></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_163">163</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#THE_ANATOMY_OF_MANHATTAN"><b>The Anatomy of Manhattan</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#VESEY_STREET"><b>Vesey Street</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#BROOKLYN_BRIDGE"><b>Brooklyn Bridge</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#THREE_HOURS_FOR_LUNCH"><b>Three Hours for Lunch</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#PASSAGE_FROM_SOME_MEMOIRS"><b>Passage from Some Memoirs</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#FIRST_LESSONS"><b>First Lessons in Clowning</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#HOUSE_HUNTING"><b>House Hunting</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#LONG_ISLAND"><b>Long Island Revisited</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#ON_BEING_IN_A_HURRY"><b>On Being in a Hurry</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#CONFESSIONS_OF_A_HUMAN_GLOBULE"><b>Confessions of a Human Globule</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#NOTES_ON_A_FIFTH_AVENUE_BUS"><b>Notes on a Fifth Avenue Bus</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#SUNDAY_MORNING"><b>Sunday Morning</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#VENISON_PASTY"><b>Venison Pasty</b></a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#GRAND_AVENUE"><b>Grand Avenue, Brooklyn</b></a></td></tr> + +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#ON_WAITING_FOR_THE_CURTAIN"><b>On Waiting for the Curtain to Go Up</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_236">236</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#MUSINGS_OF_JOHN_MISTLETOE"><b>Musings of John Mistletoe</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_240">240</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#THE_WORLDS_MOST_FAMOUS_ORATION"><b>The World's Most Famous Oration</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_242">242</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#ON_LAZINESS"><b>On Laziness</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_244">244</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#TEACHING_THE_PRINCE"><b>Teaching the Prince to Take Notes</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_249">249</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#A_CITY_NOTEBOOK"><b>A City Notebook</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_253">253</a></td></tr> +<tr><td></td><td></td><td align='left'><a href="#ON_GOING_TO_BED"><b>On Going to Bed</b></a></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_270">270</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h1>PIPEFULS</h1> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h1>PIPEFULS</h1> + +<h2><a name="ON_MAKING_FRIENDS" id="ON_MAKING_FRIENDS"></a>ON MAKING FRIENDS</h2> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p003.jpg" width="300" height="236" alt="illo_p003" title="On Making Friends" /></div> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>Considering that most friendships are +made by mere hazard, how is it that men find +themselves equipped and fortified with just the +friends they need? We have heard of men who +asserted that they would like to have more money, +or more books, or more pairs of pyjamas; but we have +never heard of a man saying that he did not have +enough friends. For, while one can never have too +many friends, yet those one has are always enough. +They satisfy us completely. One has never met a +man who would say, “I wish I had a friend who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> +would combine the good humour of A, the mystical +enthusiasm of B, the love of doughnuts which is such +an endearing quality in C, and who would also have +the habit of giving Sunday evening suppers like D, +and the well-stocked cellar which is so deplorably +lacking in E.” No; the curious thing is that at any +time and in any settled way of life a man is generally +provided with friends far in excess of his desert, and +also in excess of his capacity to absorb their wisdom +and affectionate attentions.</p> + +<p>There is some pleasant secret behind this, a secret +that none is wise enough to fathom. The infinite +fund of disinterested humane kindliness that is +adrift in the world is part of the riddle, the insoluble +riddle of life that is born in our blood and tissue. It +is agreeable to think that no man, save by his own +gross fault, ever went through life unfriended, without +companions to whom he could stammer his +momentary impulses of sagacity, to whom he could +turn in hours of loneliness. It is not even necessary +to know a man to be his friend. One can sit at a +lunch counter, observing the moods and whims of the +white-coated pie-passer, and by the time you have +juggled a couple of fried eggs you will have caught +some grasp of his philosophy of life, seen the quick +edge and tang of his humour, memorized the shrewdness +of his worldly insight and been as truly stimulated +as if you had spent an evening with your +favourite parson.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> + +<p>If there were no such thing as friendship existing +to-day, it would perhaps be difficult to understand +what it is like from those who have written about it. +We have tried, from time to time, to read Emerson's +enigmatic and rather frigid essay. It seems that +Emerson must have put his cronies to a severe test +before admitting them to the high-vaulted and +rather draughty halls of his intellect. There are +fine passages in his essay, but it is intellectualized, +bloodless, heedless of the trifling oddities of human +intercourse that make friendship so satisfying. He +seems to insist upon a sterile ceremony of mutual +self-improvement, a kind of religious ritual, a profound +interchange of doctrines between soul and +soul. His friends (one gathers) are to be antisepticated, +all the poisons and pestilence of their faulty +humours are to be drained away before they may +approach the white and icy operating table of his +heart. “Why insist,” he says, “on rash personal +relations with your friend? Why go to his house, or +know his wife and family?” And yet does not the +botanist like to study the flower in the soil where it +grows?</p> + +<p>Polonius, too, is another ancient supposed to be +an authority on friendship. The Polonius family +must have been a thoroughly dreary one to live with; +we have often thought that poor Ophelia would have +gone mad anyway, even if there had been no Hamlet. +Laertes preaches to Ophelia; Polonius preaches to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> +Laertes. Laertes escaped by going abroad, but the +girl had to stay at home. Hamlet saw that pithy old +Polonius was a preposterous and orotund ass. +Polonius's doctrine of friendship—“The friends thou +hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them to thy +soul with hoops of steel”—was, we trow, a necessary +one in his case. It would need a hoop of steel to keep +them near such a dismal old sawmonger.</p> + +<p>Friendships, we think, do not grow up in any such +carefully tended and contemplated fashion as +Messrs. Emerson and Polonius suggest. They begin +haphazard. As we look back on the first time we +saw our friends we find that generally our original +impression was curiously astray. We have worked +along beside them, have consorted with them drunk +or sober, have grown to cherish their delicious +absurdities, have outrageously imposed on each +other's patience—and suddenly we awoke to realize +what had happened. We had, without knowing it, +gained a new friend. In some curious way the unseen +border line had been passed. We had reached +the final culmination of Anglo-Saxon regard when +two men rarely look each other straight in the eyes +because they are ashamed to show each other how +fond they are. We had reached the fine flower and +the ultimate test of comradeship—that is, when you +get a letter from one of your “best friends,” you +know you don't need to answer it until you get ready +to.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> + +<p>Emerson is right in saying that friendship can't be +hurried. It takes time to ripen. It needs a background +of humorous, wearisome, or even tragic +events shared together, a certain tract of memories +shared in common, so that you know that your own +life and your companion's have really moved for +some time in the same channel. It needs interchange +of books, meals together, discussion of one +another's whims with mutual friends, to gain a +proper perspective. It is set in a rich haze of half-remembered +occasions, sudden glimpses, ludicrous +pranks, unsuspected observations, midnight confidences +when heart spoke to candid heart.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 478px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p007.jpg" width="478" height="500" alt="p007" title="Page 7" /></div> + +<p>The soul preaches humility to itself when it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> +realizes, startled, that it has won a new friend. +Knowing what a posset of contradictions we all are, +it feels a symptom of shame at the thought that our +friend knows all our frailties and yet thinks us worth +affection. We all have cause to be shamefast indeed; +for whereas we love ourselves in spite of our +faults, our friends often love us even on account of +our faults, the highest level to which attachment can +go. And what an infinite appeal there is in their +faces! How we grow to cherish those curious little +fleshy cages—so oddly sculptured—which inclose the +spirit within. To see those faces, bent unconsciously +over their tasks—each different, each +unique, each so richly and queerly expressive of the +lively and perverse enigma of man, is a full education +in human tolerance. Privately, one studies his +own ill-modeled visnomy to see if by any chance it +bespeaks the emotions he inwardly feels. We know—as +Hamlet did—the vicious mole of nature in us, +the o'ergrowth of some complexion that mars the +purity of our secret resolutions. Yet—our friends +have passed it over, have shown their willingness to +take us as we are. Can we do less than hope to deserve +their generous tenderness, granted before it +was earned?</p> + +<p>The problem of education, said R. L. S., is two-fold—“first +to know, then to utter.” Every man +knows what friendship means, but few can utter that +complete frankness of communion, based upon full<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> +comprehension of mutual weakness, enlivened by a +happy understanding of honourable intentions +generously shared. When we first met our friends +we met with bandaged eyes. We did not know what +journeys they had been on, what winding roads +their spirits had travelled, what ingenious shifts they +had devised to circumvent the walls and barriers of +the world. We know these now, for some of them +they have told us; others we have guessed. We +have watched them when they little dreamed it; just +as they (we suppose) have done with us. Every +gesture and method of their daily movement have +become part of our enjoyment of life. Not until a +time comes for saying good-bye will we ever know +how much we would like to have said. At those +times one has to fall back on shrewder tongues. +You remember Hilaire Belloc:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From quiet homes and first beginning<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Out to the undiscovered ends,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There's nothing worth the wear of winning<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But laughter, and the love of friends.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THOUGHTS_ON_CIDER" id="THOUGHTS_ON_CIDER"></a>THOUGHTS ON CIDER</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 243px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p010.jpg" width="243" height="300" alt="p010" title="Thoughts on Cider" /></div> + +<p>Our friend Dove Dulcet, the poet, came into +our kennel and found us arm in arm with a +deep demijohn of Chester County cider. We +poured him out a beaker of the cloudy amber juice. +It was just in prime condition, sharpened with a +blithe tingle, beaded with a pleasing bubble of froth. +Dove looked upon it with a kindled eye. His +arm raised the tumbler in a manner that showed +this gesture to be one that he had compassed before. +The orchard nectar began to sluice down his +throat.</p> + +<p>Dove is one who has faced many and grievous<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +woes. His Celtic soul peers from behind cloudy +curtains of alarm. Old unhappy far-off things and +battles long ago fume in the smoke of his pipe. His +girded spirit sees agrarian unrest in the daffodil and +industrial riot in a tin of preserved prunes. He +sees the world moving on the brink of horror and +despair. Sweet dalliance with a baked bloater on a +restaurant platter moves him to grief over the hard +lot of the Newfoundland fishing fleet. Six cups of +tea warm him to anguish over the peonage of Sir +Thomas Lipton's coolies in Ceylon. Souls in +perplexity cluster round him like Canadian dimes in +a cash register in Plattsburgh, N. Y. He is a human +sympathy trust. When we are on our deathbed we +shall send for him. The perfection of his gentle sorrow +will send us roaring out into the dark, and will +set a valuable example to the members of our family.</p> + +<p>But it is the rack of clouds that makes the sunset +lovely. The bosomy vapours of Dove's soul are the +palette upon which the decumbent sun of his spirit +casts its vivid orange and scarlet colours. His joy +is the more perfect to behold because it bursts +goldenly through the pangs of his tender heart. +His soul is like the infant Moses, cradled among dark +and prickly bullrushes; but anon it floats out upon +the river and drifts merrily downward on a sparkling +spate.</p> + +<p>It has nothing to do with Dove, but we will here +interject the remark that a pessimist overtaken by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +liquor is the cheeriest sight in the world. Who is so +extravagantly, gloriously, and irresponsibly gay?</p> + +<p>Dove's eyes beaconed as the cider went its way. +The sweet lingering tang filled the arch of his palate +with a soft mellow cheer. His gaze fell upon us as +his head tilted gently backward. We wish there +had been a painter there—someone like F. Walter +Taylor—to rush onto canvas the gorgeous benignity +of his aspect. It would have been a portrait of the +rich Flemish school. Dove's eyes were full of a +tender emotion, mingled with a charmed and wistful +surprise. It was as though the poet was saying he +had not realized there was anything so good left on +earth. His bearing was devout, religious, mystical. +In one moment of revelation (so it appeared to us as +we watched) Dove looked upon all the profiles and +aspects of life, and found them of noble outline. +Not since the grandest of Grand Old Parties went out +of power has Dove looked less as though he felt the +world were on the verge of an abyss. For several +moments revolution and anarchy receded, profiteers +were tamed, capital and labour purred together on a +mattress of catnip, and the cosmos became a free +verse poem. He did not even utter the customary +and ungracious remark of those to whom cider +potations are given: “That'll be at its best in +about a week.” We apologized for the cider being a +little warmish from standing (discreetly hidden) +under our desk. Douce man, he said: “I think<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +cider, like ale, ought not to be drunk too cold. I like +it just this way.” He stood for a moment, filled +with theology and metaphysics. “By gracious,” he +said, “it makes all the other stuff taste like poison.” +Still he stood for a brief instant, transfixed with +complete bliss. It was apparent to us that his mind +was busy with apple orchards and autumn sunshine. +Perhaps he was wondering whether he could make +a poem out of it. Then he turned softly and went +back to his job in a life insurance office.</p> + +<p>As for ourself, we then poured out another +tumbler, lit a corncob pipe, and meditated. Falstaff +once said that he had forgotten what the inside of a +church looked like. There will come a time when +many of us will perhaps have forgotten what the inside +of a saloon looked like, but there will still be the +consolation of the cider jug. Like the smell of +roasting chestnuts and the comfortable equatorial +warmth of an oyster stew, it is a consolation hard to +put into words. It calls irresistibly for tobacco; in +fact the true cider toper always pulls a long puff at +his pipe before each drink, and blows some of the +smoke into the glass so that he gulps down some of +the blue reek with his draught. Just why this +should be, we know not. Also some enthusiasts insist +on having small sugared cookies with their +cider; others cry loudly for Reading pretzels. Some +have ingenious theories about letting the jug stand, +either tightly stoppered or else unstoppered, until<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +it becomes “hard.” In our experience hard cider is +distressingly like drinking vinegar. We prefer it +soft, with all its sweetness and the transfusing savour +of the fruit animating it. At the peak of its deliciousness +it has a small, airy sparkle against the roof of the +mouth, a delicate tactile sensation like the feet of +dancing flies. This, we presume, is the 4½ to 7 per +cent of sin with which fermented cider is credited by +works of reference. There are pedants and bigots +who insist that the jug must be stoppered with a +corncob. For our own part, the stopper does not +stay in the neck long enough after the demijohn +reaches us to make it worth while worrying about +this matter. Yet a nice attention to detail may +prove that the cob has some secret affinity with +cider, for a Missouri meerschaum never tastes so +well as after three glasses of this rustic elixir.</p> + +<p>That ingenious student of social niceties, John +Mistletoe, in his famous Dictionary of Deplorable +Facts—a book which we heartily commend to the +curious, for he includes a long and most informing +article on cider, tracing its etymology from the old +Hebrew word <i>shaker</i> meaning “to quaff deeply”—maintains +that cider should only be drunk beside an +open fire of applewood logs:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>And preferably on an evening of storm and wetness, +when the swish and sudden pattering of rain +against the panes lend an added agreeable snugness +to the cheerful scene within, where master and +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>dame sit by the rosy hearth frying sausages in a +pan laid on the embers.</p></div> + +<p>This reminds one of the anecdote related by ex-Senator +Beveridge in his Life of John Marshall. +Justice Story told his wife that the justices of the +Supreme Court were of a self-denying habit, never +taking wine except in wet weather. “But it does +sometimes happen that the Chief Justice will say +to me, when the cloth is removed, 'Brother Story, +step to the window and see if it does not look like +rain.' And if I tell him that the sun is shining +brightly, Judge Marshall will sometimes reply, 'All +the better, for our jurisdiction extends over so large a +territory that the doctrine of chances makes it certain +that it must be raining somewhere.'”</p> + +<p>Our own theory about cider is that the time to +drink it is when it reaches you; and if it hails from +Chester County, so much the better.</p> + +<p>We remember with gusto a little soliloquy on cider +delivered by another friend of ours, as we both stood +in a decent ordinary on Fulton Street, going through +all the motions of jocularity and cheer. Cider (he +said) is our refuge and strength. Cider, he insisted, +drawing from his pocket a clipping much +tarnished with age, is a drink for men of reason and +genteel nurture; a drink for such as desire to drink +pleasantly, amiably, healthily, and with perseverance +and yet retain the command and superintendence of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> +their faculties. I have here (he continued) a clipping +sent me by an eminent architect in the great +city of Philadelphia (a city which it is a pleasure for +me to contemplate by reason of the beauty and +virtue of its women, the infinite vivacity and good +temper of its men, the rectitudinal disposition of its +highways)—I have here (he exclaimed) a clipping +sent me by an architect of fame, charming parts, and +infinite cellarage, explaining the virtues of cider. +Cider, this clipping asserts, produces a clearness of +the complexion. It brightens the eye, particularly +in women, conducing to the composition of generous +compliment and all the social suavity that endears +the intercourse of the sexes. Longevity, this +extract maintains, is the result of application to +good cider. The Rev. Martin Johnson, vicar of +Dilwyn, in Herefordshire, from 1651 to 1698 (he +read from his clipping), wrote:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>This parish, wherein sider is plentiful, hath many +people that do enjoy this blessing of long life; neither +are the aged bedridden or decrepit as elsewhere; next to +God, wee ascribe it to our flourishing orchards, first that +the bloomed trees in spring do not only sweeten but +purify the ambient air; next, that they yield us plenty +of rich and winy liquors, which do conduce very much +to the constant health of our inhabitants. Their +ordinary course is to breakfast and sup with toast and +sider through the whole Lent; which heightens their +appetites and creates in them durable strength to +labour.</i></p></div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was a pause, and our friend (he is a man of +girth and with a brow bearing all the candor of a +life of intense thought) leaned against the mahogany +counter.</p> + +<p>That is very fine, we said, draining our chalice, and +feeling brightness of eye, length of years, and durable +strength to labour added to our person. In the +meantime (we said) why do you not drink the rich +and winy liquor which your vessel contains?</p> + +<p>He folded up his clipping and put it away with a +sigh.</p> + +<p>I always have to read that first, he said, to make +the damned stuff palatable. It will be ten years, he +said, before the friend who sent me that clipping will +have to drink any cider.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ONE-NIGHT_STANDS" id="ONE-NIGHT_STANDS"></a>ONE-NIGHT STANDS</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 166px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p018.jpg" width="166" height="300" alt="p018" title="One Night Stands" /></div> + +<p>To those looking for an exhilarating vacation +let us commend a week of “trouping” on one-night +stands with a theatrical company, which +mirthful experience has just been ours. We went +along in the very lowly capacity of co-author, which +placed us somewhat beneath the stage hands as far +as dignity was concerned; and we flatter ourself that +we have learned our station and observe it with due +humility. The first task of the director who stages +a play is to let the author know where he gets off. +This was accomplished in our case by an argument +concerning a speech in the play where one of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +characters remarks, “I propose to send a mental +message to Eliza.” This sounds (we contend) quite +a harmless sentiment, but the director insisted that +the person speaking, being an Englishman of +studious disposition, would not say anything so inaccurate. +“He would use much more correct +language,” said the director. “He ought to say 'I +<i>purpose</i> to send.'” We balked mildly at this. “All +right,” said our mentor. “The trouble with you is +you don't know any English. I'll send you a copy of +the Century dictionary.”</p> + +<p>This gentleman carried purism to almost extravagant +lengths. He objected to the customary +pronunciation of “jew's-harp,” insisting that the +word should be “juice-harp,” and instructing the +actor who mentioned this innocent instrument of +melody to write it down so in his script. When the +dress rehearsal came round, he was surveying the +“set” for the first act with considerable complacence. +This scenery was intended to represent a very +ancient English inn at Stratford-on-Avon, and one +of the authors was heard to remark softly that it +looked more like a broker's office on Wall Street. +But the director was unshaken. “There's an old +English inn up at Larchmont,” said he, “and this +looks a good deal like it, so I guess we're all right.”</p> + +<p>Let any one who imagines the actor's life is one of +bevo and skittles sally along with a new play on its +try-out in the one-night circuit. When one sees the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> +delightful humour, fortitude, and high spirits with +which the players face their task he gains a new +respect for the profession. It is with a sense of +shame that the wincing author hears his lines repeated +night after night—lines that seem to him to +have grown so stale and disreputably stupid, and +which the ingenuity of the players contrives to instill +with life. With a sense of shame indeed does he +reflect that because one day long ago he was struck +with a preposterous idea, here are honest folk depending +on it to earn daily bread and travelling on a +rainy day on a local train on the Central New +England Railway; here are 800 people in Saratoga +Springs filing into a theatre with naïve expectation +on their faces. Amusing things happen faster than +he can stay to count them. A fire breaks out in a +cigar store a few minutes before theatre time. It is +extinguished immediately, but half the town has +rushed down to see the excitement. The cigar store +is almost next door to the theatre, and the crowd +sees the lighted sign and drops in to give the show +the once-over, thus giving one a capacity house. +Then there are the amusing accidents that happen on +the stage, due to the inevitable confusion of one-night +stands with long jumps each day, when +scenery and props arrive at the theatre barely in +time to be set up. In the third act one of the +characters has to take his trousers out of a handbag. +He opens the bag, but by some error no garments are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +within. Heavens! has the stage manager mixed up +the bags? He has only one hope. The girlish +heroine's luggage is also on the stage, and our comedian +dashes over and finds his trousers in her bag. +This casts a most sinister imputation on the adorable +heroine, but our friend (blessings on him) contrives +it so delicately that the audience doesn't get wise. +Then doors that are supposed to be locked have a +habit of swinging open, and the luckless heroine, +ready to say furiously to the hero, “<i>Will</i> you unlock +the door?” finds herself facing an open doorway and +has to invent a line to get herself off the stage.</p> + +<p>Going on the road is a very humanizing experience +and one gathers a considerable respect for the small +towns one visits. They are so brisk, so proud in +their local achievements, so prosperous and so full of +attractive shop-windows. When one finds in Johnstown, +N. Y., for instance, a bookshop with almost as +well-assorted a stock as one would see here in +Philadelphia; or in Gloversville and Newburgh +public libraries that would be a credit to any large +city, one realizes the great tide of public intelligence +that has risen perceptibly in recent years. At the +hotel in Gloversville the proprietress assured us that +“an English duke” had just left who told her that he +preferred her hotel to the Biltmore in New York. +We rather wondered about this English duke, but we +looked him up on the register and found that he was +Sir H. Urnick of Fownes Brothers, the glove manu<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>facturers, +who have a factory in Gloversville. But +then, being a glove manufacturer, he may have been +kidding her, as the low comedian of our troupe +observed. But the local pride of the small town is a +genial thing. It may always be noted in the barber +shops. The small-town barber knows his customers +and when a strange face appears to be shaved on the +afternoon when the bills are announcing a play, he +puts two and two together. “Are you with that +show?” he asks; and being answered in the affirmative +(one naturally would not admit that one is +merely there in the frugal capacity of co-author, and +hopes that he will imagine that such a face might +conceivably belong to the low comedian) he proceeds +to expound the favourite doctrine that this is a wise +burg. “Yes,” he says, “folks here are pretty cagy. +If your show can get by here you needn't worry +about New York. Believe me, if you get a hand here +you can go right down to Broadway. I always take +in the shows, and I've heard lots of actors say this +town is harder to please than any place they ever +played.”</p> + +<p>One gets a new viewpoint on many matters by a +week of one-night stands. Theatrical billboards, for +instance. We had always thought, in a vague kind +of way, that they were a defacement to a town and +cluttered up blank spaces in an unseemly way. +But when you are trouping, the first thing you do, +after registering at the hotel, is to go out and scout<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +round the town yearning for billboards and complaining +because there aren't enough of them. You +meet another member of the company on the same +errand and say, “I don't see much paper out,” this +being the technical phrase. You both agree that the +advance agent must be loafing. Then you set out +to see what opposition you are playing against, and +emit groans on learning that “The Million Dollar +Doll in Paris” is also in town, or “Harry Bulger's +Girly Show” will be there the following evening, or +Mack Sennett's Bathing Beauties in Person. +“That's the kind of stuff they fall for,” said the +other author mournfully, and you hustle around to +the box office to see whether the ticket rack is still +full of unsold pasteboard.</p> + +<p>At this time of year, when all the metropolitan +theatres are crowded and there are some thirty +plays cruising round in the offing waiting for a +chance to get into New York and praying that some +show now there will “flop,” one crosses the trail of +many other wandering troupes that are battering +about from town to town. In remote Johnstown, +N. Y., which can only be reached by trolley and +where there is no hotel (but a very fine large theatre) +one finds that Miss Grace George is to be the next +attraction. On the train to Saratoga one rides on +the same train with the Million Dollar Doll, and +those who have seen her “paper” on the billboards +in Newburgh or Poughkeepsie keep an attentive<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +optic open for the lady herself to see how nearly she +lives up to her lithographs. And if the passerby +should see a lighted window in the hotel glimmering +at two in the morning, he will probably aver that +there are some of those light-hearted “show people” +carousing over a flagon of Virginia Dare. Little +does he suspect that long after the tranquil thespians +have gone to their well-earned hay, the miserable +authors of the trying-out piece may be vigiling together, +trying to dope out a new scene for the third +act. The saying is not new, but it comes frequently +to the lips of the one-night stander—It's a great life +if you don't weaken.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_OWL_TRAIN" id="THE_OWL_TRAIN"></a>THE OWL TRAIN</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p025.jpg" width="300" height="291" alt="p025" title="The Owl Train" /></div> + +<p>Across the cold moonlit landscapes, while +good folk are at home curling their toes in +the warm bottom of the bed, the Owl trains rumble +with a gentle drone, neither fast nor slow.</p> + +<p>There are several Owl trains with which we have +been familiar. One, rather aristocratic of its kind, +is the caravan of sleeping cars that leaves New York +at midnight and deposits hustling business men of +the most aggressive type at the South Station, Boston. +After a dissolute progress full of incredible +jerks and jolts these pilgrims reach this dampest, +darkest, and most Arctic of all terminals about the +time the morning codfish begins to warm his bosom +on the gridirons of the sacred city. Another, a +terrible nocturnal prowler, slips darkly away from +Albany about 1 <span class="smcap">a. m.</span>, and rambles disconsolately +and with shrill wailings along the West Shore line. +Below the grim Palisades of the Hudson it wakes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +painful echoes. Its first six units, as far as one can +see in the dark, are blind express cars, containing +milk cans and coffins. We once boarded it at Kingston, +and after uneasy slumber across two facing +seats found ourself impaled upon Weehawken three +hours later. There one treads dubiously upon a ferryboat +in the fog and brume of dawn, ungluing eyelids +in the bleak dividing pressure of the river breeze.</p> + +<p>But the Owl train we propose to celebrate is the +vehicle that departs modestly from the crypt of the +Pennsylvania Station in New York at half-past +midnight and emits blood-shot wanderers at West +Philadelphia at 3:16 in the morning. The railroad +company, which thinks these problems out with +nice care, lulls the passengers into unconsciousness +of their woes not only by a gentle and even gait, a +progress almost tender in its carefully modulated +repression of speed, but also by keeping the cars at +such an amazing heat that the victims promptly +fade into a swoon. Nowhere will you see a more +complete abandonment to the wild postures of +fatigue and despair than in the pathetic sprawl of +these human forms upon the simmering plush settees. +A hot eddy of some varnish-tinctured +vapour—certainly not air—rises from under the +seats and wraps the traveller in a nightmarish trance. +Occasionally he starts wildly from his dream and +glares frightfully through the misted pane. It is +the custom of the trainmen, who tiptoe softly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> +through the cars, never to disturb their clients by +calling out the names of stations. When New +Brunswick is reached many think that they have +arrived at West Philadelphia, or (worse still) have +been carried on to Wilmington. They rush desperately +to the bracing chill of the platform to learn +where they are. There is a mood of mystery about +this Owl of ours. The trainmen take a quaint +delight in keeping the actual whereabouts of the +caravan a merciful secret.</p> + +<p>Oddly assorted people appear on this train. +Occasional haughty revellers, in evening dress and +opera capes, appear among the humbler voyagers. +For a time they stay on their dignity: sit bravely +upright and talk with apparent intelligence. Then +the drowsy poison of that stifled atmosphere overcomes +them, too, and they fall into the weakness +of their brethren. They turn over the opposing +seat, elevate their nobler shins, and droop languid +heads over the ticklish plush chair-back. Strange +aliens lie spread over the seats. Nowhere will you +see so many faces of curious foreign carving. It +seems as though many desperate exiles, who never +travel by day, use the Owl for moving obscurely +from city to city. This particular train is bound +south to Washington, and at least half its tenants are +citizens of colour. Even the endless gayety of our +dusky brother is not proof against the venomous +exhaustion of that boxed-in suffocation. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> +ladies of his race are comfortably prepared for the +hardships of the route. They wrap themselves in +huge fur coats and all have sofa cushions to recline +on. Even in an all-night session of Congress you +will hardly note so complete an abandonment of +disillusion, weariness, and cynical despair as is +written upon the blank faces all down the aisle. +Even the will-power of a George Creel or a Will H. +Hays would droop before this three-hour ordeal. +Professor Einstein, who talks so delightfully of discarding +Time and Space, might here reconsider his +theories if he brooded, baking gradually upward, on +the hot green plush.</p> + +<p>This genial Owl is not supposed to stop at North +Philadelphia, but it always does. By this time +Philadelphia passengers are awake and gathered in +the cold vestibules, panting for escape. Some of +them, against the rules of the train, manage to +escape on the North Philadelphia platform. The +rest, standing huddled over the swaying couplings, +find the leisurely transit to West Philadelphia as +long as the other segments of the ride put together. +Stoically, and beyond the power of words, they lean +on one another. At last the train slides down a grade. +In the dark and picturesque tunnel of the West +Philadelphia station, through thick mists of steam +where the glow of the fire box paints the fog a golden +rose, they grope and find the ancient stairs. Then they +stagger off to seek a lonely car or a night-hawk taxi.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="SAFETY_PINS" id="SAFETY_PINS"></a>SAFETY PINS</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 269px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p029.jpg" width="269" height="300" alt="illo_p029" title="Safety Pins" /></div> + +<p>Ligature of infancy, healing engine of emergency, +base and mainstay of our civilization—we +celebrate the safety pin.</p> + +<p>What would we do without safety pins? Is it +not odd to think, looking about us on our fellowmen +(bearded realtors, ejaculating poets, plump +and ruddy policemen, even the cheerful dusky +creature who runs the elevator and whistles “Oh, +What a Pal Was Mary” as the clock draws near +6 <span class="smcap">p. m.</span>)—all these were first housed and swaddled +and made seemly with a paper of safety pins. +How is it that the inventor who first conferred +this great gift on the world is not known by name +for the admiration and applause of posterity? Was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> +it not the safety pin that made the world safe for +infancy?</p> + +<p>There will be some, mayhap, to set up the button +as rival to the safety pin in service to humanity. +But our homage bends toward the former. Not +only was it our shield and buckler when we were too +puny and impish to help ourselves, but it is also (now +we are parent) symbol of many a hard-fought field, +where we have campaigned all over the white counterpane +of a large bed to establish an urchin in his +proper gear, while he kicked and scrambled, witless +of our dismay. It is fortunate, pardee, that human +memory does not extend backward to the safety +pin era—happily the recording carbon sheet of the +mind is not inserted on the roller of experience until +after the singular humiliations of earliest childhood +have passed. Otherwise our first recollection would +doubtless be of the grimly flushed large face of a +resolute parent, bending hotly downward in effort +to make both ends meet while we wambled and +waggled in innocent, maddening sport. In those +days when life was (as George Herbert puts it) +“assorted sorrows, anguish of all sizes,” the safety +pin was the only thing that raised us above the +bandar-log. No wonder the antique schoolmen +used to enjoy computing the number of angels that +might dance on the point of a pin. But only archangels +would be worthy to pirouette on a safety pin, +which is indeed mightier than the sword. When<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> +Adam delved and Eve did spin, what did they do for +a safety pin?</p> + +<p>Great is the stride when an infant passes from +the safety pin period to the age of buttons. There +are three ages of human beings in this matter: (1) +Safety pins, (2) Buttons, (3) Studs, or (for females) +Hooks and Eyes. Now there is an interim in the life +of man when he passes away from safety pins, and, +for a season, knows them not—save as mere convenience +in case of breakdown. He thinks of them, +in his antic bachelor years, as merely the wrecking +train of the sartorial system, a casual conjunction +for pyjamas, or an impromptu hoist for small +clothes. Ah! with humility and gratitude he greets +them again later, seeing them at their true worth, +the symbol of integration for the whole social fabric. +Women, with their intuitive wisdom, are more +subtle in this subject. They never wholly outgrow +safety pins, and though they love to ornament +them with jewellery, precious metal, and enamels, +they are naught but safety pins after all. Some +ingenious philosopher could write a full tractate on +woman in her relation to pins—hairpins, clothes +pins, rolling pins, hatpins.</p> + +<p>Only a bachelor, as we have implied, scoffs at pins. +Hamlet remarked, after seeing the ghost, and not +having any Sir Oliver Lodge handy to reassure him, +that he did not value his life at a pin's fee. Pope, we +believe, coined the contemptuous phrase, “I care not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> +a pin.” The pin has never been done justice in the +world of poetry. As one might say, the pin has had +no Pindar. Of course there is the old saw about see +a pin and pick it up, all the day you'll have good luck. +This couplet, barbarous as it is in its false rhyme, +points (as Mother Goose generally does) to a profound +truth. When you see a pin, you must pick +it up. In other words, it is on the floor, where pins +generally are. Their instinctive affinity for terra +firma makes one wonder why they, rather than the +apple, did not suggest the law of gravitation to someone +long before Newton.</p> + +<p>Incidentally, of course, the reason why Adam and +Eve were forbidden to pick the apple was that it was +supposed to stay on the tree until it fell, and Adam +would then have had the credit of spotting the +principle of gravitation.</p> + +<p>Much more might be said about pins, touching +upon their curious capacity for disappearing, superstitions +concerning them, usefulness of hatpins or +hairpins as pipe-cleaners, usefulness of pins to schoolboys, +both when bent for fishing and when filed to an +extra point for use on the boy in the seat in front +(honouring him in the breech, as Hamlet would have +said) and their curious habits of turning up in unexpected +places, undoubtedly caught by pins in their +long association with the lovelier sex. But of these +useful hyphens of raiment we will merely conclude +by saying that those interested in the pin industry<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> +will probably emigrate to England, for we learn from +the Encyclopædia Britannica that in that happy +island pins are cleaned by being boiled in weak beer. +Let it not be forgotten, however, that of all kinds, +the safety is the King Pin.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="CONFESSIONS" id="CONFESSIONS"></a>CONFESSIONS OF A “COLYUMIST”</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p034.jpg" width="300" height="279" alt="p034" title="Confessions of a Colyumist" /></div> + +<p>I can not imagine any pleasant job so full of +pangs, or any painful job so full of pleasures, +as the task of conducting a newspaper column.</p> + +<p>The colyumist, when he begins his job, is disheartened +because nobody notices it. He soon outgrows +this, and is disheartened because too many +people notice it, and he imagines that all see the +paltriness of it as plainly as he does. There is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> +nothing so amazing to him as to find that any one +really enjoys his “stuff.” Poor soul, he remembers +how he groaned over it at his desk. He remembers +the hours he sat with lack-lustre eye and addled +brain, brooding at the sluttish typewriter. He remembers +the flush of shame that tingled him as he +walked sadly homeward, thinking of some atrocious +inanity he had sent upstairs to the composing-room. +It is a job that engenders a healthy humility.</p> + +<p>I had always wanted to have a try at writing a +column. Heaven help me, I think I had an idea that +I was born for the job. I may as well be candid. +There was a time when I seriously thought of inserting +the following ad in a Philadelphia newspaper. +I find a memorandum of it in my scrap-book:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Humorist</span>: Young and untamed, lineal descendent +of Eugene Field, Frank Stockton, and François +Rabelais, desires to run a column in a Philadelphia +newspaper. A guaranteed circulation-getter.</p> + +<p>Said Humorist can also supply excellent veins of +philosophy, poetry, satire, uplift, glad material +and indiscriminate musings. Remarkable opportunity +for any newspaper desiring a really unusual +editorial feature. Address <span class="smcap">Humorist</span>, etc.</p></div> + +<p>So besotted was I, I would have paid to have this +printed if I had not been counselled by an older and +wiser head.</p> + +<p>I instance this to show that the colyumist is likely +to begin his job with the conception that it is to be a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> +perpetual uproar of mirth and high spirits. This +lasts about a week. He then learns, in secret, to take +it rather seriously. He has to deal with the most +elusive and grotesque material he knows—his own +mind; and the unhappy creature, everlastingly probing +himself in the hope of discovering what is so +rare in minds (a thought), is likely to end in a ferment +of bitterness. The happiest times in life are +when one can just live along and enjoy things as they +happen. If you have to be endlessly speculating, +watching, and making mental notes, your brain-gears +soon get a hot box. The original of all paragraphers—Ecclesiastes—came +very near ending as a +complete cynic; though in what F. P. A. would call +his “lastline,” he managed to wriggle into a more +hopeful mood.</p> + +<p>The first valuable discovery that the colyumist is +likely to make is that all minds are very much the +same. The doctors tell us that all patent medicines +are built on a stock formula—a sedative, a purge, and +a bitter. If you are to make steady column-topers +out of your readers, your daily dose must, as far as +possible, average up to that same prescription. If you +employ the purge all the time, or the sedative, or the +acid, your clients will soon ask for something with +another label.</p> + +<p>Don Marquis once wrote an admirable little poem +called “A Colyumist's Prayer.” Mr. Marquis, who +is the king of all colyumists, realizes that there is<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> +what one may call a religious side in colyumizing. +It is hard to get the colyumist to admit this, for he +fears spoofing worse than the devil; but it is eminently +true. If I were the owner of a newspaper, I +think I would have painted up on the wall of the local +room the following words from Isaiah, the best of all +watchwords for all who write:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; +that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; +that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter!</p></div> + +<p>The most painful privilege of the colyumist's job +is the number of people who drop in to see him, +usually when he is imprecating his way toward the +hour of going to press. This is all a part of the great +and salutary human instinct against work. When +people see a man toiling, they have an irresistible impulse +to crowd round and stop him. They seem to +imagine that he has been put there on purpose to help +them solve their problems, to find a job for their +friend from Harrisburg, or to tell them how to find a +publisher for their poems. Unhappily, their victim +being merely human, is likely to grow a bit snappish +under infliction. Yet now and then he gets a +glimpse into a human vexation so sincere, so honest, +and so moving that he turns away from the typewriter +with a sigh. He wonders how one dare approach +the chronicling of this muddled panorama +with anything but humility and despair. Frank<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +Harris once said of Oscar Wilde: “If England insists +on treating her criminals like this, she doesn't +deserve to have any.” Similarly, if the public insists +on bringing its woes to its colyumists, it doesn't +deserve to have any colyumists. Then the battered +jester turns again to his machine and ticks off something +like this:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>We have heard of ladies who have been tempted beyond +their strength. We have also seen some who +have been strengthened beyond their temptation.</i></p></div> + +<p>Of course there are good days, too. (This is not +one of them.) Days when the whole course of the +news seems planned for the benefit of the chaffish and +irreverent commentator. When Governor Hobby of +Texas issues a call for the state cavalry. When one +of your clients drops in, in the goodness of his heart, +to give you his own definition of a pessimist—a +pessimist, he says, is a man who wears both belt and +suspenders. When a big jewellery firm in the city +puts out a large ad—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Bailey, Banks & Biddle Company<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Watches for Women<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Superior Design and Perfection<br /></span> +<span class="i6">of Movement<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>all that one needs to do to that is to write over it the +caption</p> + +<center>SO DO WE ALL</center> + +<p>and pass on to the next paragraph.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> + +<p>The more a colyumist is out on the streets, making +himself the reporter of the moods and oddities of +men, the better his stuff will be. It seems to me that +his job ought to be good training for a novelist, +as it teaches him a habit of human sensitiveness. +He becomes filled with an extraordinary curiosity +about the motives and purposes of the people he +sees. The other afternoon I was very much struck +by the unconscious pathos of a little, gentle-eyed +old man who was standing on Chestnut Street +studying a pocket notebook. His umbrella leaned +against a shop-window, on the sill of which he had +laid a carefully rolled-up newspaper. By his feet +was a neat leather brief-case, plumply filled with +contents not discernible. There he stood (a +sort of unsuccessful Cyrus Curtis), very diminutive, +his gray hair rather long abaft his neck, +his yellowish straw hat (with curly brim) tilted +backward as though in perplexity, his timid and +absorbed blue eyes poring over his memorandum-book +which was full of pencilled notes. He had a +slightly unkempt, brief beard and whiskers, his +cheek-bones pinkish, his linen a little frayed. There +was something strangely pathetic about him, and I +would have given much to have been able to speak +to him. I halted at a window farther down the +street and studied him; then returned to pass him +again, and watched him patiently. He stood quite +absorbed, and was still there when I went on.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> + +<p>That is just one of the thousands of vivid little +pictures one sees on the city streets day by day. To +catch some hint of the meaning of all this, to present +a few scrawled notes of the amazing interest and +colour of the city's life, this is the colyumist's task as +I see it. It is a task not a whit less worthy, less +painful, or less baffling than that of the most conscientious +novelist. And it is carried on in surroundings +of extraordinary stimulation and difficulty. +It is heart-racking to struggle day by day, amid +incessant interruption and melee, to snatch out +of the hurly-burly some shreds of humour or pathos +or (dare one say?) beauty, and phrase them intelligibly.</p> + +<p>But it is fun. One never buys a package of tobacco, +crosses a city square, enters a trolley-car or +studies a shop-window without trying, in a baffled, +hopeless way, to peer through the frontage of the +experience, to find some glimmer of the thoughts, +emotions, and meanings behind. And in the long +run such a habit of inquiry must bear fruit in understanding +and sympathy. Joseph Conrad (who +seems, by the way, to be more read by newspaper +men than any other writer) put very nobly the pinnacle +of all scribblers' dreams when he said that +human affairs deserve the tribute of “a sigh which +is not a sob, a smile which is not a grin.”</p> + +<p>So much, with apology, for the ideals of the +colyumist, if he be permitted to speak truth without<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> +fear of mockery. Of course in the actual process and +travail of his job you will find him far different. +You may know him by a sunken, brooding eye; +clothing marred by much tobacco, and a chafed and +tetchy humour toward the hour of five <span class="smcap">p. m.</span> Having +bitterly schooled himself to see men as paragraphs +walking, he finds that his most august musings have +a habit of stewing themselves down to some ferocious +or jocular three-line comment. He may yearn desperately +to compose a really thrilling poem that will +speak his passionate soul; to churn up from the +typewriter some lyric that will rock with blue seas +and frantic hearts; he finds himself allaying the +frenzy with some jovial sneer at Henry Ford or a +yell about the High Cost of Living. Poor soul, he +is like one condemned to harangue the vast, idiotic +world through a keyhole, whence his anguish issues +thin and faint. Yet who will say that all his labour +is wholly vain? Perhaps some day the government +will crown a Colyumist Laureate, some majestic +sage with ancient patient blue eyes and a snowy +beard nobly stained with nicotine, whose utterances +will be heeded with shuddering respect. All minor +colyumists will wear robes and sandals; they will be +an order of scoffing friars; people will run to them +on crowded streets to lay before them the sorrows +and absurdities of men. And in that day</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The meanest paragraph that blows will give<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thoughts that do often lie too deep for sneers.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="MOVING" id="MOVING"></a>MOVING</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p042.jpg" width="300" height="297" alt="p042" title="Moving" /></div> + +<p>Man, we suspect, is the only animal capable of +persuading himself that his hardships are +medicine to the soul, of flattering himself into a conviction +that some mortal spasm was a fortifying +discipline.</p> + +<p>Having just moved our household goods for the +fourth time in four years, we now find ourself in the +singular state of trying to believe that the horrors of +the event have added to our supply of spiritual +resignation. Well, let us see.</p> + +<p>The brutal task of taking one's home on trek is (we<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +can argue) a stirring tonic, a kind of private rehearsal +of the Last Judgment, when the sheep shall be +divided from the shoats. What could be a more convincing +reminder of the instability of man's affairs +than the harrowing upheaval of our cherished +properties? Those dark angels, the moving men, +how heartless they seem in their brisk and resolute +dispassion—yet how exactly they prefigure the +implacable sternness of the ultimate shepherds. A +strange life is theirs, taking them day after day into +the bosom of homes prostrated by the emigrating +throe. Does this matter-of-fact bearing conceal an +infinite tenderness, a pity that dare not show itself +for fear of unmanly collapse? Are they secretly +broken by the sight of the desolate nursery, the dismantled +crib, the forgotten clockwork monkey +lying in a corner of the cupboard where the helpless +Urchin laid it with care before he and his smaller +sister were deported, to be out of the way in the final +storm? Does the o'ermastering pathos of a modest +household turned inside out, its tender vitals displayed +to the passing world, wring their breasts? +Stoic men, if so, they well conceal their pangs.</p> + +<p>They have one hopelessly at a disadvantage. In +the interval that always elapses before the arrival of +the second van, there is a little social chat and utterance +of reminiscences. There is a lively snapping of +matchheads on thumbnails, and seated at ease in the +débris of the dismantled living room our friends will<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> +tell of the splendour of some households they have +moved before. The thirty-eight barrels of gilt +porcelain, the twenty cases of oil paintings, the satin-wood +grand piano that their spines twinge to recall. +Once our furnitures were moved by a crew of lusty +athletes who had previously done the same for Mr. +Ivy Lee, and while we sat in shamed silence we heard +the tale of Mr. Lee's noble possessions. Of what +avail would it have been for us to protest that we love +our stuff as much as Mr. Lee did his? No, we had a +horrid impulse to cry apology, and beg them to hurl +the things into the van anyhow, just to end the agony.</p> + +<p>This interval of social chat being prolonged by the +blizzard, the talk is likely to take a more ominous +turn. We are told how, only last week, a sister van +was hit by a train at a crossing and carried a hundred +yards on the engine pilot. Two of the men were +killed, though one of these lived from eleven o'clock +Saturday morning until eleven o'clock Monday +night. How, after hearing this, can one ask what +happened to the furniture, even if one is indecent +enough to think of it? Then one learns of another of +the fleet, stalled in a drift on the way to Harrisburg, +and hasn't been heard from for forty-eight hours. +Sitting in subdued silence, one remembers something +about “moving accidents by flood and field,” and +thanks fortune that these pitiful oddments are only +going to a storage warehouse, not to be transported +thence until the kindly season of spring.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> + +<p>But packing for storage instead of for moving +implies subtler and more painful anguishes. Here +indeed we have a tonic for the soul, for election must +be made among one's belongings: which are to be +stored, and which to accompany? Take the subject +of books for instance. Horrid hesitation: can we +subsist for four or five months on nothing but the +“Oxford Book of English Verse” and Boswell's Johnson? +Suppose we want to look up a quotation, in +those late hours of the night when all really worthwhile +reading is done? Our memory is knitted with +a wide mesh. Suppose we want to be sure just what +it was that Shakespeare said happened to him in his +“sessions of sweet silent thought,” what are we going +to do? We will have to fall back on the customary +recourse of the minor poet—if you can't remember +one of Shakespeare's sonnets, at least you can write +one of your own instead. Speaking of literature, it +is a curious thing that the essayists have so neglected +this topic of moving. It would be pleasant to know +how the good and the great have faced this peculiarly +terrible crisis of domestic affairs. When the Bard +himself moved back to Stratford after his years in +London, what did he think about it? How did he +get all his papers packed up, and did he, in mere +weariness, destroy the half-done manuscripts of +plays? Charles Lamb moved round London a good +deal; did he never write of his experience? We like +to think of Emerson: did he ever move, and if so,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> +how did he behave when the fatal day came? Did +he sit on a packing case and utter sepulchral aphorisms? +Think of Lord Bacon and how he would +have crystallized the matter in a phrase.</p> + +<p>Of course in bachelor days moving may be a huge +lark, a humorous escapade. We remember some +high-spirited young men, three of them, who were +moving their chattels from rooms on Twenty-first +Street to a flat on Irving Place. Frugality was +their necessary watchword, and they hired a pushcart +in which to transport the dunnage. It was +necessary to do this on Sunday, and one of the trio, +more sensitive than the others, begged that they +should rise and accomplish the public shame early in +the morning, before the streets were alive. In +particular, he begged, let the route be chosen to +avoid a certain club on Gramercy Park where he had +many friends, and where he was loath to be seen +pushing his humble intimacies. The others, scenting +sport, and brazenly hardy of spirit, contrived to +delay the start on one pretext or another until the +middle of the forenoon. Then, by main force, +ignoring his bitter protest, they impelled the staggering +vehicle, grossly overloaded, past the very door of +the club my friend had wished to avoid. Here, by +malicious inspiration, they tilted the wain to one +side and strewed the paving with their property. +They skipped nimbly round the corner, and with +highly satisfactory laughter watched their blushing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +partner labouring dismally to collect the fragments. +Some of his friends issuing from the club lent a hand, +and the joy of the conspirators was complete.</p> + +<p>But to the family man, moving is no such airy +picnic. Sadly he goes through the last dismal rites +and sees the modest fragments of his dominion +hustled toward the cold sepulture of a motor van. +Before the toughened bearing of the hirelings he +doubts what manner to assume. Shall he stand at +the front door and exhort them to particular care +with each sentimental item, crying “Be careful with +that little chair; that's the one the Urchin uses when +he eats his evening prunes!” Or shall he adopt a +gruesome sarcasm, hoping to awe them by conveying +the impression that even if the whole van should be +splintered in collision, he can get more at the nearest +department store? Whatever policy he adopts, they +will not be much impressed. For, when we handed +our gratuity, not an ungenerous one, to the driver, +asking him to divide it among the gang, we were +startled to hear them burst into loud screams of +mirth. We asked, grimly, the cause. It appeared +that during the work one of our friends, apparently +despairing of any pourboire appropriate to his own +conceptions of reward, had sold his share of the tip +to the driver for fifteen cents. We are not going to +say how much he lost by so doing. But this gamble +put the driver in such a good humour that we believe +he will keep away from railroad crossings.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="SURF_FISHING" id="SURF_FISHING"></a>SURF FISHING</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p048.jpg" width="300" height="227" alt="p048" title="Surf Fishing" /></div> + +<p>All day long you see them stand thigh-deep in +the surf, fishing. Up on the beach each one +has a large basket containing clams for bait, extra +hooks and leaders, a little can of oil for the reel, and +any particular doo-dads dear to the heart of the +individual fisherman. And an old newspaper, all +ready to protect the anticipated catch from the rays +of the sun.</p> + +<p>Some of them wear bathing suits; others rubber +hip-boots, or simply old clothes that won't mind +getting wet. If they are very full of swank they +will have a leather belt with a socket to hold the +butt of the rod. Every now and then you will see +them pacing backward up the beach, reeling in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +line. They will mutter something about a big +strike that time, and he got away with the bait. +With zealous care they spear some more clam on the +hook, twisting it over and over the barb so as to be +firmly impaled. Then, with careful precision, they +fling the line with its heavy pyramid sinker far out +beyond the line of breakers.</p> + +<p>There they stand. What do they think about, +one wonders? But what does any one think about +when fishing? That is one of the happy pastimes +that don't require much thinking. The long ridges +of surf crumble about their knees and the sun and +keen vital air lull them into a cheerful drowse of the +faculties. Do they speculate on the never-ending +fascination of the leaning walls of water, the rhythmical +melody of the rasp and hiss of the water? Do +they watch that indescribable beauty of the breaking +wave, a sight as old as humankind and yet never +so described that one who has not seen it could +picture it?</p> + +<p>The wave gathers height and speed as it moves +toward the sand. It seems to pull itself together for +the last plunge. The first wave that ever rolled up to +a beach probably didn't break. It just slid. It was +only the second wave that broke—curled over in that +curious way. For our theory—which may be +entirely wrong—is that the breaking is due to the +undertow of previous waves. After a wave sprawls +up on the beach, it runs swiftly back. This receding<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> +undercurrent—you can feel it very strongly if you +are swimming just in front of a large wave about to +break—digs in beneath the advancing hill of water. +It cuts away the foundations of that hill, which +naturally topples over at the crest.</p> + +<p>The wave of water leans and hangs for a delaying +instant. The actual cascade may begin at one end +and run along the length of the ridge; it may begin +at both ends and twirl inward, meeting in the +middle; it may (but very rarely) begin in the middle +and work outward. As the billow is at its height, before +it combs over, the fisherman sees the sunlight +gleaming through it—an ecstasy of perfect lucid +green, with the glimmer of yellow sand behind. +Then, for a brief moment—so brief that the details +can never be memorized—he sees a clear crystal +screen of water falling forward. Another instant, +and it is all a boil of snowy suds seething about his +legs. He may watch it a thousand times, a million +times; it will never be old, never wholly familiar. +Colour varies from hour to hour, from day to day. +Sometimes blue or violet, sometimes green-olive or +gray. The backwash tugs at his boots, hollowing +out little channels under his feet. The sun wraps +him round like a mantle; the salt crusts and thickens +in his hair. And then, when he has forgotten everything +save the rhythm of the falling waves, there +comes a sudden tug——</p> + +<p>He reels in, and a few curious bathers stand still<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> +in the surf to see what he has got. They are inclined +to be scornful. It is such a little fish! One would +think that such a vast body of water would be +ashamed to yield only so small a prize. Never mind. +He has compensations they wot not of. Moreover—although +he would hardly admit it himself—the +fishing business is only a pretext. How else could a +grown man with grizzled hair have an excuse to +stand all day paddling in the surf?</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IDOLATRY" id="IDOLATRY"></a>“IDOLATRY”</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p052.jpg" width="300" height="254" alt="p052" title="Idolatry" /></div> + +<p>Once in a while, when the name of R. L. S. is +mentioned in conversation, someone says to +us: “Ah well, you're one of the Stevenson idolators, +aren't you?” And this is said with a curious air of +cynical superiority, as of one who has experienced all +these things and is superbly tolerant of the shallow +mind that can still admire Tusitala. His work +(such people will generally tell you) was brilliant +but “artificial” ... and for the true certificated +milk of the word one must come along to such +modern giants as Dreiser and Hergesheimer and +Cabell. For these artists, each in his due place, we +have only the most genial respect. But when the +passion of our youth is impugned as “idolatry” we +feel in our spirit an intense weariness. We feel the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +pacifism of the wise and secretive mind that remains +tacit when its most perfect inward certainties are +assailed. One does not argue, for there are certain +things not arguable. One shrugs. After all, what +human gesture more eloquent (or more satisfying to +the performer) than the shrug?</p> + +<p>There is a little village on the skirts of the Forest +of Fontainebleau (heavenly region of springtime and +romance!) where the crystal-green eddies of the +Loing slip under an old gray bridge with sharp angled +piers of stone. Near the bridge is a quiet little inn, +one of the many happy places in that country long +frequented by artists for painting and “<i>villégiature</i>.” +Behind the inn is a garden beside the river-bank. +The <i>salle à manger</i>, as in so many of those inns at +Barbizon, Moret, and the other Fontainebleau +villages, is panelled and frescoed with humorous and +high-spirited impromptus done by visiting painters.</p> + +<p>In the summer of 1876 an anxious rumour passed +among the artist colonies. It was said that an +American lady and her two children had arrived at +Grez, and the young bohemians who regarded this +region as their own sacred retreat were startled and +alarmed. Were their chosen haunts to be invaded +by tourists—and tourists of the disturbing sex? +Among three happy irresponsibles this humorous +anxiety was particularly acute. One of the trio was +sent over to Grez as a scout, to spy out the situation +and report. The emissary went, and failed to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +return. A second explorer was dispatched to study +the problem. He, too, was swallowed up in silence. +The third, impatiently waiting tidings from his +faithless friends, set out to make an end of this +mystery. He reached the inn at dusk: it was a +gentle summer evening; the windows were open to +the tender air; lamps were lit within, and a merry +party sat at dinner. Through the open window +the suspicious venturer saw the recreant ambassadors, +gay with laughter. And there, sitting in the +lamplight, was the American lady—a slender, +thoughtful enchantress with eyes as dark and glowing +as the wine. Thus it was that Robert Louis +Stevenson first saw Fanny Osbourne.</p> + +<p>A few days later Mrs. Osbourne's eighteen-year-old +daughter Isobel wrote in a letter: “There is a +young Scotchman here, a Mr. Stevenson. He is +such a nice-looking ugly man, and I would rather +listen to him talk than read the most interesting +book.... Mama is ever so much better and is +getting prettier every day.”</p> + +<p>“The Life of Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson,” +written by her sister Mrs. Sanchez (the mother of +“little Louis Sanchez on the beach at Monterey” +remembered by lovers of “A Child's Garden of +Verses”) is a book that none of the so-called idolaters +will want to overlook. The romantic excitements +of R. L. S.'s youth were tame indeed compared +to those of Fanny Van de Grift. R. L. S. had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> +been thrilled enough by a few nights spent in the +dark with the docile ass of the Cevennes; but here +was one, sprung from sober Philadelphia blood, +born in Indianapolis and baptized by Henry Ward +Beecher, who had pioneered across the fabled +Isthmus, lived in the roaring mining camps of +Nevada, worked for a dressmaker in Frisco, and +venturously taken her young children to Belgium +and France to study art. She had been married at +seventeen, had already once thought herself to be +a widow in fact by the temporary disappearance +of her first husband; and was now, after enduring +repeated infidelities, prepared to make herself a +widow in law. Daring horse woman, a good shot, +a supreme cook, artist, writer, and a very Gene +Stratton Porter among flowers, fearless, beautiful, +and of unique charm—where could another woman +have been found so marvellously gifted to be the +wife of a romancer? It seems odd that Philadelphia +and Edinburgh, the two most conservatively minded +cities of the Anglo-Saxon earth, should have combined +to produce this, the most radiant pair of +adventurers in our recent annals.</p> + +<p>The reading of this delightful book has taken us +back into the very pang and felicity of our first great +passion—our idolatry, if you will—which we are +proud here and now to re-avow. When was there +ever a happier or more wholesome worship for a boy +than the Stevenson mania on which so many of this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> +generation grew up? We were the luckier in that +our zeal was shared in all its gusto and particularity +by a lean, long-legged, sallow-faced, brown-eyed +eccentric (himself incredibly Stevensonian in appearance) +with whom we lay afield in our later teens, +reading R. L. S. aloud by the banks of a small stream +which we vowed should become famous in the world +of letters. And so it has, though not by our efforts, +which was what we had designed; for at the crystal +headwater of that same creek was penned “The +Amenities of Book Collecting,” that enchanting +volume of bookish essays which has swelled the correspondence +of a Philadelphia business man to insane +proportions, and even brought him offers from three +newspapers to conduct a book page. It seems appropriate +to the present chronicler that in a quiet +library overlooking the clear fount and origin of +dear Darby Creek there are several of the most +cherished association volumes of R. L. S.—we think +particularly of the “Child's Garden of Verses” +which he gave to Cummy, and the manuscript of +little “Smoutie's” very first book, the “History of +Moses.”</p> + +<br /> +<p>Was there ever a more joyous covenant of affection +than that of Mifflin McGill and ourself in our +boyish madness for Tusitala? It is a happy circumstance, +we say, for a youth, before the multiplying +responsibilities of maturity press upon him, to pour<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> +out his enthusiasm in an obsession such as that; and +when this passion can be shared and doubled and +knitted in partnership with an equally freakish, insane, +and innocent idiot (such as our generously mad +friend Mifflin) admirable adventures are sure to +follow. The quest begun on Darby Creek took us +later on an all-summer progress among places in +England and Scotland hallowed to us by association +with R. L. S. Never, in any young lives past or to +come, could there be an instant of purer excitement +and glory than when, after bicycling hotly all day +with the blue outline of Arthur's Seat apparently +always receding before us, we trundled grimly into +Auld Reekie and set out for the old Stevenson home +at 17 Heriot Row, halting only to bestow our +pneumatic steeds in the nearest and humblest available +hostelry. There (for we found the house +empty and “To Let”) we sat on the doorstep evening +by evening, smoking in the long northern +twilight and spinning our youthful dreams. This +lust for hunting out our favourite author's footsteps +even led one of the pair to a place perhaps never +visited by any other Stevensonian pilgrim—old +Cockfield Rectory, in Suffolk, where Mrs. Sitwell +and Sidney Colvin first met the bright-eyed Scotch +boy in 1873. The tracker of footprints remembers +how kind were the then occupants of the old rectory, +and how, in a daze of awe, he trod the green and +tranquil lawn and hastened to visit a cottage near by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> +where there was an ancient rustic who had been +coachman at the rectory when R. L. S. stayed there, +fabled to retain some pithy recollection. Alas, the +Suffolk ancient, eager enough to share tobacco and +speech, would only mull over his memories of a +previous rector, describing how it had fallen to him +to prepare the good man for burial; how he smiled in +death and his cheeks were as rosy as a babe's.</p> + +<p>It would take many pages to narrate all the +bypaths and happy excursions trod by these simple +youths in their quest of the immortal Louis. The +memories come bustling, and one knows not where to +stop. The supreme adventure, for one of the pair, +lay in the kindness of Sir Sidney Colvin. To this +prince of gentlemen and scholars one of these lads +wrote, sending his letter (with subtle cunning) from +a village in Suffolk only a few miles from Sir Sidney's +boyhood home. He calculated that this might +arouse the interest of Sir Sidney, whom he knew to +be cruelly badgered with letters from enthusiasts; +and fortune turned in his favour, granting him +numerous ecstatic visits to Sir Sidney and Lady +Colvin and much unwarranted generosity. But, +since our mind has been turned in this direction by +Mrs. Sanchez's book, it might be appropriate to add +that one of the most thrilling moments in the crusade +was a season of April days spent beside the green and +stripling Loing, in the forest of Fontainebleau region, +visiting those lovely French villages where R. L. S.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +roamed as a young man, crowned by an afternoon +at Grez. One remembers the old gray bridge across +the eddying water, and the door of the inn where the +young pilgrim lingered, trying to visualize scenes of +thirty-five years before.</p> + +<p>It is not mere idolatry when the hearts of the +young are haunted by such spells. There was some +real divinity behind the enchantment, some marvellous +essence that made all roads Tusitala trod the +Road of Loving Hearts. In these matters we would +trust the simple Samoans to come nearer the truth +than our cynic friend in Greenwich Village. The +magic of that great name abides unimpaired.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_FIRST_COMMENCEMENT_ADDRESS" id="THE_FIRST_COMMENCEMENT_ADDRESS"></a>THE FIRST COMMENCEMENT ADDRESS</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<center>(<i>Delivered to Cain and Abel, the first graduating class +of the Garden of Eden Normal School.</i>)</center> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p060.jpg" width="300" height="231" alt="p060" title="The First Commencement Address" /></div> + +<p>My young friends—It is a privilege to be +permitted to address you this morning, for +I am convinced that never in the world's history did +the age beckon with so eager a gesture to the young +men on the threshold of active life. Never indeed in +the past, and certainly never in the future, was there +or will there be a time more deeply fraught with +significance. And as I gaze upon your keen faces it +seems almost as though the world had amassed all +the problems that now confront us merely in order +to give you tasks worthy of your prowess.</p> + +<p>The world, I think I may safely say, is smaller now +than ever before. The recent invention of young<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> +women, something quite new in the way of a social +problem, has introduced a hitherto undreamed-of +complexity into human affairs. The extreme +rapidity with which ideas and thoughts now circulate, +due to the new invention of speech, makes it +probable that what is said in Eden to-day will be +known in the land of Nod within a year. The +greatest need is plainly for big-visioned and purposeful +men, efficient men, men with forward-looking +minds. I hope you will pattern after your admirable +father in this respect; he truly was a forward-looking +man, for he had nothing to look back on.</p> + +<p>You are aware, however, that your father has had +serious problems to deal with, and it is well that you +should consider those problems in the light of the +experiences you are about to face. One of his most +perplexing difficulties would never have come upon +him if he had not fallen into a deep sleep. I counsel +you, therefore, be wary not to overslumber. The +prizes of life always come to those who press resolutely +on, undaunted by fatigue and discouragement. +Another of your father's failings was probably due to +the fact that he was never a small boy and thus had +no chance to work the deviltry out of his system. +You yourselves have been abundantly blessed in this +regard. I think I may say that here, in our Normal +Academy, you have had an almost ideal playground +to work off those boyish high spirits, to perpetrate +those mischievous pranks that the world expects of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> +its young. Remember that you are now going out +into the mature work of life, where you will encounter +serious problems.</p> + +<p>As you wend your way from these accustomed +shades into the full glare of public life you will do so, +I hope, with the consciousness that the eyes of the +world are upon you. The sphere of activity in +which you may find yourselves called upon to perform +may be restricted, but you will remember that +not failure but low aim is base. You will hold a just +balance between the conflicting tendencies of radicalism +and conservatism. You will endeavour to +secure for labour its due share in the profits of labour. +You will not be forgetful that all government depends +in the last resort on the consent of the governed. +These catch words in the full flush of your +youth you may be inclined to dismiss as truisms, but +I assure you that 10,000 years from now men will be +uttering them with the same air of discovery.</p> + +<p>It is my great pleasure to confer upon you both +the degree of bachelor of arts and to pray that you +may never bring discredit upon your alma mater.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +<h2><a name="THE_DOWNFALL_OF_GEORGE_SNIPE" id="THE_DOWNFALL_OF_GEORGE_SNIPE"></a>THE DOWNFALL OF GEORGE SNIPE</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>George Snipe was an ardent book-lover, and +sat in the smoking car in a state of suspended +ecstasy. He had been invited out to Mandrake +Park to visit the library of Mr. Genial Girth, the +well-known collector of rare autographed books. +Devoted amateur of literature as he was, George's +humble career rarely brought him into contact with +bookish treasures, and a tremulous excitement swam +through his brain as he thought of the glories +he was about to see. In his devout meditation the +train carried him a station beyond his alighting +place, and he ran frantically back through the well-groomed +suburban countryside in order to reach Mr. +Girth's home on time.</p> + +<p>They went through the library together. Mr. +Girth displayed all his fascinating prizes with +generous good nature, and George grew excited. +The palms of his hands were clammy with agitation. +All round the room, encased in scarlet slip-covers of +tooled morocco, on fireproof shelves, were the priceless +booty of the collector. Here was Charles +Lamb's “Essays of Elia,” inscribed by the author to +the woman he loved. Here was a copy of “Paradise<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> +Lost,” signed by John Milton. Here was a “Hamlet” +given by Shakespeare to Bacon with the inscription, +“Dear Frank, don't you wish you could +have written something like this?” Here was the +unpublished manuscript of a story by Robert Louis +Stevenson. Here was a note written by Doctor +Johnson to the landlord of the Cheshire Cheese, +refusing to pay a bill and accusing the tavern-keeper +of profiteering. Here were volumes autographed by +Goldsmith, Keats, Shelley, Poe, Byron, DeFoe, Swift, +Dickens, Thackeray, and all the other great figures +of modern literature.</p> + +<p>Poor George's agitation became painful. His +head buzzed as he surveyed the faded signatures of +all these men who had become the living figures of +his day-dreams. His eye rolled wildly in its orbit. +Just then Mr. Girth was called out of the room, and +left George alone among the treasures.</p> + +<p>Just at what instant the mania seized him we +shall never know. There were a pen and an inkpot +on the table, and the frenzied lover of books dipped +the quill deep in the dark blue fluid. He ran +eagerly to the shelves. The first volume he saw was +a copy of “Lorna Doone.” In it he wrote “Affectionately +yours, R. D. Blackmore.” Then came +Longfellow's poems. He scrawled “With deep +esteem, Henry W. Longfellow” on the flyleaf. +Then three volumes of Macaulay's “History of +England.” In the first he jotted “I have always<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> +wanted you to have these admirable books, T. B. +M.” In “The Mill on the Floss” he wrote “This +comes to you still warm from the press, George +Eliot.” The next book happened to be a copy of +Edgar Guest's poems. In this he inscribed “You +are the host I love the best, This is my boast, Yours, +Edgar Guest.” In a copy of Browning's Poems he +wrote “To my dear and only wife, Elizabeth, from +her devoted Robert.” In a pamphlet reprint of the +Gettysburg Speech he penned “This is straight stuff, +A. Lincoln.” But perhaps his most triumphant +exploit was signing a copy of the Rubaiyat thus: +“This book is given to the Anti-Saloon League of +Naishapur by that thorn in their side, O. Khayyam.”</p> + +<p>By the time the ambulance reached Mr. Girth's +home George was completely beyond control. He +was taken away screaming because he had not had a +chance to autograph a copy of the “Songs of Solomon.”</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="MEDITATIONS_OF_A_BOOKSELLER" id="MEDITATIONS_OF_A_BOOKSELLER"></a>MEDITATIONS OF A BOOKSELLER</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<center>(Roger Mifflin <i>loquitur</i>)</center> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 255px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p066.jpg" width="255" height="300" alt="p066" title="Meditations of a Bookseller" /></div> + +<p>I had a pleasant adventure to-day. A free verse +poet came in to see me, wanted me to buy some +copies of “The Pagan Anthology.” I looked over +the book, to which he himself had contributed some +pieces. I advised him to read Tennyson. I wish +you could have seen his face.</p> + +<p>If you want to see a really good anthology (I said)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +have a look at Pearsall Smith's “Treasury of English +Prose,” just out. The only thing that surprises me +is that Mr. Smith didn't include some free verse in it. +The best thing about free verse is that it is often awfully +good prose.</p> + +<p>It's a superb clear night: a milky pallor washed +in the blue: a white moon overhead: stars rare +but brilliant, one in the south twinkles and flutters +like a tiny flower stirred by faint air. The wind is +“a cordial of incredible virtue” (Emerson)—sharp +and chill, but with a milder tincture. To-day, +though brisk and snell on the streets, the sunshine +had a lively vigour, a generous quality, a promissory +note of the equinox. I felt it from first rising this +morning—the old demiurge at work! As I sat in the +bathtub (when a man is fifty he may be pardoned for +taking a warm bath on winter mornings) my mind +fell upon the desire of wandering: it occurred to me +that a spread of legs in the vital air would be richly +repaid. The windows called me: as soon as shirt +and trousers were on, I was at the sill peering out +over Gissing Street. Later, even through closed +panes, the chink of milk bottles on the pavement +below seemed to rise with a clearer, merrier note. +Setting out for some tobacco about 8:30, I stopped to +study the ice-man's great blocks of silvery translucence, +lying along the curb by a big apartment house. +“Artificial” ice, I suppose: it was interesting to +see, in the meridian of each cake, a kind of silvery<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +fracture or membrane, with the grain of air-bubbles +tending outward therefrom—showing, no doubt, if +one knew the mechanics of refrigeration, just how +the freezing proceeded. Even in so humble a thing +as a block of ice are these harmonic and lovely +patterns, the seal of Nature's craft, inscrutable, +inimitable. I might have made a point of this in +talking to that free verse poet. I'm glad I didn't, +however: he would have had some tedious reply, +convincing to himself. That's the trouble with +replies: they are always convincing to the replier. +As a friend of mine used to say, one good taciturn +deserves another.</p> + +<p>I was thinking, as I took a parcel of laundry up to +the Chinaman on McFee Street just now, it would +be interesting to write a book dealing solely, candidly, +exactly, and fully with the events, emotions, and +thoughts of just one day in a man's life. If one +could do that, in a way to carry conviction, assent, +and reality, to convey to the reader's senses a +recognition of genuine actual human <i>being</i>, one +might claim to be a true artist.</p> + +<p>I have found an admirable book for reading in +bed—this little anthology of prose, collected by +Pearsall Smith. He knows what good prose is, +having written some of the daintiest bits of our time +in his “Trivia,” a book with which I occasionally +delight a truly discerning customer. What a +fascination there is in good prose—“the cool element<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +of prose” as Milton calls it—a sort of fluid happiness +of the mind, unshaken by the violent pangs of great +poetry. I am not subtle enough to describe it, but +in the steadily cumulating satisfaction of first-class +prose there seems to be something that speaks direct +to the brain, unmarred by the claims of the senses, +the emotions. I meditate much, ignorantly and +fumblingly, on the modes and purposes of writing. +It is so simple—“Fool!” said my Muse to me, “look in +thy heart and write!”—all that is needful is to tell +what happens; and yet how hard it is to summon up +that necessary candor. Every time I read great +work I see the confirmation of what I grope for. +How vivid, straight, and cleanly it seems when done: +merely the outward utterance of “what the mind at +home, in the spacious circuits of her musing, hath +liberty to propose to herself.” Let a man's mind +depart from his audience; let him have no concern +whether to shock or to please. Let him carry no +consideration save to utter, with unsparing fidelity, +what passes in his own spirit. One can trust the +brain to do its part. All that is needed is honourable +frankness: not to be ashamed to open our +hearts, to speak our privy weakness, our inward +exulting. Then the pain and perplexity, or the +childish satisfactions, of our daily life are the true +material of the writer's art, and that which is sown +in weakness may be raised in power. Curious indeed +that in this life, brief and precariously enjoyed, men<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +should so set their hearts on building a permanence +in words: something to stand, in the lovely stability +of ink and leaden types, as our speech out of silence +to those who follow on. Indefensible absurdity, and +yet the secret and impassioned dream of those who +write!</p> + +<p>I was about to say that, for the writing of anything +truly durable, the first requisite is plenty of silence. +Then I recall Dr. Johnson's preface to his Dictionary—“written +not in the soft obscurities of +retirement, or under the shelter of academic bowers, +but amid inconvenience and distraction, in sickness +and in sorrow.”</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IF_BUYING_A_MEAL" id="IF_BUYING_A_MEAL"></a>IF BUYING A MEAL WERE LIKE BUYING A HOUSE</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<center> +<span class="ff">This Indenture</span> +</center> + +<p>between A. B., an innkeeper, organized and existing +under the laws of good cooking, party of the first +part, and C. D., party of the second part, witnesseth:</p> + +<p><span class="ff">That</span> the said party of the first part, for and in +consideration of the sum of $1.50, lawful +money of the United States, paid by the said party +of the second part, does hereby grant and release +unto the said C. D., and his heirs, administrators, +and assigns forever,</p> + +<p><span class="ff">All</span> that certain group, parcels, or allotments of +food, viands, or victuals, situate or to be +spread, served, and garnished upon the premises of +said A. B., shown and known and commonly designed +as one square meal, table d'hôte, together +with the drinking water, napkin, ash tray, finger-bowl +and hat-and-coat-hanging privileges or easements +appurtenant thereto,</p> + +<p><span class="ff">And Together With</span> the rights, +privileges, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> +opportunities (as an easement additionally appurtenant +to the meal above nominated) to partake, eat, +enjoy, and be nourished upon said victuals, and to +call for extra pats, parcels, or portions of butter.</p> + +<p><span class="ff">Subject</span> to the following restrictions, to wit: +That neither the party of the second +part, nor his heirs, executors, or assigns, will feast +immoderately upon onions, to the confusion of his +neighbours; nor will the said C. D. or his guests +smoke any form of tobacco other than cigars +and cigarettes, the instrument commonly known +as a pipe being offensive to the head waiter +(a man of delicate nurture); nor will said party of the +second part covet, retain, nor seek to remove any +knives, forks, spoons, or other tableware whatsoever; +nor is anything said or implied or otherwise intimated +in this covenant to be construed as permitting +the party of the second part to carry on loud +laughter, song, carnival, nor social uproar; nor unnecessarily, +further than is tactful for the procurement +of expeditious attention, to endear himself to +or otherwise cajole, compliment, and ingratiate the +waitress.</p> + +<p><span class="ff">And Furthermore,</span> that title to said +Meal does not +pass until the party of the second part has conveyed, +of his mansuetude and proper charity, a gratuity, fee,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +honorarium, lagniappe, pourboire, easement or tip +of not less than 15 per cent of the price of said +Meal; which easement, while customarily spoken of +as a free-will grant or gratuity, is to be constructively +regarded as an entail and a necessary encumbrance +upon said Meal.</p> + +<p><span class="ff">And</span> the said party of the first part covenants +with the said party of the second part as +follows: That the said C. D. is seized of the said +Meal in fee simple, and shall quietly enjoy said Meal +subject to the covenants and restrictions and +encumbrances hereinbefore set out, subject to the +good pleasure of the Head Waiter.</p> + +<p><span class="ff">In Witness Whereof</span> these presents +are signed,</p> + +<p style="text-align: right;">(LOC. SIG.)</p> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ADVENTURES_IN_HIGH_FINANCE" id="ADVENTURES_IN_HIGH_FINANCE"></a>ADVENTURES IN HIGH FINANCE</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p074.jpg" width="300" height="291" alt="p074" title="Adventures in High Finance" /></div> + +<p>There is no way in which one can so surely +arouse the suspicions of bankers as by trying to +put some money in their hands. We went round to +a near-by bank hoping to open an account. As we +had formerly dealt with an uptown branch of the +same institution, and as the cheque we wanted to +deposit bore the name of a quite well-known firm, +we thought all would be easy. But no; it seemed +that there was no convincing way to identify ourself. +Hopefully we pulled out a stack of letters, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> +these were waved aside. We began to feel more and +more as though we had come with some sinister intent. +We started to light our pipe, and then it occurred +to us that perhaps that would be regarded as +the gesture of a hardened cracksman, seeking to +appear at his ease. We wondered if, in all our +motions, we were betraying the suspicious conduct +of the professional embezzler. Perhaps the courteous +banker was putting us through some Freudian +third degree ... in these days when the +workings of the unconscious are so shrewdly canvassed, +was there anything abominable in the cellar +of our soul which we were giving away without +realizing ... had we not thought to ourself, +as we entered the door, well, this is a fairly decent +cheque to start an account with, but we won't keep +our balance anywhere near that figure ... perhaps +our Freudian banker had spotted that thought +and was sending for a psychological patrol wagon +... well, how <i>could</i> we identify ourself? Did +we know any one who had an account in that +branch? No.</p> + +<p>We thought of a friend of ours who banked at another +branch of this bank, not far away. The +banker called him up and whispered strangely over +the phone. We were asked to take off our hat. +Apparently our friend was describing us. We +hoped that he was saying “stout” rather than “fat.” +But it seemed that the corroboration of our friend<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +only increased our host's precaution. Perhaps he +thought it was a carefully worked-out con game, +in which our friend was a confederate. We signed +our name several times, on little cards, with a +desperate attempt to appear unconcerned. In spite +of our best efforts, we could not help thinking that +each time we wrote it we must be looking as though +we were trying to remember how we had written it +the last time. Still the banker hesitated. Then he +called up our friend again. He asked him if he +would know our voice over the phone. Our friend +said he would. We spoke to our friend, with whom +we had eaten lunch a few minutes before. He +asked, to identify us, what we had had for lunch. +Horrible instant! For a moment we could not remember. +The eyes of the banker and his assistant +were glittering upon us. Then we spoke glibly +enough. “An oyster patty,” we said; “two cups of +tea, and a rice pudding which we asked for cold, but +which was given us hot.”</p> + +<p>Our friend asserted, to the banker, that we were +undeniably us, and indeed the homely particularity +of the luncheon items had already made incision in +his hardened bosom. He smiled radiantly at us and +gave us a cheque book. Then he told us we couldn't +draw against our account until the original cheque +had passed through the Clearing House, and sent a +youth back to the office with us so that we could be +unmistakably identified.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> + +<p>As we left the banker's office someone else was +ushered in. “Here's another gentleman to open +an account,” said the assistant. “We hope he +knows what he had for lunch,” we said to the +banker.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ON_VISITING_BOOKSHOPS" id="ON_VISITING_BOOKSHOPS"></a>ON VISITING BOOKSHOPS</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 253px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p078.jpg" width="253" height="300" alt="p078" title="On Visiting Bookshops" /></div> + +<p>It Is a curious thing that so many people only go +into a bookshop when they happen to need some +particular book. Do they never drop in for a little +innocent carouse and refreshment? There are some +knightly souls who even go so far as to make their +visits to bookshops a kind of chivalrous errantry at +large. They go in not because they need any certain +volume, but because they feel that there may be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> +some book that needs them. Some wistful, little +forgotten sheaf of loveliness, long pining away on +an upper shelf—why not ride up, fling her across your +charger (or your charge account), and gallop away. +Be a little knightly, you book-lovers!</p> + +<p>The lack of intelligence with which people use +bookshops is, one supposes, no more flagrant than the +lack of intelligence with which we use all the rest of +the machinery of civilization. In this age, and +particularly in this city, we haven't time to be +intelligent.</p> + +<p>A queer thing about books, if you open your +heart to them, is the instant and irresistible way they +follow you with their appeal. You know at once, if +you are clairvoyant in these matters (libre-voyant, +one might say), when you have met your book. You +may dally and evade, you may go on about your +affairs, but the paragraph of prose your eye fell +upon, or the snatch of verses, or perhaps only the +spirit and flavour of the volume, more divined than +reasonably noted, will follow you. A few lines +glimpsed on a page may alter your whole trend of +thought for the day, reverse the currents of the +mind, change the profile of the city. The other +evening, on a subway car, we were reading Walter de +la Mare's interesting little essay about Rupert +Brooke. His discussion of children, their dreaming +ways, their exalted simplicity and absorption, +changed the whole tenor of our voyage by some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> +magical chemistry of thought. It was no longer a +wild, barbaric struggle with our fellowmen, but a +venture of faith and recompense, taking us home to +the bedtime of a child.</p> + +<p>The moment when one meets a book and knows, +beyond shadow of doubt, that that book must be +his—not necessarily now, but some time—is among +the happiest excitements of the spirit. An indescribable +virtue effuses from some books. One +can feel the radiations of an honest book long before +one sees it, if one has a sensitive pulse for such +affairs. Its honour and truth will speak through +the advertising. Its mind and heart will cry +out even underneath the extravagance of jacket-blurbings. +Some shrewd soul, who understands +books, remarked some time ago on the editorial +page of the <i>Sun's</i> book review that no superlative on +a jacket had ever done the book an atom of good. +He was right, as far as the true bookster is concerned. +We choose our dinner not by the wrappers, but by +the veining and gristle of the meat within. The +other day, prowling about a bookshop, we came upon +two paper-bound copies of a little book of poems by +Alice Meynell. They had been there for at least +two years. We had seen them before, a year or more +ago, but had not looked into them fearing to be +tempted. This time we ventured. We came upon +two poems—“To O, Of Her Dark Eyes,” and “A +Wind of Clear Weather in England.” The book<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> +was ours—or rather, we were its, though we did not +yield at once. We came back the next day and got +it. We are still wondering how a book like that +could stay in the shop so long. Once we had it, the +day was different. The sky was sluiced with a +clearer blue, air and sunlight blended for a keener +intake of the lungs, faces seen along the street moved +us with a livelier shock of interest and surprise. The +wind that moved over Sussex and blew Mrs. Meynell's +heart into her lines was still flowing across the +ribs and ledges of our distant scene.</p> + +<p>There is no mistaking a real book when one meets +it. It is like falling in love, and like that colossal +adventure it is an experience of great social import. +Even as the tranced swain, the book-lover yearns to +tell others of his bliss. He writes letters about it, +adds it to the postscript of all manner of communications, +intrudes it into telephone messages, +and insists on his friends writing down the title of the +find. Like the simple-hearted betrothed, once +certain of his conquest, “I want you to love her, +too!” It is a jealous passion also. He feels a little +indignant if he finds that any one else has discovered +the book, too. He sees an enthusiastic review—very +likely in <i>The New Republic</i>—and says, with great +scorn, “I read the book three months ago.” There +are even some perversions of passion by which a +book-lover loses much of his affection for his pet if he +sees it too highly commended by some rival critic.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> + +<p>This sharp ecstasy of discovering books for one's +self is not always widespread. There are many who, +for one reason or another, prefer to have their books +found out for them. But for the complete zealot +nothing transcends the zest of pioneering for himself. +And therefore working for a publisher is, to a +certain type of mind, a never-failing fascination. +As H. M. Tomlinson says in “Old Junk,” that +fascinating collection of sensitive and beautifully +poised sketches which came to us recently with a +shock of thrilling delight:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>To come upon a craft rigged so, though at her +moorings and with sails furled, her slender poles +upspringing from the bright plane of a brimming +harbour, is to me as rare and sensational a delight +as the rediscovery, when idling with a book, of a +favourite lyric.</p></div> + +<p>To read just that passage, and the phrase <i>the +bright plane of a brimming harbour</i>, is one of those +“rare and sensational delights” that set the mind +moving on lovely journeys of its own, and mark off +visits to a bookshop not as casual errands of reason, +but as necessary acts of devotion. We visit bookshops +not so often to buy any one special book, but +rather to rediscover, in the happier and more +expressive words of others, our own encumbered +soul.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_DISCOVERY" id="A_DISCOVERY"></a>A DISCOVERY</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p083.jpg" width="300" height="283" alt="p083" title="A Discovery" /></div> + +<p>We are going to tell the truth. It has been on +our mind for some time. We are going to tell +it exactly, without any balancing or trimming or +crimped edges. We are weary of talking about +trivialities and are going to come plump and plain +to the adventures of our own mind. These are real +adventures, just as real as the things we see. The +green frog that took refuge on our porch last night +was no more real. Perhaps frogs don't care so much +for wet as they are supposed to, for when that +excellent thunderstorm came along and the ceiling of +the night was sheeted with lilac brightness, through +which ran quivering threads of naked fire (not just +the soft, tame, flabby fire of the domestic hearth, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +the real core and marrow of flame, its hungry, +terrible, destroying self), our friend the frog came +hopping up on the porch where we stood, apparently +to take shelter. How brilliant was his black and +silver eye when we picked him up! His direct and +honourable regard somehow made us feel ashamed, +we know not why. And yet we have plenty to be +ashamed about—but how did he know? He was +still on the porch this morning. Equally real was +the catbird on the hedge as we came down toward +the station. She—we call her so, for there was +unmistakable ladyhood in her delicately tailored +trimness—she bickered at us in a cheerful way, on +top of those bushes which were so loaded with the +night's rainfall that they shone a blurred cobweb +gray in the lifting light. Her eye was also dark and +polished and lucid, like a bead of ink. It also had +the same effect of tribulation on our spirit. Neither +the catbird nor the frog, we said to ourself, would +have tormented their souls trying to “invent” +something to write about. They would have told +what happened to them, and let it go at that. So, as +we walked along under an arcade of maple trees, admiring +the little green seed-biplanes brought down +by the thrash of the rain—they look rather as though +they would make good coathangers for fairies—we +asked ourself why we could not be as straightforward +as the bird and the frog, and talk about what was in +our mind.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> + +<p>The most exciting thing that happened to us when +we got to New York last February was finding a book +in a yellow wrapper. Its title was “Old Junk,” +which appealed to us. The name of the author was +H. M. Tomlinson, which immediately became to us +a name of honour and great meaning. All day and +every day intelligent men find themselves surrounded +by oceans of what is quaintly called “reading +matter.” Most of it is turgid, lumpy, fuzzy in +texture, squalid in intellect. The rewards of the +literary world—that is, the tangible, potable, +spendable rewards—go mostly to the cheapjack and +the mountebank. And yet here was a man who in +every paragraph spoke to the keenest intellectual +sense—who, ten times a page, enchanted the reader +with the surprising and delicious pang given by the +critically chosen word. We sat up late at night +reading that book, marvelling at our good fortune. +We wanted to cry aloud (to such as cared to understand), +“Rejoice and be exceeding glad, for here is +born a man who knows how to write!” In our +exuberance we seized a pen and wrote in the stern of +our copy: “Here speaks the Lord God of prose; +here is the clear eye, the ironic mind, the compassionate +heart; the thrilling honesty and (apparent) +simplicity of great work.” Then we set about +making the book known to our friends. We propelled +them into bookshops and made them buy it. +We took our own copy down to William McFee on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> +S.S. <i>Turrialba</i> and a glad heart was ours when he, +too, said it was “the real thing.” This is a small +matter, you say? When the discovery of an honest +pen becomes a small matter life will lose something of +its savour. Those who understand will understand; +let the others spend their time in the smoker playing +pinochle. Those who care about these things can +get the book for themselves.</p> + +<p>Of Mr. Tomlinson in person: he is a London newspaperman, +we understand, and now on the staff of +the London <i>Nation</i>. (Trust Mr. Massingham, the +editor of that journal, to know an honest writer +when he sees him.) Mr. Tomlinson says of himself:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>My life is like my portrait. It won't bear investigation. +I am not conscious of having done +anything that would interest either a policeman or +the young lady of the kind who dotes on Daddy +Long Legs; worse luck. It's about time I got down +to business and did something interesting either to +one or the other. That is why it won't bear investigation, +this record of mine. I am about as +entertaining as one of the crowd coming out of the +factory gates with his full dinner pail. All my +adventures have been no more than keeping that +pail moderately full. I've been doing that since I +was twelve, in all sorts of ways. I was an office boy +and a clerk among London's ships, in the last days +of the clippers. And I am forced to recall some of +the things—such as bookkeeping in a jam factory +and stoking on a tramp steamer—I can understand +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>why I and my fellows, without wanting to, drifted +about in indecision till we drifted into war and +drifted into peace. And of course, I've been a +journalist. I am still; and so have seen much of +Africa, America, and Europe, without knowing +exactly why. I was in France in 1914—the August, +too, of that year, and woke up from that nightmare +in 1917, after the Vimy Ridge attack, when I returned +to England to sit with my wife and children +in a cellar whenever it was a fine night and listened +to the guns and bombs. God, who knows all, might +make something of this sort of inconsequential +drift of one day into the next, but I give it +up.</p></div> + +<p>But now we pass to the phase of the matter that +puzzles us. How is it that there are some books +which can never have abiding life until they perish +and are born again? We have noticed it so often. +There is a book of a certain sort to which this +process seems inevitable. One need only mention +Leonard Merrick or Samuel Butler as examples. +The book, we will suppose, has some peculiar +subtlety or flavour of appeal. (We are thinking at +the moment of William McFee's “Letters From an +Ocean Tramp.”) It is published and falls dead. +Later on—usually about ten years later—it is taken +up with vigour by some other publisher, the stone is +rolled away from the sepulchre, and it begins to move +among its destined lovers.</p> + +<p>This remark is caused by our delighted discovery<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +of a previous book by the author of “Old Junk.” +“The Sea and the Jungle” is the title of it, the tale +of a voyage on the tramp steamer <i>Capella</i>, from +Swansea to Para in the Brazils, and thence 2,000 +miles along the forests of the Amazon and Madeira +rivers. It is the kind of book whose readers will +never forget it; the kind of book that happens to +some happy writers once in a lifetime (and to many +never at all) when the moving hand seems gloriously +in gear with the tremulous and busy mind, and all +the spinning earth stands hearkeningly still waiting +for the perfect expression of the thought. It is the +work of a hand trained in laborious task-work and +then set magnificently free, for a few blessed months, +under no burden save that of putting its captaining +spirit truthfully on paper. And this book—in +which there is a sea passage that not even Mr. Conrad +has ever bettered—this book, which makes the +utmost self-satisfied heroics of the Prominent +Writers of our market place shrivel uncomfortably +in remembrance—this book, we repeat, though +published in this country in 1913, has been long out +of print; and the copy which we were lucky enough +to lay hand on through the courtesy of the State +Librarian of Pennsylvania had not previously been +borrowed since November 18, 1913. Someone asks +us if this man can really write. Let us choose a +paragraph for example. This deals with the first +day at sea of the tramp steamer <i>Capella</i>:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>It was December, but by luck we found a halcyon +morning which had got lost in the year's procession. +It was a Sunday morning, and it had not been +ashore. It was still virgin, bearing a vestal light. +It had not been soiled yet by any suspicion of this +trampled planet, this muddy star, which its innocent +and tenuous rays had discovered in the region of +night. I thought it still was regarding us as a +lucky find there. Its light was tremulous, as if with +joy and eagerness. I met this discovering morning +as your ambassador while you still slept, and betrayed +not, I hope, any grayness and bleared satiety +of ours to its pure, frail, and lucid regard. That was +the last good service I did before leaving you quite. +I was glad to see how well your old earth did meet +such a light, as though it had no difficulty in looking +day in the face. The world was miraculously +renewed. It rose, and received the newborn of +Aurora in its arms. There were clouds of pearl +above hills of chrysoprase. The sea ran in volatile +flames. The shadows on the bright deck shot to and +fro as we rolled. The breakfast bell rang not too +soon. This was a right beginning.</p></div> + +<p>The above is a paragraph that we have chosen +from Mr. Tomlinson's book almost at random. We +could spend the whole afternoon (and a happy afternoon +it would be for us) copying out for you passages +from “The Sea and the Jungle” that would give you +the extremity of pleasure, O high-spirited reader! +It is an odd thing, it is a quaint thing, it is a thing +that would seem inconceivable (were we not tolerably +acquainted with the vagaries of the reading<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> +public) that a book of this sort should lie perdu on +the shelves of a few libraries. Yet one must not +leap too heartily to the wrong conclusion. The +reading public is avid of good books, but it does not +hear about them. Now we would venture to say +that we know fifty people—nay, two hundred and +fifty—who would never have done thanking us if we +could lay a copy of a book of this sort in their hand. +They would think it the greatest favour we could do +them if we could tell them where they could go and +lay down honest money and buy it. And we have to +retort that it is out of print, not procurable.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> Is it the +fault of publishers? We do not think so—or not +very often. For every publisher has experience of +this sort of thing—books that he knows to be of +extraordinary quality and fascination which simply +lie like lead in his stockroom, and people will not +listen to what he says about them. Whose fault +is it, then? Heaven knows.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"> +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Since this was written, a new edition has been published by E. P. +Dutton & Co.</p></div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="SILAS_ORRIN_HOWES" id="SILAS_ORRIN_HOWES"></a>SILAS ORRIN HOWES</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>There died in New York, on February 11, +1918, one who perhaps as worthily as any man +in any age represented the peculiar traits and +charms of the book-lover, a man whose personal loveliness +was only equalled by his unassuming modesty, +a man who was an honour to the fine old profession of +bookselling.</p> + +<p>There will be some who frequent Brentano's +bookstore in New York who will long remember the +quiet little gentleman who held the post nearest the +front door, whose face lit with such a gentle and +gracious smile when he saw a friend approach, who +endured with patience and courtesy the thousand +small annoyances that every salesman knows. +There were encounters with the bourgeois customer, +there were the exhausting fatigues of the rush +season, there were the day-long calls on the slender +and none too robust frame. But through it all he +kept the perfect and unassuming grace of the high-born +gentleman he was. An old-fashioned courtesy +and gallantry moved in his blood.</p> + +<p>It was an honour to know Silas Orrin Howes, and +some have been fortunate to have disclosed to them<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> +the richness and simple bravery of that lover of +truth and beauty. The present writer was one of +the least and latest of these. Twice, during the +last months of his life, it was my very good fortune to +spend an evening with him at his room on Lexington +Avenue, to drink the delicious coffee he brewed in his +percolator given him by William Marion Reedy, to +mull with him over the remarkable scrap-books he +had compiled out of the richness of his varied reading, +and to hear him talk about books and life.</p> + +<p>Silas Orrin Howes was born in Macon, Georgia, +October 15, 1867. He attended school in Macon +and Atlanta, and then in Franklin, Indiana. He +never went to college.</p> + +<p>When he was born, a passion for books was born +with him. His niece tells me that by the time he +was twenty-one he had collected a considerable +library. He began life as a newspaper man, on the +Macon <i>Telegraph</i>. About the age of twenty-four he +went to Galveston where he was first a copy-reader, +and then for seven years telegraph editor of the +Galveston <i>News</i>.</p> + +<p>I do not know all the details of his life in Galveston, +where he lived for about twenty years. He told +me that at the time of the disastrous storm and +flood he was working in a drug store near the Gulf +front. He gave me a thrilling description of the +night he spent standing on the prescription counter +with the water swirling about his waist. He slept<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> +in a little room at the back of the store, where he had +a shelf of books which were particularly dear to him. +Among them was a volume of Henley's poems. When +the flood subsided all the books were gone, but the +next day as he was looking over the wreckage of +neighbouring houses he found his Henley washed +up on a doorstep—covered with slime and filth but +still intact. He sent it to Brentano's in New York +to be rebound in vellum, instructing them not to +clean it in any way. He wrote to Henley about the +incident, who sent him a very friendly autographed +card which he pasted in the volume. That was one +of the books which he held most dear, and rightly.</p> + +<p>I do not know just when he came to New York; +about 1910, I believe. He took a position as salesman +at Brentano's. After a couple of years there he +became anxious to try the book business on his own +account. He and his nephew opened a shop in San +Antonio. Neither of them had much real business +experience. Certainly Howes himself was far too devoted +a book-lover to be a good business man! After +a few months the venture ended in failure, and all +the personal library which he had collected through +patient years was swallowed up in the disaster. +After this he returned to Brentano's, where he remained +until his death. About a year before his +death he was run over by a taxicab, which shook his +nerves a great deal.</p> + +<p>At some time during his career he came into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> +intimate friendly contact with Ambrose Bierce, and +used to tell many entertaining anecdotes about that +erratic venturer in letters. He edited one of +Bierce's volumes, adding a pleasant and scholarly +little introduction. He was an occasional contributor +to <i>Reedy's Mirror</i>, where he enjoyed indulging in his +original vein of satire and shrewd comment. He +was a great lover of quaint and exotic restaurants, +and was particularly fond of the Turkish café, the +Constantinople, just off Madison Square. It was a +treat to go there with him, see him summon the +waiter by clapping his hands (in the eastern fashion), +and enjoy the strangely compounded dishes of that +queer menu. He had sampled every Bulgar, +Turkish, Balkan, French, and Scandinavian restaurant +on Lexington Avenue. His taste in unusual and +savoury dishes was as characteristic as his love for +the finer flavours of literature. I remember last +November I elicited from him that he had never +tasted gooseberry jam, and had a jolly time hunting +for a jar, which I found at last at Park and Tilford's, +although the sales-girl protested there was no such +thing. I took it to him and made him promise to +eat it at his breakfasts.</p> + +<p>He had the true passions of the book-lover, which +are not allotted to many. He had read hungrily, +enjoying chiefly those magical draughts of prose +which linger in the mind: Bacon, Sir Thomas +Browne, Pater, Thoreau, Conrad. He was much of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +a recluse, a little saddened and sharpened perhaps +by some of his experiences; and he loved, above all, +those writers who can present truth with a faint tang +of acid flavour, the gooseberry jam of literature as it +were. One of my last satisfactions was to convert +him (in some measure) to an enthusiasm for Pearsall +Smith's “Trivia.”</p> + +<p>As one looks back at that quiet, honourable life, +one is aware of a high, noble spirit shining through +it: a spirit that sought but little for itself, welcomed +love and comradeship that came its way, and was +content with a modest round of routine duty because +it afforded inner contact with what was beautiful and +true. One remembers an innate gentleness, and a +loyalty to a high and chivalrous ideal.</p> + +<p>Such a life might be a lesson, if anything could, to +the bumptious and “efficient” and smug. Time +after time I have watched him serving some furred +and jewelled customer who was not fit to exchange +words with him; I have seen him jostled in a crowded +aisle by some parvenu ignoramus who knew not +that this quiet little man was one of the immortal +spirits of gentleness and breeding who associate in +quiet hours with the unburied dead of English +letters. That corner of the store, near the front +door, can never be the same.</p> + +<p>Such a life could only fittingly be described by +the gentle, inseeing pen of an E. V. Lucas.</p> + +<p>My greatest regret and disappointment, when I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> +heard of his sudden death, was that he would never +know of a little tribute I had paid him in a forthcoming +book. I had been saving it as a surprise for +him, for I knew it would please him. And now he +will never know.</p> + +<p>February, 1918.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> +<h2><a name="JOYCE_KILMER" id="JOYCE_KILMER"></a>JOYCE KILMER</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p097.jpg" width="500" height="171" alt="p097" title="Joyce Kilmer" /></div> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>I wonder if there is any other country where the +death of a young poet is double-column front-page +news?</p> + +<p>And if poets were able to proofread their own +obits, I wonder if any two lines would have given +Joyce Kilmer more honest pride than these:</p> + +<center> +JOYCE KILMER, POET,<br /> +IS KILLED IN ACTION<br /> +</center> + +<p>which gave many hearts a pang when they picked +up the newspaper last Sunday morning.</p> + +<p>Joyce Kilmer died as he lived—“in action.” He +found life intensely amusing, unspeakably interesting; +his energy was unlimited, his courage stout. He +attacked life at all points, rapidly gathered its +complexities about him, and the more intricate it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> +became the more zestful he found it. Nothing +bewildered him, nothing terrified. By the time he +was thirty he had attained an almost unique position +in literary circles. He lectured on poetry, he interviewed +famous men of letters, he was poet, editor, +essayist, critic, anthologist. He was endlessly +active, full of delightful mirth and a thousand +schemes for outwitting the devil of necessity that +hunts all brainworkers. Nothing could quench him. +He was ready to turn out a poem, an essay, a critical +article, a lecture, at a few minutes' notice. He had +been along all the pavements of Grub Street, perhaps +the most exciting place of breadwinning known to the +civilized man. From his beginning as a sales clerk +in a New York bookstore (where, so the tale goes, by +misreading the price cipher he sold a $150 volume for +$1.50) down to the time when he was run over by an +Erie train and dictated his weekly article for the +New York <i>Times</i> in hospital with three broken ribs, +no difficulties or perplexities daunted him.</p> + +<p>But beneath this whirling activity which amused +and amazed his friends there lay a deeper and quieter +vein which was rich in its own passion. It is not +becoming to prate of what lies in other men's souls; +we all have our secrecies and sanctuaries, rarely +acknowledged even to ourselves. But no one can +read Joyce Kilmer's poems without grasping his +vigorous idealism, his keen sense of beauty, his +devout and simple religion, his clutch on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> +preciousness of common things. He loved the +precarious bustle on Grub Street; he was of that adventurous, +buoyant stuff that rejects hum-drum +security and a pelfed and padded life. He always +insisted that America is the very shrine and fountain +of poetry, and this country (which is indeed pathetically +eager to take poets to its bosom) stirred his +vivid imagination. The romance of the commuter's +train and the suburban street, of the delicatessen +shop and the circus and the snowman in the +yard—these were the familiar themes where he was +rich and felicitous. Many a commuter will remember +his beautiful poem “The 12:45,” bespeaking +the thrill we have all felt in the shabby midnight +train that takes us home, yearning and weary, to +the well-beloved hearth:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What love commands, the train fulfills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And beautiful upon the hills<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are these our feet of burnished steel.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Subtly and certainly, I feel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Glen Rock welcomes us to her.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And silent Ridgewood seems to stir<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And smile, because she knows the train<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has brought her children back again.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We carry people home—and so<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God speeds us, wheresoe'er we go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The midnight train is slow and old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But of it let this thing be told,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To its high honour be it said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It carries weary folk to bed.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>To a man such as this, whose whole fervent and +busy adventure was lit within by the lamplight and +firelight of domestic passion, the war, with its +broken homes and defiled sanctities, came as a +personal affront. Both to his craving for the +glamour of such a colossal drama, and to his sense +of what was most worshipful in human life, the call +was irresistible. Counsels of prudence and comfort +were as nothing; the heart-shaking poetry of this +nation's entry into an utterly unselfish war burned +away all barriers. His life had been a fury of +writing, but those who thought he had entered the +war merely to make journalism about it were mistaken. +Only a few weeks before his death he wrote:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>To tell the truth, I am not interested in writing +nowadays, except in so far as writing is the expression +of something beautiful. And I see daily and nightly +the expression of beauty in action instead of words, +and I find it more satisfactory. I am a sergeant in +the regimental intelligence section—the most fascinating +work possible—more thrills in it than in any +other branch, except, possibly, aviation. Wonderful +life! But I don't know what I'll be able to do +in civilian life—unless I become a fireman!</p></div> + +<p>As journalist and lecturer Kilmer was copious and +enthusiastic rather than deep. He found—a good +deal to his own secret mirth—women's clubs and +poetry societies sitting earnestly at his feet, expectant +to hear ultimate truth on deep matters.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> +His humour prompted him to give them the ultimate +truth they craved. If his critical judgments were +not always heavily documented or long pondered, +they were entertaining and pleasantly put. The +earnest world of literary societies and blue-hosed +salons lay about his feet; he flashed in it merrily, +chuckling inwardly as he found hundreds of worthy +people hanging breathless on his words. A kind of +Kilmer cult grew apace; he had his followers and his +devotees. I mention these things because he would +have been the first to chuckle over them. I do not +think he would want to be remembered as having +taken all that sort of thing too seriously. It was all +a delicious game—part of the grand joke of living. +Sometimes, among his friends, he would begin to +pontificate in his platform manner. Then he would +recall himself, and his characteristic grin would flood +his face.</p> + +<p>As a journalist, I say, he was copious; but as a +poet his song was always prompted by a genuine +gush of emotion. “A poet is only a glorified reporter,” +he used to say; he took as his favourite assignment +the happier precincts of the human heart. As he said +of Belloc, a true poet will never write to order—not +even to his own order. He sang because he heard +life singing all about him. His three little books of +poems have always been dear to lovers of honest +simplicity. And now their words will be lit henceforward +by an inner and tender brightness—the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +memory of a gallant boy who flung himself finely +against the walls of life. Where they breached he +broke through and waved his sword laughing. +Where they hurled him back he turned away, +laughing still.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Kilmer wrote from France, in answer to an inquiry +as to his ideas about poetry, “All that poetry can be +expected to do is to give pleasure of a noble sort to its +readers.” He might have said “pleasure or pain of +a noble sort.”</p> + +<p>It is both pleasure and pain, of a very noble sort, +that the reader will find in Robert Cortes Holliday's +memoir, which introduces the two volumes of +Kilmer's poems, essays, and letters. The ultimate +and eloquent tribute to Kilmer's rich, brave, and +jocund personality is that it has raised up so moving +a testament of friendship. Mr. Holliday's lively and +tender essay is worthy to stand among the great +memorials of brotherly affection that have enriched +our speech. To say that Kilmer was not a Keats is +not to say that the friendship that irradiates Mr. +Holliday's memoir was less lovely than that of +Keats and Severn, for instance. The beauty of any +human intercourse is not measured by the plane on +which it moves.</p> + +<p>Pleasure and pain of a noble sort are woven in +every fibre of this sparkling casting-up of the blithe<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +years. Pleasure indeed of the fullest, for the +chronicle abounds in the surcharged hilarity and +affectionate humour that we have grown to expect +in any matters connected with Joyce Kilmer. The +biographer dwells with loving and smiling particularity +on the elvish phases of the young knight-errant. +It is by the very likeness of his tender and glowing +portrait that we find pleasure overflowing into pain—into +a wincing recognition of destiny's unriddled +ways with men. This memory was written out of a +full heart, with the poignance that lies in every backward +human gaze. It is only in the backward look +that the landscape's contours lie revealed in their +true form and perspective. It is only when we have +lost what was most dear that we know fully what it +meant. That is Fate's way with us: it cannot be +amended.</p> + +<p>There will be no need for the most querulous +appraiser to find fault with Mr. Holliday on the +score of over-eulogy. He does not try to push +sound carpentry or ready wit into genius. Fortune +and his own impetuous onslaught upon life cast +Kilmer into the rôle of hack journalist: he would +have claimed no other title. Yet he adorned Grub +Street (that most fascinating of all thorny ways) with +gestures and music of his own. Out of his glowing +and busy brain he drew matter that was never dull, +never bitter or petty or slovenly. In the fervent +attack and counter-attack, shock and counter-shock<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +of his strenuous days he never forgot his secret +loyalty to fine craftsmanship. He kept half a dozen +brightly coloured balls spinning in air at all times—verses, +essays, reviews, lectures, introductions, interviews, +anthologies, and what-not; yet each of these +was deftly done. When he went to France and his +days of hack work were over, when the necessities of +life no longer threatened him, the journalistic habit +fell away. It was never more than a garment, worn +gracefully, but still only what the tailors call a business +suit.</p> + +<p>In France, Kilmer wrote but a handful of pieces intended +for publication, but at least one of them—the +prose sketch “Holy Ireland”—showed his essential +fibre. The comparative silence of his pen when he +found himself face to face with war was a true expression. +It bespoke the decent idealism that underlay +the combats of a journalist wringing a living +out of the tissues of a busy brain. The tender humour +and quaint austerity of his homeward letters exhibit +the man at his inmost. What could better the +imaginative genius of the phrase in which he speaks +of friendship developed by common dangers and +hardships as “a fine, hearty, roaring, mirthful sort of +thing, like an open fire of whole pine trees in a giant's +castle?”</p> + +<p>The memoir and Kilmer's own letters admit us to +see something of the spiritual phases of this man's +life, whose soul found “happiness and quiet kind” in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +the Roman Catholic faith. The most secret +strengths and weaknesses that govern men's lives are +strangely unknown to many of their intimates: one +wonders how many of Kilmer's associates on the +<i>Times</i> staff knew of his habit of stopping daily at the +Church of the Holy Innocents, near the newspaper +office, to pray. It was the sorrow of personal +affliction that brought Kilmer to the Catholic +Church. Shortly after being received into that +communion he wrote:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Just off Broadway on the way from the Hudson +Tube Station to the Times Building, there is a +church called the Church of the Holy Innocents. +Since it is in the heart of the Tenderloin, this name is +strangely appropriate—for there surely is need of +youth and innocence. Well, every morning for +months I stopped on my way to the office and +prayed in this church for faith. When faith did +come, it came, I think, by way of my little paralyzed +daughter. Her lifeless hands led me; I think her +tiny feet still know beautiful paths.</p></div> + +<p>Mr. Holliday does well to point out that Kilmer +was almost unique in this country as a representative +of the Bellocian School of Catholic journalism, in +which piety and mirth dwell so comfortably together; +though he might have mentioned T. A. Daly as an +older and subtler master of devout merriment, dipping +in his own inkwell rather than in any imported +bottles. It is to Belloc, of course, and to Gilbert<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +Chesterton, that one must go to learn the secret of +Kilmer's literary manner. Yet, as Holliday affirms, +the similarity is due as much to an affinity of mind +with these Englishmen as to any eagerness to imitate. +Kilmer was like them in being essentially a +humorist. One glance at his face, with its glowing +red-brown eyes (the colour of port wine), and the +twitching in-drawn corners of the mouth, gave the +observer an impression of benignant drollery. Mr. +Holliday well says: “People have made very +creditable reputations as humorists who never +wrote anything like as humorous essays as those of +Joyce Kilmer. They fairly reek with the joy of +life.”</p> + +<p>“He that lives by the pen shall perish by the pen,” +the biographer tells us, quoting James Huneker. +“For a sapling poet, within a few short years and by +the hard business of words, to attain to a secretary +and a butler and a family of, at length, four children, +is a modern Arabian Nights Tale.” Aye, indeed! +But Joyce Kilmer will have as genuine a claim on +remembrance by reason of his friends' love as in +anything his own hand penned. And what an encircling, +almost paternal, gentleness there is in the +picture of the young poet as a salesman at Scribner's +bookstore:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>His smile, never far away, when it came was +winning, charming. It broke like spring sunshine, +it was so fresh and warm and clear. And there was +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>noticeable then in his eyes a light, a quiet glow, +which marked him as a spirit not to be forgotten. +So tenderly boyish was he in effect that his confrères +among the book clerks accepted with difficulty the +story that he was married. When it was told that he +had a son they gasped their incredulity. And when +one day this extraordinary elfin sprite remarked that +at the time of his honeymoon he had had a beard +they felt (I remember) that the world was without +power to astonish them further.</p></div> + +<p>And even more striking is what is implied in the +narrative: that when this “elfin sprite,” this gently +nurtured young man of bookish pursuits, took up the +art of war, he gloried in his association with a rip-roaring +regiment recruited mainly from hard-handed +fellows of the type we may call (with no atom of +disrespect) roughnecks. Hardships and exertions +familiar to them were new to him, but he set himself +to win their love and respect, and did so. He was +not content until he had found his way into the most +exhausting and hazardous branch of the whole job. +He said, again and again, that he would rather be a +sergeant with the 69th than a lieutenant with any +other outfit. There was a heart of heroism in the +“elfin sprite.” The same dashing insouciance that +dictated the weekly article for his paper when in +hospital with three broken ribs after being run down +by a train was hardened and steeled in the sergeant +who nightly tore his uniform into ribbons by crawling +out through the barbed wire.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span></p> + +<p>Laughter and comradeship and hearty meals +clustered about Kilmer: wherever he touched the +grindstone of life there flew up a merry shower of +sparks. There is convincing testimony to the +courage and beauty that lay quiet at the heart of +this singer who said that the poet is only a glorified +reporter, and wished he had written “Casey at the +Bat.”</p> + +<p>Let us spare his memory the glib and customary +dishonesty that says “He died as he would have +wished to.” No man wishes to die—at least, no +poet does. To part with the exhilarating bustle and +tumult, the blueness of the sky, the sunlight that +tingles on well-known street corners, the plumber's +bills and the editor's checks, the mirths of fellowship +and the joys of homecoming when lamps are lit—all +this is too close a fibre to be stripped easily from +the naked heart. But the poet must go where the +greatest songs are singing. Perhaps he finds, after +all, that life and death are part of the same rhyme.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<h2><a name="TALES_OF_TWO_CITIES" id="TALES_OF_TWO_CITIES"></a>TALES OF TWO CITIES</h2> +<h3><a name="PHILADELPHIA" id="PHILADELPHIA"></a>I. PHILADELPHIA</h3> + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="AN_EARLY_TRAIN" id="AN_EARLY_TRAIN"></a>AN EARLY TRAIN</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p111.jpg" width="300" height="244" alt="p111" title="An Early Train" /></div> + +<p>The course of events has compelled me for +several months to catch an early train at Broad +Street three times a week. I call it an “early” +train, but, of course, these matters are merely +relative; 7:45 are the figures illuminated over the +gateway—not so very precocious, perhaps; but quite +rathe enough for one of Haroun-al-Raschid temper, +who seldom seeks the “oblivion of repose” (Boswell's +phrase) before 1 <span class="smcap">a. m.</span></p> + +<p>Nothing is more pathetic in human nature than its +faculty of self-deception. Winding up the alarm +clock (the night before) I meditate as to the exact +time to elect for its disturbing buzz. If I set it at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> +6:30 that will give me plenty of time to shave and +reach the station with leisure for a pleasurable cup of +coffee. But (so frail is the human will) when I wake +at 6:30 I will think to myself, “There is plenty of +time,” and probably turn over for “another five +minutes.” This will mean a hideous spasm of +awakening conscience about 7:10—an unbathed and +unshaven tumult of preparation, malisons on the +shoe manufacturers who invented boots with eyelets +all the way up, a frantic sprint to Sixteenth Street +and one of those horrid intervals that shake the very +citadel of human reason when I ponder whether it is +safer to wait for a possible car or must start hotfoot +for the station at once. All this is generally decided +by setting the clock for 6:50. Then, if I am spry, I +can be under way by 7:20 and have a little time to +be philosophical at the corner of Sixteenth and Pine. +Of the vile seizures of passion that shake the bosom +when a car comes along, seems about to halt, and +then passes without stopping—of the spiritual scars +these crises leave on the soul of the victim, I cannot +trust myself to speak. It does not always happen, +thank goodness. One does not always have to throb +madly up Sixteenth, with head retorted over one's +shoulder to see if a car may still be coming, while the +legs make what speed they may on sliddery paving. +Sometimes the car does actually appear and one +buffets aboard and is buried in a brawny human +mass. There is a stop, and one wonders fiercely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> +whether a horse is down ahead, and one had better +get out at once and run for it. Tightly wedged +in the heart of the car, nothing can be seen. It is all +very nerve-racking, and I study, for quietness of +mind, the familiar advertising card of the white-bearded +old man announcing “It is really very +remarkable that a cigar of this quality can be had for +seven cents.”</p> + +<p>Suppose, however, that fortune is with me. I +descend at Market Street, and the City Hall dial, +shining softly in the fast paling blue of morning, +marks 7:30. Now I begin to enjoy myself. I +reflect on the curious way in which time seems to +stand still during the last minutes before the departure +of a train. The half-hour between 7 and +7:30 has vanished in a gruesome flash. Now follow +fifteen minutes of exquisite dalliance. Every few +moments I look suddenly and savagely at the clock +to see if it can be playing some saturnine trick. No, +even now it is only 7:32. In the lively alertness of +the morning mind a whole wealth of thought and +accurate observation can be crammed into a few +seconds. I halt for a moment at the window of that +little lunchroom on Market Street (between Sixteenth +and Fifteenth) where the food comes swiftly +speeding from the kitchen on a moving belt. I +wonder whether to have breakfast there. It is such +fun to see a platter of pale yellow scrambled eggs +sliding demurely beside the porcelain counter and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> +whipped dextrously off in front of you by the +presiding waiter. But the superlative coffee of the +Broad Street Station lunch counter generally lures +me on.</p> + +<p>What mundane joy can surpass the pleasure of +approaching the station lunch counter, with full ten +minutes to satisfy a morning appetite! “Morning, +colonel,” says the waiter, recognizing a steady +customer. “Wheatcakes and coffee,” you cry. +With one deft gesture, it seems, he has handed you a +glass brimming with ice water and spread out a +snowy napkin. In another moment here is the +coffee, with the generous jug of cream. You splash +in a large lump of ice to make it cool enough to +drink. Perhaps the seat next you is empty, and you +put your books and papers on it, thus not having to +balance them gingerly on your knees. All round +you is a lusty savour of satisfaction, the tinkle of +cash registers, napkins fluttering and flashing across +the counters, coloured waiters darting to and fro, +great clouds of steam rising where the big dish covers +are raised on the cooking tables. You see the dark-brown +coffee gently quivering in the glass gauge of +the nickel boiler. Then here come the wheatcakes. +Nowhere else on earth, I firmly believe, are they +cooked to just that correct delicacy of golden brown +colour; nowhere else are they so soft and light of +texture, so hot, so beautifully overlaid with a smooth, +almost intangible suggestion of crispness. Two<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> +golden butter pats salute the eye, and a jug of syrup. +It is now 7:38.</p> + +<p>As everyone knows, the correct thing is to start +immediately on the first cake, using only syrup. The +method of dealing with the other two is classic. One +lifts the upper one and places a whole pat of butter +on the lower cake. Then one replaces the upper +cake upon the lower, leaving the butter to its fate. +In that hot and enviable embrace the butter liquefies +and spreads itself, gently anointing the field of +coming action. Upon the upper shield one smilingly +distributes the second butter pat, knifed off into +small slices for greater speed of melting. By the +time the first cake has been eaten, with the syrup, +the other two will be ready for manifest destiny. +The butter will be docile and submissive. Now, +after again making sure of the time (7:40) the syrup +is brought into play and the palate has the congenial +task of determining whether the added delight of +melting butter outweighs the greater hotness and +primal thrill of the first cake which was glossed with +the syrup only. You drain your coffee to the dregs; +gaze pityingly on those rushing in to snap up a +breakfast before the 8 o'clock leaves for New York, +pay your check, and saunter out to the train. It is +7:43.</p> + +<p>This, to be sure, is only the curtain-raiser to the +pleasures to follow. This has been a physical and +carnal pleasure. Now follow delights of the mind.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> +In the great gloomy shed wafts and twists of thick +steam are jetting upward, heavily coiled in the cold +air. In the train you smoke two pipes and read the +morning paper. Then you are set down at Haverford. +It is like a fairyland of unbelief. Trees and +shrubbery are crusted and sheathed in crystal, lucid +like chandeliers in the flat, thin light. Along the +fence, as you go up the hill, you marvel at the +scarlet berries in the hedge, gleaming through the +glassy ribs of the bushes. The old willow tree by the +Conklin gate is etched against the sky like a Japanese +drawing—it has a curious greenish colour beneath +that gray sky. There is some mystery in all this. +It seems more beautiful than a merely mortal earth +vexed by sinful men has any right to be. There is +some ice palace in Hans Andersen which is something +like it. In a little grove, the boughs, bent +down with their shining glaziery, creak softly as they +sway in the moving air. The evergreens are clotted +with lumps and bags of transparent icing, their +fronds sag to the ground. A pale twinkling blueness +sifts over distant vistas. The sky whitens in the +south and points of light leap up to the eye as the +wind turns a loaded branch.</p> + +<p>A certain seriousness of demeanour is noticeable +on the generally unfurrowed brows of student +friends. Midyears are on and one sees them +walking, freighted with precious and perishable +erudition, toward the halls of trial. They seem a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> +little oppressed with care, too preoccupied to relish +the entrancing pallor of this crystallized Eden. +One carries, gravely, a cushion and an alarm clock. +Not such a bad theory of life, perhaps—to carry in +the crises of existence a cushion of philosophy and an +alarum of resolution.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="RIDGE_AVENUE" id="RIDGE_AVENUE"></a>RIDGE AVENUE</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>One of the odd things about human beings is, +that wherever they happen to live they accept +it as a matter of course. In various foreign cities I +have often been amused (as every traveller has) to see +people going about their affairs just as though it were +natural and unquestionable for them to be there. +It is just the same at home. Everyone I see on the +streets seems to be not at all amazed at living here +instead of (let us say) Indianapolis or Nashville. I +envy my small Urchin his sense of the extreme +improbability of everything. When he gets on a +trolley car he draws a long breath and looks around +in ecstasy at the human scenery. I am teaching +him to say in a loud, clear tone, as he gets on the car, +“Look at all the human beings!” in the same accent +of amazement that he uses when he goes to the Zoo. +Perhaps in this way he will preserve the happy +faculty of being surprised.</p> + +<p>It is an agreeable thing to keep the same sense of +surprise in one's home town that one would have in +a strange city. You will find much to startle you if +you keep your eyes open. Yesterday, for instance, I +was lucky enough to meet a gentleman who had +stood only a few feet away from Lincoln when he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> +made the Gettysburg Speech. Then I found that in +a certain cafeteria which I frequent the price you +pay for your lunch is always just one cent less than +that punched on the check. The cashier explained +that this always gives a pleasant surprise to the +customers, and has proved such a good advertising +dodge that the proprietor made it a habit. And I +saw, in a clothing dealer's window on Ninth Street, +some fuzzy caps for men, mottled purple and ochre, +that proved that the adventurous spirit has not +died in the breast of the male sex.</p> + +<p>There is much to exercise the eye in a voyage along +Ridge Avenue. Approaching by way of Ninth +Street, one sees in the window of a barber shop the +new contract that the employing barbers have +drawn up with their journeymen. This agreement +shows a sound sense of human equities, proclaiming +as it does that “the owner must not do no act to +injure the barber personal earnings.” It suddenly +occurred to me, what I had not thought of before, +how the barbers of Great Britain must have grieved +when a London newspaper got up (some years ago) +an agitation in favour of every man in England +raising a beard in memory of King Edward. The +plan was that the money thus saved was to be devoted +to building—I had almost said “growing”—a +battleship, to be named after the Merry Monarch. +Of course, one should not speak of raising a beard, +but of lowering it. However—<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span>—</p> + +<p>Ridge Avenue begins at Ninth and Vine, in a +mood of depression. Perhaps the fact that it runs +out toward the city's greatest collection of cemeteries +has made it morbidly conscious of human perishability. +At any rate, it starts among pawnshops, +old clothing and furniture, and bottles of Old Virginia +Bitters, the Great Man Restorer. The +famous National Theatre at Callowhill Street has +become a garage; it is queer to see the old +proscenium arch and gilded ceiling dustily vaulted +over a fleet of motortrucks. After a wilderness of +railway yards one comes to a curious bit in the 1100 +block; a little brick tunnel that bends around into a +huddle of backyards and small houses, where a +large green parrot was stooping and nodding on a +pile of old boxes. This little scene is overlooked by +the tall brown spires of the Church of the Assumption +on Spring Garden Street.</p> + +<p>There is matter for tarrying at the Spring Garden +Street crossing. Here is an ambitious fountain built +by the bequest of Mary Rebecca Darby Smith, with +the carving by J. J. Boyle picturing another Rebecca +(she of Genesis xxiv, 14) giving a drink to Abraham's +servant and his camels. It is carved in the +bronze that the donor gave the fountain “To refresh +the weary and thirsty, both man and beast,” so it is +disconcerting to find it dry, as dry as the inns along +the way. The horse trough is boarded over and +thirsting equines go up to Broad Street for a draught.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> +The seat by the fountain was occupied by a man reading +the New York <i>Journal</i>, always a depressing +sight.</p> + +<p>Across from the fountain is one of the best magazine +and stationery shops in the city. Here I overheard +a conversation which I reproduce textually. +“What you doing, reading?” said one to another. +“Yes, reading about the biggest four-flusher in the +Yew-nited States,” said he, looking over an afternoon +paper which had just come in. “Who do you +mean?” “Penrose. Say if it was a Republican in the +White House, theyda passed the treaty long ago.” +The proprietor of this shop is a humorist. Someone +came in asking for a certain brand of cigarettes. +He does not sell tobacco. “Next door,” he said, and +added: “And you'll find some over on the fountain.”</p> + +<p>Ridge Avenue specializes in tobacco shops, where +you will find many brands that require a strong head. +Red Snapper, Panhandle Scrap, Pinch Hit, Red +Horse, Brown's Mule, Jolly Tar, Penn Statue Cuttings, +Nickel Cross Cut, Cotton Ball Twist. In +the shop windows you will see those photographs +illustrating current events, the two favourites just +now being a picture of Mike Gilhooley, the famous +stowaway, gazing plaintively at the profile of New +York, and “Jack Dempsey Goes the Limit,” where +Jack signs up for a $1,000 war-savings certificate. +One wonders if Jack's kind of warfare is really so +profitable after all.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p> + +<p>There are a number of little side excursions from +the avenue that repay scrutiny. Lemon Street, for +instance, where in a lane of old brown wooden houses +some children were playing in an empty wagon, with +the rounded tower of the Rodef Shalom synagogue +looming in the background. Best of all is Melon +Street and its modest tributary, Park Avenue—stretches +of quiet little brick homes with green and +yellow shutters and mottled gray marble steps. +These little houses have the serene and sunny air so +typical of Philadelphia byways. Through their +narrow side entrances one sees glimpses of green in +backyards. In the front windows move the gently +swaying faces of grandmothers, lulled in the to and +fro of a rocking chair. There are shining brass +knobs and bell-pulls; rubber plants on the sills, or +perhaps a small bowl of goldfish with a white china +swan floating. In one window was a sign +“Vacancies.” Over it hung a faded service flag +with a golden star. Who could phrase the pathos of +these two things, side by side?</p> + +<p>At Broad Street, Ridge Avenue leaps up with a +spurt of high life. In the window of a hotel dining +room a gentleman sat eating his lunch, stevedoring a +buttered roll with such gusto that one felt tempted to +applaud. There are the white pillars of a bank and +the battleship gray of the Salvation Army headquarters. +Beyond Broad, the avenue spruces up a +bit and enters upon a vivacious phase. Dogs are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> +frequent: white bull terriers lie sunning in the +shop windows. Offers to lend money are enticing. +There is a fascinating slate yard at 1525, where +great gray slabs lie in the sun, a temptation to urchins +with a bit of chalk. In the warm bask of the +afternoon there rises a pleasing aroma of fruits and +vegetables piled up in baskets and crates on the +pavement. Grapes give off a delectable savour in the +golden air. Elderly ladies are out in force to do the +marketing, and their eyes are bright with the bargaining +passion. Round the windows of a ten-cent +store, most fascinating of all human spectacles, they +congregate and compare notes. A fruit dealer has +an ingenious stunt to attract attention. On his cash +register lies a weird-looking rotund little fish—a +butter fish, he calls it—which has a face not unlike +that of Fatty Arbuckle. Either this fish inflates itself +or he has blown it full of air in some ingenious +manner, for it presents a grotesque appearance, and +many ladies stop to inquire. Then he spoofs them +gently. “Sure,” he says, “it's a jitney fish. It +lives on the cash register. It can fly, it can bite, it +can talk, and it likes money.”</p> + +<p>At the corner of Wylie Street stands an old gray +house with a mansard roof and gable windows. +Against it is a vivid store of fruit glowing in the sun, +red and purple and yellow. Here, or on Vineyard +Street, one turns off to enter the quaint triangular +settlement of Francisville.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +<h2><a name="THE_UNIVERSITY" id="THE_UNIVERSITY"></a>THE UNIVERSITY AND THE URCHIN</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 280px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p124.jpg" width="280" height="300" alt="p124" title="The University and the Urchin" /></div> + +<p>Sunday afternoon is by old tradition dedicated +to the taking of Urchins out to taste +the air, and indeed there is no more agreeable +pastime. And so, as the Urchin sat in his high +chair and thoughtfully shovelled his spoon through +meat chopped remarkably small and potatoes +mashed in that curious fashion that produces a mass +of soft, curly tendrils, his curators discussed the +question of where he should be taken.</p> + +<p>It was the first Sunday in March—mild and soft +and tinctured with spring. “There's the botanic +garden at the University,” I suggested. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +Urchin settled it by rattling his spoon on the plate +and sliding several inches of potato into his lap. +“Go see garden!” he cried. With the generous +tastes of twenty-seven months he cares very little +where he is taken; he can find fascination in anything; +but something about the word “garden” +seemed to allure him. So a little later when he had +been duly habited in brown leggings, his minute +brown overcoat, and white hat with ribbons behind +it, he and his curators set out. The Urchin was in +excellent spirits, for he had been promised a ride on a +trolley car—a glorious adventure. In one pocket he +carried his private collection of talismans, including +a horse-chestnut and a picture of a mouse. Also, +against emergencies, a miniature handkerchief with +a teddy bear embroidered in one corner and a safety +pin. The expedition may be deemed to have been a +success, as none of these properties were called upon +or even remembered.</p> + +<p>The car we boarded did not take us just where we +expected to go, but that made little difference to the +Urchin, who gazed steadfastly out of the window at +a panorama of shabby streets, and offered no comment +except one of extreme exultation when we +passed a large poster of a cow. Admirably docile, he +felt confident that the unusual conjunction of both +arbiters of destiny and an impressive trolley car +would in the end produce something extremely +worth while. We sped across Gray's Ferry bridge<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>—it +seems strange to think that region was once so +quiet, green, and rustic—transferred to another car +on Woodland Avenue, past the white medley of +tombstones in Woodland Cemetery, and got off at +the entrance to the dormitory quadrangles at Thirty-seventh +Street. We entered through the archway—the +Urchin's first introduction to an academic atmosphere. +“This is the University,” I said to him +severely, and he was much impressed. As is his +way, he conducted himself with extreme sobriety +until he should get the hang of this new experience and +see what it was all about. I knew from the serene +gold sparkle of his brown eyes that there was plenty +of larking spirit in him, waiting until he knew +whether it was safe to give it play. He held my +hand punctiliously while waiting to see what manner +of place this University was.</p> + +<p>A college quadrangle on a Sunday afternoon has a +feeling all its own. Thin tinklings of mandolins +eddy from open windows, in which young men may +be seen propped up against bright-coloured cushions, +always smoking, and sometimes reading with an +apparent zeal which might deceive a few onlookers. +But the slightest sound of footfalls on the pavement +outside their rooms causes these heads to turn and +scan the passers. There is always a vague hope in +these youthful breasts that some damsel of notable +fairness may have strayed within the bastions. +Groups of ladies of youth and beauty do often walk<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> +demurely through the courts, and may be sure of +hearing admiring whistles shrilled through the sunny +air. When a lady walks through a college quadrangle +and hears no sibilation, let her know sadly +that first youth is past. Even the sedate guardianship +of Scribe and Urchin did not forfeit one Lady of +Destiny her proper homage of tuneful testimonial. +So be it ever!</p> + +<p>One who inhabited college quadrangles not so +immeasurably long ago, and remembers with secret +pain how massively old, experienced, and worldly +wise he then thought himself, can never resist a +throb of amazement at the entertaining youthfulness +of these young monks. How quaintly juvenile they +are, and how oddly that assumption of grave +superiority sits upon their golden brows! With +what an inimitable air of wisdom, cynicism, +ancientry, learned aloofness and desire to be observed +do they stroll to and fro across the quads, so +keenly aware in their inmost bosoms of the presence +of visitors and determined to grant an appearance of +mingled wisdom, great age, and sad doggishness! +What a devil-may-care swing to the stride, what a +nonchalance in the perpetual wreath of cigarette +smoke, what a carefully assumed bearing of one +carrying great wisdom lightly and easily casting it +aside for the moment in the pursuit of some waggish +trifle. “Here,” those very self-conscious young +visages seem to betray, “is one who might tell you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> +all about the Holy Roman Empire, and yet is, for the +moment, diverting himself with a mere mandolin.” +And yet, as the Lady of Destiny shrewdly observed, +it is a pity they should mar their beautiful quadrangles +with orange peel and scraps of paper.</p> + +<p>We walked for some time through those stately +courts of Tudor brick and then passed down the +little inclined path to the botanic garden, where +irises and fresh green spikes are already pushing up +through the damp earth. A pale mellow sunlight +lay upon the gravel walks and the Urchin resumed +his customary zeal. He ran here and there along the +byways, examined the rock borders with an air of +scientific questioning, and watched the other children +playing by the muddy pond. We found shrubbery +swelling with buds, also flappers walking hatless +and blanched with talcum, accompanied by Urchins +of a larger growth. Both these phenomena we took +to be a sign of the coming equinox.</p> + +<p>Returning to the dormitory quadrangles, we sat +down on a wooden bench to rest, while the Urchin, +now convinced that a university is nothing to be +awed by, scampered about on the turf. His eye was +a bright jewel of roguishness, for he thought that in +trotting about the grass he was doing something +supremely wicked. He has been carefully trained +not to err on the grass of the city square to which he +is best accustomed, so this surprising and unchecked +revelry quite went to his head. Across and about<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +those wide plots of sodden turf he trotted and +chuckled, a small, quaint mortal with his hat ribbons +fluttering. Cheering whistles hailed him from open +windows above, and he smiled to himself with grave +dignity. Apparently, like a distinguished statesman, +he regarded these tributes not as meant for +himself, but for the great body of childhood he +innocently represents, and indeed from which his +applauders are not so inextricably severed. With +the placid and unconscious happiness of a puppy he +careered and meandered, without motive or method. +Perhaps his underlying thought of a university, if he +has any, is that it is a place where no one says “Keep +Off the Grass,” and, intellectually speaking, that +would not be such a bad motto for an institution of +learning.</p> + +<p>I don't know whether Doctor Tait McKenzie so +intended it, but his appealing and beautiful statue of +Young Franklin in front of the University +gymnasium is admirably devised for the delight of +small Urchins. While their curators take pleasure +in the bronze itself, the Urchin may clamber on the +different levels of the base, which is nicely adapted +for the mountaineering capacity of twenty-seven +months. The low brick walls before the gymnasium +and the University museum are also just right for +an Urchin who has recently learned the fascination +of walking on something raised above the ground, +provided there is a curator near by to hold his hand.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +And then, as one walks away toward the South +Street bridge an observant Urchin may spy the delightful +spectacle of a freight train travelling apparently +in midair. Some day, one hopes, all that +fine tract of open space leading from the museum +down to the railroad tracks may perhaps be +beautified as a park or an addition to the University's +quadrangle system. I don't know who owns it, but +its architectural possibilities must surely make the +city-planner's mouth water.</p> + +<p>By this time the Urchin was beginning to feel a +bit weary, and was glad of a lift on a parental +shoulder. Then a Lombard Street car came along +and took us up halfway across the bridge. So +ended the Urchin's first introduction to a university +education.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="PINE_STREET" id="PINE_STREET"></a>PINE STREET</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>Our neighbourhood is very genteel. I doubt if +any one who has not lived in Philadelphia can +imagine how genteel it is. Visitors from out of +town are wont to sigh with rapture when they see +our trim blocks of tall brick dwellings—that even +cornice running in a smooth line for several hundred +yards really is quite a sight—and exclaim, “Oh, I +wish we had something like this in New York!” +But our gentility is a little self-conscious, for we live +on the very frontier of a region, darker in complexion, +which is far from scrupulous in deportment. +Uproarious and naïve are the humours of South +Street, lying just behind us. Stanleys have gone +exploring thither and come back with merry tales. +South Street on a bright evening, its myriad barber +shops gleaming with lathered dusky cheeks, wafting +the essence of innumerable pomades and lotions, that +were a Travel indeed. On South Street the veins of +life run close to the surface.</p> + +<p>We are no less human on our street, but it takes a +bit more study to get at the secret. There is a certain +reticence about us. It would take an earthquake +to cause much fraternization along Pine Street.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> +Perhaps it is because three houses out of every four +bear the tablets of doctors. The average layman +fears to stop and speak to his neighbour for fear it +will develop into a professional matter. We board up +our front windows at night with heavy wooden +shutters. We have no druggists, only “apothecaries.” +These apothecaries are closed on Sundays. +They sell stamps in little isinglass capsules, to be +quite sanitary, two twos in a capsule for five cents. +In their shops you can still get soda water with +“plain cream” and shaved ice, such as was customary +twenty-five years ago. When our doctors +go away for the summer, someone comes twice a +week from June to October to polish up the little +silver name plate. It is the custom in our neighbourhood +(so one observes through drawing room windows) +to have reading lamps with rosy pink shades +and at least two beautiful daughters of débutante +age. I hope I am not unjust, but our street looks to +me like the kind of place where people take warm +baths, in a roomy old china tub, on Sunday afternoons. +After that, they go downstairs and play a +hymn on the piano, at twilight.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p133.jpg" width="500" height="485" alt="p133" title="p133" /></div> + +<p>There are a number of very odd features about our +neighbourhood. There is a large schoolhouse at the +next corner, but as far as I can see, it is not used as a +school, not for children, at any rate. Sometimes, +about 8 o'clock in the evening, I see the building +gloriously illuminated, and a lonely lady stooped and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> +assiduous at a table. She seems quite solitary. +Perhaps her researches are so poignant that the +school board has prescribed entire silence. But +midway down the block is a very jolly little private +school, to which very genteel children may be seen +approaching early in the morning. The little girls +come with a bustle of starch, on foot, accompanied +by governesses; the small boys arrive in limousines. +They are small boys dressed very much in the +English manner, with heavy woollen stockings ending +just below the knee. They probably do not realize +that their tailor has carefully planned them to look +like dear little English boys. Then there is a very +mysterious small theatre near by. If it were a +movie theatre, what a boon it would be! But no, it +is devoted to a strange cult called the Religion of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> +Business, which meets there on Sundays. Before +that, there was a Korean congress there. There is a +lovely green room in this theatre, but not much long +green in the box office. Philadelphia prefers Al +Jolson to Hank Ibsen.</p> + +<p>We have our tincture of vie de Bohème, though, in +our little French table d'hôte, a thoroughly atmospheric +place. Delightful Madame B., with her +racy philosophy of life, what delicious soups and +salads she serves! Happy indeed are those who have +learned the way to her little tables, and heard her +cheerful cry “À la cuisine!” when one of her small +dogs prowls into the dining room. Equally unique +is the old curiosity shop near by, one of the few genuine +“notion” shops left in the city (though there is +a delightful one on Market Street near Seventeenth, +to enter which is to step into a country village). This +is just the kind of shop bought by the old gentleman +in one of Frank Stockton's agreeable tales, “Mr. +Tolman,” in the volume called “The Magic Egg”. The +proprietress, charming and conversable lady, will sell +you anything in the “notions” line, from a paper of +pins to garter elastic. Then there is the laundry, +whose patrons carry on a jovial game known as +“Looking for Your Own.” Every week, by some +cheery habit of confusion, the lists are lost, and one +hunts through shelves of neatly piled and crisply +laundered garments to pick out one's own collars, +pyjamas, or whatever it may be. The amusing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> +humour of this pastime must be experienced to be +understood.</p> + +<p>The little cigar and magazine shop on the corner is +the political and social focus of the neighbourhood. I +shall never forget the pallid and ghastly countenance +of the newsdealer when the rumour first went the +rounds that “Hampy” was elected. Every evening a +little gathering of local sages meets in the shop; on +tilted chairs, in a haze of tobacco, they while the +hours away. In tobacco the host adheres to the +standard blends, but in literature he is enterprising. +Until recently this was the only place I know in +Philadelphia where one could get the <i>Illustrated +London News</i> every week.</p> + +<p>There are twinges of modernity going on along our +street. Some of the old houses have been remodeled +into apartments. There is an “electric shoe repairer” +just round the corner. But the antique +dealers and plumbers for which the street is famous +still hold sway; the fine old brick pavement still collects +rain water in its numerous dimpled hollows, +and the yellowish marble horse-blocks adorn the curb. +The nice shabby stables in the little side streets have +not yet been turned into studios by artists, and the +neighbourhood's youngest urchins set sail for Rittenhouse +Square every morning on their fleet of “kiddie-cars.” +Their small stout legs, twinkling along the +pavements in white gaiters on a wintry day, are a +pleasant sight. Even our urchins are notably gen<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span>teel. +Surrounded on all sides by the medical profession, +they are reared on registered milk and educator +crackers. If Philadelphia ever betrays its soul, it +does so on this delightful, bland, and genteel highway.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="PERSHING_IN_PHILADELPHIA" id="PERSHING_IN_PHILADELPHIA"></a>PERSHING IN PHILADELPHIA</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p137.jpg" width="300" height="163" alt="p137" title="Perishing in Philadelphia" /></div> + +<p>The pavement in front of Independence Hall +was a gorgeous jumble of colours. The great +silken flags of the Allies, carried by vividly costumed +ladies, burned and flapped in the wind. On a +pedestal stood the Goddess of Liberty, in rich white +draperies that seemed fortunately of sufficient +texture to afford some warmth, for the air was cool. +She graciously turned round for Walter Crail, the +photographer of our contemporary, the <i>Evening +Public Ledger</i>, to take a shot at her.</p> + +<p>Down Chestnut Street came a rising tide of +cheers. A squadron of mounted police galloped by. +Then the First City Troop, with shining swords.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> +Fred Eckersburg, the State House engineer, was +fidgeting excitedly inside the hall, in a new uniform. +This was Fred's greatest day, but we saw that he was +worried about Martha Washington, the Independence +Hall cat. He was apprehensive lest the +excitement should give her a fit or a palsy. Independence +Hall is no longer the quiet old place +Martha used to enjoy before the war.</p> + +<p>The Police Band struck up “Hail to the Chief.” +Yells and cheers burst upward from the ground like +an explosion. Here he was, standing in the car. +There was the famous chin, the Sam Browne belt, +the high laced boots with spurs. Even the tan +gloves carried in the left hand. There was the smile, +without which no famous man is properly equipped +for public life. There was Governor Sproul's +placid smile, too, but the Mayor seemed too excited +to smile. Rattle, rattle, rattle went the shutters of +the photographers. Up the scarlet lane of carpet +came the general. His manner has a charming, easy +grace. He saluted each one of the fair ladies garbed +in costumes of our Allies, but taking care not to +linger too long in front of any one of them lest any +embracing should get started. A pattering of tiger +lilies or some such things came dropping down from +above. He passed into the hall, which was cool and +smelt like a wedding with a musk of flowers.</p> + +<p>While the Big Chief was having a medal presented +to him inside the hall we managed to scuttle round<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +underneath the grand stand and take up a pencil of +vantage just below the little pulpit where the general +was to speak. Here the crowd groaned against a +bulwark of stout policemen. Philadelphia cops, +bless them, are the best tempered in the world. +(How Boston must envy us.) Genially two gigantic +bluecoats made room against the straining hawser for +young John Fisher, aged eleven, of 332 Greenwich +Street. John is a small, freckle-faced urchin. It +was amusing to see him thrusting his eager little +beezer between the vast, soft, plushy flanks of two +patrolmen. He had been there over two hours +waiting for just this adventure. Then, to assert the +equality of the sexes, Mildred Dubivitch, aged +eleven, and Eva Ciplet, aged nine, managed to insert +themselves between the chinks in the line of cops. +An old lady more than eighty years old was sitting +placidly in a small chair just inside the ropes. She +had been in the square more than five hours, and the +police had found her a seat. “Are you going to put +Pershing's name in, too?” asked John as we noted +his address.</p> + +<p>Independence Square never knew a more thrilling +fifteen minutes. The trees were tossing and bending +in the thrilling blue air. There was a bronzy tint in +their foliage, as though they were putting on olive +drab in honour of the general. Great balloons of +silver clouds scoured across the cobalt sky. At one +minute to 11 Pershing appeared at the top of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +stand. The whole square, massed with people, +shook with cheers.</p> + +<p>Had it been any other man we would have said the +general was frightened. He came down the aisle of +the stand with his delightful, easy, smiling swing; but +he looked shrewdly about, with a narrow-eyed, puckered +gaze. He was plainly a little flabbergasted. +He seemed taken aback by the greatness of Philadelphia's +voice. He said something to himself. On +his lips it looked like “What the deuce,” or something +of similar purport. He sat down on a chair +beside Governor Sproul. Not more than four feet +away, amazed at our own audacity, we peered over +the floor of the stand.</p> + +<p>He was paler than we expected. He looked a bit +tired. Speaking as a father, we were pleased to note +the absence of Warren, who was (we hope) getting a +good sleep somewhere. We had a good look at the +renowned chin, which is well worth study. It must +be a hard chin to shave. It juts upward, reaching a +line exactly below the brim of his cap. Below his +crescent moustache there is no lower lip visible: it +is tucked and folded in by the rising thrust of the +jaw. It is this which gives him the “grim” aspect +which every reader of the papers hears about. +He is grim, there's no doubt about it, with the grimness +of a man going through a tough ordeal. “I can +see him all right,” squeaked little John Fisher, “but +he doesn't see me.” The first two rows of seats at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> +the right of the aisle were crammed with generals, +two-star and three-star. From our lowly station we +could see a grand panorama of mahogany leather +boots and the flaring curves of riding breeches. It +was a great day for Sam Browne. The thought came +to us that has reached us before. The higher you go +in the A. E. F. the more the officers are tailored after +the English manner. It is the finest proof of international +cousinship. When England and America +wear the same kind of clothes, alliance is knit solid.</p> + +<p>Pershing sat with his palms on his knees. He +looked worried. There was a wavering crease down +his lean cheeks. The plumply genial countenance +of Governor Sproul next to him was an odd contrast +to that dry, hard face. The bell in the tower tolled +eleven times. He stood up for the photographers. +Walter Crail, appearing from somewhere, sprang up +on the parapet facing the general. “Look this way!” +he shouted as the general turned toward some movie +men. That will be Walter's first cry when he gets to +heaven, or wherever. Mayor Smith's face was pallid +with excitement. His nicely draped trouserings, +which were only six inches from our notebook, quivered +slightly as he said fifteen words of introduction.</p> + +<p>As Pershing stood up to speak the crowd surged +forward. The general was worried. “Don't, don't! +Somebody will get hurt!” he called sharply. Then +Mayor Smith surged forward also and said something +to the police about watching the crowd.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p> + +<p>The general took off his cap. Holding it in his +left hand (with the gloves) he patted his close-cropped +hair nervously. He frowned. He began to +speak.</p> + +<p>The speech has already been covered by our hated +rivals. We will not repeat it, save to say that it was +as crisp, clean-cut, and pointed as his chin. He was +nervous, as we could see by the clenching and unclenching +of his hands. His voice is rather high. +We liked him for not being a suave and polished +speaker. He gestured briskly with a pointing forefinger, +and pronounced the word <i>patriotic</i> with a +short A—“pattriotic.” Later he stumbled over it +again and got it out as <i>patterotism</i>. We liked him +again for that. He doesn't have to pronounce it, +anyway. We liked him best of all for the unconscious +slip he made. “This reception,” he said, +“I understand is for the splendid soldiery of America +that played such an important part in the war with +our Allies.” A respectful ripple of laughter passed +over the stand at this, but he did not notice it. He +was fighting too hard to think what to say next. +We liked him, too, for saying “such an important +part.” A man who had been further away from the +fighting would have said that it was America, alone +and unaided, that won the war. He is just as we +have hoped he would be: a plain, blunt man. We +have heard that he is going to enter the banking +business. We'd like to have an account at that bank.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="FALL_FEVER" id="FALL_FEVER"></a>FALL FEVER</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p143.jpg" width="500" height="173" alt="p143" title="Fall Fever" /> +</div> + +<p>About this time of year, when the mellow air +swoons (as the poets say) with golden languor +and the landscape is tinged a soft brown like a piece +of toast, we feel the onset and soft impeachment of +fall fever.</p> + +<p>Fall fever is (in our case at any rate) more insidious +than the familiar disease of spring. Spring +fever impels us to get out in the country; to seize a +knotted cudgel and a pouchful of tobacco and +agitate our limbs over the landscape. But the +drowsiness of autumn is a lethargy in the true sense +of that word—a forgetfulness. A forgetfulness of +past discontents and future joys; a forgetfulness of +toil that is gone and leisure to come; a mere breathing +existence in which one stands vacantly eyeing the +human scene, living in a gentle simmer of the faculties +like a boiling kettle when the gas is turned low.</p> + +<p>Fall fever, one supposes, is our inheritance from +the cave man, who (like the bear and the—well, some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> +other animal, whatever it is) went into hibernation +about the first of November. Autumn with its soft +inertia lulled him to sleep. He ate a hearty meal, +raked together some dry leaves, curled up and slid off +until the alarm clock of April.</p> + +<p>This agreeable disease does not last very long with +the modern man. He fights bravely against it; then +the frost comes along, or the coal bill, and stings him +into activity. But for a few days its genial torpor +may be seen (by the observant) even in our bustling +modern career. When we read yesterday that +Judge Audenried's court clerks had fallen asleep +during ballot-counting proceedings we knew that the +microbe was among us again. Keats, in his lovely +Ode, describes the figure of Autumn as stretched out +“on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep.” Unhappily +the conventions forbid city dwellers from +curling up on the pavements for a cheerful nap. If +one were brave enough to do so, unquestionably +many would follow his example. But the urbanite +has taught himself to doze upright. You may see +many of us, standing dreamily before Chestnut +Street show windows in the lunch hour, to all intents +and purposes in a state of slumber. Yesterday, in +that lucid shimmer of warmth and light, a group +stood in front of a doughnut window near Ninth +Street: not one of them was more than half awake. +Similarly a gathering watched the three small birds +who have become a traditional window ornament on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> +Chestnut Street (they have recently moved from an +oculist to a correspondence course office) and a faint +whisper of snoring arose on the sultry air. The +customs of city life permit a man to stand still as +long as he likes if he will only pretend to be watching +something. We saw a substantial burgher pivoted +by the window of Mr. Albert, the violin maker, on +Ninth Street. Apparently he was studying the fine +autographed photo of Patti there displayed; but +when we sidled near we saw that his eyes were closed; +this admirable person, who seemed to be what is +known as a “busy executive,” and whose desk undoubtedly +carries a plate-glass sheet with the orisons +of Swett Marden under it, was in a blissful doze.</p> + +<p>Modern life (as we say) struggles against this +sweet enchantment of autumn, but Nature is too +strong for us. Why is it that all these strikes occur +just at this time of year? The old hibernating +instinct again, perhaps. The workman has a subconscious +yearning to scratch together a nice soft +heap of manila envelopes and lie down on that +couch for a six months' ear-pounding. There are all +sorts of excuses that one can make to one's self for +waving farewell to toil. Only last Sunday we saw +this ad in a paper:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>HEIRS WANTED. The war is over and has +made many new heirs. You may be one of them. +Investigate. Many now living in poverty are rich, +but don't know it.</p></div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span></p> + +<p>Now what could be simpler (we said to ourself as +we stood contemplating those doughnuts) than to +forsake our jolly old typewriter and spend a few +months in “investigating” whether any one had +made us his heir? It might be. Odd things have +happened. Down in Washington Square, for instance +(we thought), are a number of sun-warmed +benches, very reposeful to the sedentary parts, on +which we might recline and think over the possibility +of our being rich unawares. We hastened thither, +but apparently many had had the same idea. +There was not a bench vacant. The same was +true in Independence Square and in Franklin Square. +We will never make a good loafer. There is too +much competition.</p> + +<p>So we came back, sadly, to our rolltop and fell to +musing. We picked up a magazine and found some +pictures showing how Mary Pickford washes her +hair. “If I am sun-drying my hair,” said Mary +(under a photo showing her reclining in a lovely +garden doing just that), “I usually have the opportunity +to read a scenario or do some other duty +which requires concentration.” And it occurred to +us that if a strain like that is put upon a weak +woman we surely ought to be able to go on moiling +for a while, Indian summer or not. And then we +found some pictures by our favourite artist, Coles +Phillips, with that lovely shimmer around the ankles, +and we resolved to be strong and brave and have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> +pointed finger-nails. But still, in the back of our +mind, the debilitating influence of fall fever was at +work. We said to ourself, without the slightest +thought of printing it (for it seemed to put us in a +false light), that the one triumphant and unanswerable +epigram of mankind, the grandest and most +resolute utterance in the face of implacable fate, is +the snore.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="TWO_DAYS_BEFORE_CHRISTMAS" id="TWO_DAYS_BEFORE_CHRISTMAS"></a>TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>Will the hand-organ man please call? Our +wife has dug up our old overcoat and insists +on giving it to him. We intended to give it to the +Honolulu Girls around at the Walnut Theatre, they +looked a bit goose-fleshed last week, but we always +have hay fever when we get near those grass skirts. +Grass widows is what the profession calls the +Hawaiian ladies. Hope the temperature isn't going +up again. We love the old-fashioned Christmas and +all that sort of thing. Nipping air makes cheeks +pink; we love to see them nestled in fur coats on +Chestnut Street. This is the time of year to do unexpected +kindnesses. We know one man who +stands in line for hours in front of movie theatres +just in order to shout <i>Merry Christmas</i> through the +little hole in the glass. Shaving seems less of a bore. +Newspapers are supposed to be heartless, but they all +take a hand in trying to help poor children. Find +ourselves humming hymn tunes. Very odd, haven't +been to a church for years. Great fun surprising +people. We've been reading the new phone book; +noticed several ways in which people might surprise +each other by calling up and wishing many happy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> +returns of the day. Why doesn't Beulah R. Wine +ring up Mrs. Louis F. Beer, for instance? Or, A. D. +Smoker and Burton J. Puffer might go around to +W. C. Matchett, tobacconist, at 1635 South Second +Street, and buy their Christmas cigars. George +Wharton Pepper might give Mayme Salt a ring (on +the phone, that is). What a pleasant voice that +telephone operatrix has. Here's to you, child, and +many of them. Grand time, Christmas.</p> + +<br /> +<p>Fine old Anglo-Saxon festival, Christmas. A +time of jovial cheer and bracing mirth. Must be so, +because Doctor Frank Crane and Ralph Waldo +Trine have often said so. Christmas hard on +people like that, however: they are bursting with +the Christmas spirit all the year round; very trying +when the real occasion comes. That's the beauty of +having a peevish and surly disposition: when one +softens up at Christmas everybody notices it and is +pleased. Chaucer, fine old English poet, first +English humorist, gave good picture of Christmas +cheer more than five hundred years ago. Never +quoted on Christmas cards, why not copy it here? +Chaucer's spelling very like Ring Lardner's, but good +sort just the same. Says he:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And this was, as thise bookes me remembre,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The colde, frosty sesoun of Decembre....<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bittre frostes with the sleet and reyn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Destroyed hath the grene in every yard;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span><span class="i0">Janus sit by the fyre with double beard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drynketh of his bugle horn the wyn;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Biforn hym stant brawn of the tusked swyn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And “<i>Nowel</i>” crieth every lusty man.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Janus, god of doors, what we call nowadays a +janitor. Had two faces so he could watch the front +and back door at once and get a double tip at +Christmas time. Also, that was why he wore a +beard; too much trouble to shave. We don't cry +<i>Nowel</i> any more; instead we petition the janitor to +send up a little more steam. But what a jolly +picture Chaucer gives of Christmas! Wine to +drink (fine ruddy wine, as red as the holly berries), +crackling flitch of pig to eat, and a merry cry of welcome +sounding at the threshold as your friends come +stamping in through the snow.</p> + +<p>Grand time, Christmas! No one is really a +Philadelphian until he has waited for a Pine Street +car on a snowy night. Please have my seat, madam, +there's plenty of room on the strap. Wonder why +the pavement on Chestnut Street is the slipperiest +in the world? Always fall down just in front of our +bank; most embarrassing; hope the paying teller +doesn't see us. Very annoying to lose our balance +just there. Awfully nice little girl in there who +balances the books. Has a kind heart. The countless +gold of a merry heart, as William Blake said. +She looks awfully downcast when our balance gets +the way it is now. Hate to disappoint her. Won't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> +have our book balanced again for a devil of a while. +Even the most surly is full of smiles nowadays. +Most of us when we fall on the pavement (did you +ever try it on Chestnut between Sixth and Seventh +on a slippery day?) curse the granolithic trust and +wamble there groaning. But not nowadays. Make +the best of things. Fine panorama of spats.</p> + +<br /> +<p>Association of ideas. Everybody wears silk +stockings at Christmas time. Excessive geniality of +the ad-writers. Uproarious good cheer. Makes +one almost ashamed to notice the high price of everything. +Radicals being deported. Why not deport +Santa Claus, too? Very radical notion that, love +your neighbour better than yourself. Easy to do; +very few of us such dam fools as to love ourselves, +but so often when you love your neighbour she +doesn't return it. Nice little boxes they have at the +ten-cent stores, all covered with poinsettia flowers, to +put presents in. Wonder when poinsettia began to +be used as a Christmas decoration and why? Everyone +in ten-cent store calls them “poinsettias,” but +named after J. R. Poinsett. Encyclopedia very +handy at times; makes a good Christmas present, +one dollar down and a dollar a month for life. Nobody +can tell the difference between real pearls and +imitation; somebody ought to put the oysters wise. +Save them a lot of trouble and anxiety. Don't +know just what duvetyne is, but there seems to be a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> +lot of it drunk nowadays. Hope that clockwork +train for the Urchin will arrive soon; we were hoping +to have three happy evenings playing with it before +he sees it. Fine to have children; lots of fun playing +with their presents. We are sure that life after +death is really so, because children always kick the +blankets off at night. Fine bit of symbolism that; +put it in a sermon, unless Doctor Conwell gets there +first.</p> + +<p>Grand time, Christmas! We vowed to try to take +down our weight this winter, and then they put +sugar back on the menu, and doughnut shops spring +up on every street, and Charles F. Jenkins sent us +a big sack of Pocono buckwheat flour and we're eating +a basketful of griddle cakes every morning for +breakfast. Terrible to be a coward; we always turn +on the hot water first in the shower bath, except the +first morning we used it. The plumber got the indicator +on the wrong way round, and when you turn +to the place marked HOT it comes down like ice. +Our idea of a really happy man is the fellow driving a +wagonload of truck just in front of a trolley car, +holding it back all the way downtown; when he hears +the motorman clanging away he pretends he thinks +it's the Christmas chimes and sings “Hark the +Herald Angels.”</p> + +<p>Speaking of Herald Angels reminds us of a good +story about James Gordon Bennett; we'll spring it +one of these days when we're hard up for copy.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> +Jack Frost must be a married man, did you see him +try to cover up the show windows with his little +traceries the other day when the shopping was at its +height? There was a pert little hat in a window on +Walnut Street we were very much afraid someone +might see; the frost saved us. Don't forget to put +Red Cross seals on your letters. Delightful to +watch the faces on the streets at Christmas time. +Everybody trying hard to be pleasant; sometimes +rather a strain. Curious things faces—some of them +seem almost human; queer to think that each belongs +to someone and no chance to get rid of it; sorry +we're not in the mirror industry; never thought of it +before, but it ought to be profitable. Happier most +of us, if mirrors never had been invented. Hope all +our nice-natured clients will have the best kind of a +time; forgive us for not answering letters; we are too +disillusioned about ourself to make any resolutions to +do better. We're going home now; on the way we'll +think of a lot of nice things we might have said, +write them down and use them to-morrow. Hope +Dorothy Gish will get something nice in her stocking. +Don't make the obvious retort. Grand time, +Christmas!</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IN_WEST_PHILADELPHIA" id="IN_WEST_PHILADELPHIA"></a>IN WEST PHILADELPHIA</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p154.jpg" width="300" height="285" alt="p154" title="In West Philadelphia" /></div> + +<p>Climbing aboard car No. 13—ominously +labelled “Mt. Moriah”—I voyaged toward +West Philadelphia. It was a keen day, the first +snow of winter had fallen, and sparkling gushes of +chill swept inward every time the side doors opened. +The conductor, who gets the full benefit of this +ventilation, was feeling cynical, and seeing his blue +hands I didn't blame him. Long lines of ladies, fumbling +with their little bags and waiting for change, +stepped off one by one into the windy eddies of the +street corners. One came up to pay her fare ten +blocks or so before her destination, and then retired +to her seat again. This puzzled the conductor and +he rebuked her. The argument grew busy. To the +amazement of the passengers this richly dressed +female brandished lusty epithets. “You Irish<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> +mick!” she said. (One would not have believed it +possible if he had not heard it.) “That's what I +am, and proud of it,” said he. The shopping +solstice is not all fur coats and pink cheeks. If you +watch the conductors in the blizzard season, and see +the slings and arrows they have to bear, you will coin +a new maxim. The conductor is always right.</p> + +<p>It is always entertaining to move for a little in a +college atmosphere. I stopped at College Hall at +the University and seriously contemplated slipping in +to a lecture. The hallways were crowded with +earnest youths of both sexes—I was a bit surprised +at the number of co-eds, particularly the number +with red hair—discussing the tribulations of their lot. +“Think of it,” said one man, “I'm a senior, and +carrying twenty-three hours. Got a thesis to do, +20,000 words.” On a bulletin board I observed the +results of a “General Intelligence Exam.” It appears +that 1,770 students took part. They were +listed by numbers, not by names. It was not stated +what the perfect mark would have been; the highest +grade attained was 159, by Mr. (or Miss?) 735. The +lowest mark was 23. I saw that both 440 and 1124 +got the mark of 149. If these gentlemen (or ladies) +are eager to play off the tie, it would be a pleasure to +arrange a deciding competition for them. The +elaborate care with which the boys and girls ignore +one another as they pass in the halls was highly +delightful, and reminded me of exactly the same<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> +thing at Oxford. But I saw the possible beginning +of true romance in the following notice on one of the +boards:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>WANTED: Names and addresses of ten nice +American university students who must remain in +Philadelphia over Christmas, away from home, to be +invited to a Christmas Eve party to help entertain +some Bryn Mawr College girls in one of the nicest +homes in a suburb of Philadelphia.</p></div> + +<p>Certainly there is the stage set for a short story. +Perhaps not such a short one, either.</p> + +<p>Naturally I could not resist a visit to the library, +where most of the readers seemed wholly absorbed, +though one student was gaping forlornly over a +volume of Tennyson. I found an intensely amusing +book, “Who's Who in Japan,” a copy of which +would be a valuable standby to a newspaper paragrapher +in his bad moments. For instance:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Sasaki, Tetsutaro</span>: One of the highest taxpayers +of Fukushima-ken, President of the Hongu +Reeling Partnership, Director of the Dai Nippon +Radium Water Co.; brewer, reeler; born Aug., 1860.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Sakurai, Ichisaku</span>: Member of the Niigata City +Council; Director of the Niigata Gas Co., Niigata +Savings Bank. Born June, 1872, Studied Japanese +and Chinese classics and arithmetic. At present +also he connects with the Niigata Orphanage and +various other philanthropic bodies. Was imprisoned +by acting contrary to the act of explosive compound +for seven years. Recreations: reading, Western +wine.</p></div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p> + +<p>Relying on my apparent similarity to the average +undergrad, I plunged into the sancta of Houston +Hall and bought a copy of the <i>Punch Bowl</i>. What +that sprightly journal calls “A little group of +Syria's thinkers” was shooting pool. The big fireplaces, +like most fireplaces in American colleges, +don't seem to be used. They don't even show any +traces of ever having been used, a curious contrast to +the always blazing hearths of English colleges. The +latter, however, are more necessary, as in England +there is usually no other source of warmth. A +bitter skirmish of winds, carrying powdered snow +dust, nipped round the gateways of the dormitories +and Tait McKenzie's fine statue of Whitefield stood +sharply outlined against a cold blue sky. I lunched +at a varsity hash counter on Spruce Street and +bought tobacco in a varsity drug store, where a New +York tailor, over for the day, was cajoling students +into buying his “snappy styles” in time for Christmas. +There is no more interesting game than +watching a lot of college men, trying to pick out +those who may be of some value to the community in +future—the scientists, poets, and teachers of the next +generation. The well-dressed youths one sees in the +varsity drug stores are not generally of this type.</p> + +<p>The Evans School of Dentistry at Fortieth and +Spruce is a surprising place. Its grotesque gargoyles, +showing (with true medieval humour) the +sufferings of tooth patients, are the first thing one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> +notices. Then one finds the museum, in which is +housed Doctor Thomas W. Evans's collection of +paintings and curios brought back from France. +Unfortunately there seems to be no catalogue of the +items, so that there is no way of knowing what interesting +associations belong to them. But most surprising +of all is to find the travelling carriage of the +Empress Eugenie in which she fled from France in +the fatal September days of 1870. She spent her +last night in France at the home of Doctor Evans, +and there is a spirited painting by Dupray showing +her leaving his house the next morning, ushered into +the carriage by the courtly doctor. The old black +barouche, or whatever one calls it, seems in perfect +condition still, with the empress's monogram on the +door panel. Only the other day we read in the +papers that the remarkable old lady (now in her +ninety-fourth year) has been walking about Paris, +revisiting well-known scenes. How it would surprise +her to see her carriage again here in this +University building in West Philadelphia. The +whole museum is delightfully French in flavour; as +soon as one enters one seems to step back into the +curiously bizarre and tragic extravagance of the +Second Empire.</p> + +<p>One passes into the dignified and placid residence +section of Spruce and Pine streets, with its distinctly +academic air. Behind those quiet walls one suspects +bookcases and studious professors and all the de<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span>lightful +passions of the mind. On Baltimore Avenue +the wintry sun shone white and cold; in Clark Park, +Charles Dickens wore a little cap of snow, and Little +Nell looked more pathetic than ever. There is a +breath of mystery about Baltimore Avenue. What +does that large sign mean, in front of a house near +Clark Park—THE EASTERN TRAVELLERS? +Then one comes to the famous shop of S. F. Hiram, +the Dodoneaean Shoemaker he calls himself. This +wise coloured man has learned the advertising advantages +of the unusual. His placard reads:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Originator of that famous Dobrupolyi System of +repairing.</p></div> + +<p>When one enters and asks to know more about +this system, he points to another placard, which says:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>It assumes the nature and character of an appellative +noun, and carries the article The System.</p></div> + +<p>His shop contains odd curios as well as the usual +traffic of a cobbler. “The public loves to be hood-winked,” +he adds sagely.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="HORACE_TRAUBEL" id="HORACE_TRAUBEL"></a>HORACE TRAUBEL</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>We wait with particular interest to hear what +Philadelphia will have to say about the passing +of Horace Traubel. Traubel was the official echo +of the Great Voice of Camden, and in his obituary one +may discern the vivacity of the Whitman tradition. +This is a matter of no small concern to the curators of +the Whitman cult. The soul of Philadelphia cannot +be kept alive by conventions and statistics alone. +Such men as Traubel have helped.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 280px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p160.jpg" width="280" height="300" alt="p160" title="p160" /></div> + +<p>There are two kinds of rebels. By their neckties +you may know them. Walt Whitman was of the +kind that wears no necktie at all. Then there is the +lesser sort, of which Traubel +was one—the rebel who +wears a flowing black bow +tie with long trailers. +Elbert Hubbard wore one +of these. It is a mild rebellion +of which this is +symbol. It often goes +with shell spectacles.</p> + +<p>We never knew Horace Traubel, though he was +the man we most wanted to meet when we came to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> +Philadelphia. We have heard men of all conditions +speak of him with affection and respect. He was +dedicated from boyhood to the Whitman cause. +From Walt himself he caught the habit of talking +about Walt, and he carried it on with as much gusto +and happiness as Walt did. Only recently he said in +his little magazine <i>The Conservator</i>:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>When I was quite small I used to want to be a +great man. But in my observations of the old man's +better than great way of meeting the gifts as well as +the reverses of fate I didn't want to be a great man. +I only wanted to stay unannexed to any institution +as he was. No college ever decorated him. For the +best of reasons. No college could. He could +decorate them.</p></div> + +<p>So Traubel remained unannexed. He was fired +from a bank because he happened to take issue in +public with one of the bank's chief depositors. He +floated about happily, surrounded by young Whitman +disciples, carrying on his guerrilla for what his +leader called the “peerless, passionate, good cause” +of human democracy. His little magazine led a +precarious life, supported by good friends. His protest +against iniquities was an honest, good-humoured +protest.</p> + +<p>Horace Traubel will be remembered, as he wished +to be remembered, as the biographer of Whitman. +Whitman also, we may add, wished Traubel to be so +remembered. In his careful record of the Camden<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> +sage's utterances and pulse-beats he approached (as +nearly as any one) the devoted dignity of Boswell. +We were about to say the self-effacing devotion of +Boswell; but the beauty of biography is that the +biographer cannot wholly delete himself from the +book. One is always curious about the recording +instrument. When we see a particularly fine +photograph our first question is always, “What kind +of camera was it taken with?”</p> + +<p>It seems to us—speaking only by intuition, for we +never knew him—that Traubel was a happy man. +He was untouched by many of the harassing ambitions +that make the lives of prosperous men miserable. +He was touched in boyhood by one simple +and overmastering motive—to carry on the Whitman +message and spread it out for the younger +world. Much of the dunnage of life he cast overboard. +He was too good a Whitman disciple to +estimate success in the customary terms. When he +left his job in the bank he opened an account in the +Walt Whitman philosophy—and he kept a healthy +balance there to the end.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<h2>TALES OF TWO CITIES</h2> + +<h3><a name="NEW_YORK" id="NEW_YORK"></a>II. NEW YORK</h3> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_ANATOMY_OF_MANHATTAN" id="THE_ANATOMY_OF_MANHATTAN"></a>THE ANATOMY OF MANHATTAN</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>She is the only city whose lovers live always in a +mood of wonder and expectancy. There are +others where one may sink peacefully, contentedly +into the life of the town, affectionate and understanding +of its ways. But she, the woman city, who +is bold enough to say he understands her? The +secret of her thrilling and inscrutable appeal has +never been told. How could it be? She has always +been so much greater than any one who has lived +with her. (Shall we mention Walt Whitman as the +only possible exception? O. Henry came very near +to her, but did he not melodramatize her a little, +sometimes cheapen her by his epigrammatic appraisal, +fit her too neatly into his plot? Kipling +seemed to see her only as the brutal, heedless wanton.) +Truly the magic of her spell can never be +exacted. She changes too rapidly, day by day. +Realism, as they call it, can never catch the boundaries +of her pearly beauty. She needs a mystic.</p> + +<p>No city so challenges and debilitates the imagination. +Here, where wonder is a daily companion, +desire to tell her our ecstasy becomes at last only a +faint pain in the mind. If you would mute a poet's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> +lyre, put him on a ferry from Jersey City some silver +April morning; or send him aboard at Liberty Street +in an October dusk. Poor soul, his mind will buzz +(for years to come) after adequate speech to tell +those cliffs and scarps, amethyst and lilac in the +mingled light; the clear topaz chequer of window +panes; the dull bluish olive of the river, streaked and +crinkled with the churn of the screw! Many a poet +has come to her in the wooing passion. Give him +six months, he is merely her Platonist. He lives +content with placid companionship. Where are his +adjectives, his verbs? That inward knot of amazement, +what speech can unravel it?</p> + +<p>Her air, when it is typical, is light, dry, cool. It is +pale, it is faintly tinctured with pearl and opal. +Heaven is unbelievably remote; the city itself daring +so high, heaven lifts in a cautious remove. Light +and shadow are fantastically banded, striped, and +patchworked among her cavern streets; a cool, deep +gloom is cut across with fierce jags and blinks of +brightness. She smiles upon man who takes his +ease in her colossal companionship. Her clean soaring +perpendiculars call the eye upward. One +wanders as a botanist in a tropical forest. That +great smooth groinery of the Pennsylvania Station +train shed: is it not the arching fronds of iron palm +trees? Oh, to be a botanist of this vivid jungle, +spread all about one, anatomist of the ribs and veins +that run from the great backbone of Broadway!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p> + +<p>To love her, one thinks, is to love one's fellows; +each of them having some unknown share in her +loveliness. Any one of her streets would be the +study and delight of a lifetime. To speak at random, +we think of that little world of brightness and sound +bourgeois cheer that spreads around the homely +Verdi statue at Seventy-third Street. We have a +faithful affection for that neighbourhood, for reasons +of our own. Within a radius, thereabouts, of a +quarter-mile each way, we could live a year and learn +new matters every day. They call us a hustling +folk. Observe the tranquil afternoon light in those +brownstone byways. Pass along leisurely Amsterdam +Avenue, the region of small and genial shops, +Amsterdam Avenue of the many laundries. See the +children trooping upstairs to their own room at the +St. Agnes branch of the Public Library. See the +taxi drivers, sitting in their cars alongside the Verdi +grass plot (a rural breath of new-mown turf sweetening +the warm, crisp air) and smoking pipes. Every +one of them is to us as fascinating as a detective +story. What a hand they have had in ten thousand +romances. At this very moment, what quaint +and many-stranded destinies may hail them and +drive off? But there they sit, placid enough, with a +pipe and the afternoon paper. The light, fluttering +dresses of enigmatic fair ones pass gayly on the +pavement. Traffic flows, divides, and flows on, a +sparkling river. Here is that mystery, a human<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> +being, buying a cigar. Here is another mystery +asking for a glass of frosted chocolate. Why is it +that we cannot accost that tempting riddle and ask +him to give us an accurate précis of his life to date? +And that red-haired burly sage, he who used to bake +the bran muffins in the little lunchroom near by, +and who lent us his Robby Burns one night—what +has become of him?</p> + +<p>So she teases us, so she allures. Sometimes, on +the L, as one passes along that winding channel +where the walls and windows come so close, there is +a felicitous sense of being immersed, surrounded, +drowned in a great, generous ocean of humanity. +It is a fine feeling. All life presses around one, the +throb and the problem are close, are close. Who +could be weary, who could be at odds with life, in +such an embrace of destiny? The great tall sides of +buildings fly open, the human hive is there, beautiful +and arduous beyond belief. Here is our worship +and here our lasting joy, here is our immortality of +encouragement. Yes, perhaps O. Henry did say the +secret after all: “He saw no longer a rabble, but his +brothers seeking the ideal.”</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VESEY_STREET" id="VESEY_STREET"></a>VESEY STREET</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 274px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p169.jpg" width="274" height="300" alt="p169" title="Vesey Street" /></div> + +<p>The first duty of the conscientious explorer is to +study his own neighbourhood, so we set off to +familiarize ourself with Vesey Street. This amiable +byway (perhaps on account of the proximity of +Washington Market) bases its culture on a solid +appreciation of the virtue of good food, an admirable +trait in any street. Upon this firm foundation it +erects a seemly interest in letters. The wanderer +who passes up the short channel of our street, from +the docks to St. Paul's churchyard, must not be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> +misled by the character of the books the bibliothecaries +display in their windows. Outwardly they +lure the public by Bob Ingersoll's lectures, Napoleon's +Dream Book, efficiency encyclopædias and +those odd and highly coloured small brochures of +smoking-car tales of the Slow Train Through +Arkansaw type. But once you penetrate, you may +find quarry of a more stimulating kind. For +fifteen cents we eloped with a first edition of Bunner's +“Love in Old Cloathes,” which we were glad to +have in memory of the “old red box on Vesey +Street” which Banner immortalized in rhyme, and +which still stands (is it the same box?) by the railing +of St. Paul's. Also, even nobler treasure to our +way of thinking, did we not just now find (for fifteen +cents) Hilaire Belloc's “Hills and the Sea,” that enchanting +little volume of essays, which we are almost +afraid to read again. Belloc, the rogue—the devil is +in him. Such a lusty beguilery moves in his nimble +prose that after reading him it is hard not to fall +into a clumsy imitation of his lively and frolic manner. +There is at least one essayist in this city who fell +subject to the hilarious Hilaire years ago. It is an +old jape but not such a bad one: our friend Murray +Hill will never return to the status quo ante Belloc.</p> + +<p>But we were speaking of Vesey Street. It looks +down to the water, and the soft music of steamship +whistles comes tuning on a cold, gusty air. Thoroughly +mundane little street, yet not unmindful of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> +matters spiritual, bounded as it is by divine Providence +at one end (St. Paul's) and by Providence, +R. I. (the Providence Line pier) at the other. Perhaps +it is the presence of the graveyard that has +startled Vesey Street into a curious reversal of custom. +On most other streets, we think, the numbers +of the houses run even on the south side, odd on the +north. But just the opposite on Vesey. You will +find all even numbers on the north, odd on the south. +Still, Wall Street errs in the same way.</p> + +<p>If marooned or quarantined on Vesey Street a man +might lead a life of gayety and sound nourishment for +a considerable while, without having recourse to +more exalted thoroughfares. There are lodging +houses in that row of old buildings down toward the +docks; from the garret windows he could see masts +moving on the river. For food he would live high +indeed. Where will one see such huge glossy blue-black +grapes; such enormous Indian River grapefruit; +such noble display of fish—scallops, herrings, +smelts, and the larger kind with their dead and +desolate eyes? There are pathetic rows of rabbits, +frozen stiff in the bitter cold wind; huge white hares +hanging in rows; a tray of pigeons with their iridescent +throat feathers catching gleams of the pale +sunlight. There are great sacks of nuts, barrels of +cranberries, kegs of olive oil, thick slabs of yellow +cheese. On such a cold day it was pleasant to see a +sign “Peanut Roasters and Warmers<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>.”</p> + +<p>Passing the gloomy vista of Greenwich Street—under +the “L” is one of those mysterious little vents +in the floor of the street from which issues a continual +spout of steam—our Vesey grows more intellectual. +The first thing one sees, going easterly, is a sign: +<span class="smcap">The Truth Seeker</span>, <i>One flight Up</i>. The temptation +is almost irresistible, but then Truth is always +one flight higher up, so one reflects, what's the use? +In this block, while there is still much doing in the +way of food—and even food in the live state, a +window full of entertaining chicks and ducklings +clustered round a colony brooder—another of Vesey +Street's interests begins to show itself. Tools. +Every kind of tool that gladdens the heart of man is +displayed in various shops. One realizes more and +more that this is a man's street, and indeed (except +at the meat market) few of the gayer sex are to be +seen along its pavements. One of the tool shops has +open-air boxes with all manner of miscellaneous oddments, +from mouse traps to oil cans, and you may +see delighted enthusiasts poring over the assortment +with the same professional delight that ladies show at +a notion counter. One of the tool merchants, however, +seems to have weakened in his love of city +existence, for he has put up a placard:</p> + +<center> +<span class="smcap">Wanted To Rent</span><br /> +<i>Small Farm<br /> +Must Have Fruit and Spring Water</i><br /></center> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> + +<p>How many years of repressed yearning may speak +behind that modest ambition!</p> + +<p>Our own taste for amusement leads us (once +luncheon dispatched; you should taste Vesey +Street's lentil soup) to the second-hand bookshops. +Our imagined castaway, condemned to live on Vesey +Street for a term of months, would never need to +languish for mental stimulation. Were he devout, +there is always St. Paul's, as we have said; and were +he atheist, what a collection of Bob Ingersoll's +essays greets the faring eye! There is the customary +number of copies of “The Pentecost of Calamity”; +it seems to the frequenter of second-hand bazaars as +though almost everybody who bought that lively +booklet in the early days of the war must have sold it +again since the armistice. Much rarer, we saw +a copy of “Hopkins's Pond,” that little volume of +agreeable sketches written so long ago by Dr. +Robert T. Morris, the well-known surgeon, and if we +had not already a copy which the doctor inscribed for +us we would certainly have rescued it from this +strange exile.</p> + +<p>There are only two of the really necessary delights +of life that the Vesey Street maroon would miss. +There is no movie, there are no doughnuts. We are +wondering whether in any part of this city there has +sprung up the great doughnut craze that has ravaged +Philadelphia in the past months. As soon as +prohibition became a certainty, certain astute<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> +merchants of the Quaker City devoted themselves to +inoculating the public with a taste for these humble +fritters, and now they bubble gayly in the windows +of Philadelphia's most aristocratic thoroughfare. It +is really a startling sight to see Philadelphia lining +up for its noonday quota of doughnuts, and the +merchants over there have devised an ingenious +method of tempting the crowd. A funnel, erected +over the frying sinkers, carries the fragrant fumes +out through a transom and gushes it into the open +air, so that the sniff of doughnuts is perceptible all +down the block. There is a fortune waiting on +Vesey Street for the man who will establish a doughnut +foundry, and we solemnly pledge our own appetite +and that of all our friends toward his success.<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> + +<p>At its upper end, perhaps in memory of the vanished +Astor House, Vesey Street stirs itself into a +certain magnificence, devoting its window space to +jewellery and silver-mounted books of prayer. At this +window one may regulate his watch at a clock warranted +by Charles Frodsham of 84, Strand, to whose +solid British accuracy we hereby pay decent tribute. +Over all this varied scene lifts the shining javelin-head +of the Woolworth Building, seen now and then +in an almost disbelieved glimpse of sublimity; and +the golden Lightning of the Telephone and Telegraph +pinnacle, waving his zigzag brands in the sun.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"> +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Since this was written, the lack has been supplied—on Park Row, just +above the top of Vesey Street; probably the most luxurious doughnut +shop ever conceived.</p></div></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="BROOKLYN_BRIDGE" id="BROOKLYN_BRIDGE"></a>BROOKLYN BRIDGE</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p175.jpg" width="300" height="262" alt="p175" title="Brooklyn Bridge" /></div> + +<p>A windy day, one would have said in the dark +channels of downtown ways. In the chop +house on John Street, lunch-time patrons came +blustering in, wrapped in overcoats and mufflers, +with something of that air of ostentatious hardiness +that men always assume on coming into a warm +room from a cold street. Thick chops were hissing +on the rosy grill at the foot of the stairs. In one of +the little crowded stalls a man sat with a glass of +milk. It was the first time we had been in that chop +house for several years ... it doesn't seem the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +same. As Mr. Wordsworth said, it is not now as it +hath been of yore. But still,</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The homely Nurse doth all she can<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To make her foster-child, her Inn-mate Man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forget the glories he hath known.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>It's a queer thing that all these imitation beers taste +to us exactly as real beer did the first time we tasted +it (we were seven years old) and shuddered. “Two +glasses of cider,” we said to the comely serving maid. +Alas</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That nature yet remembers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What was so fugitive.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>There is a nice point of etiquette involved in lunching +in a crowded chop house. Does the fact of having +bought and eaten a moderate meal entitle one to sit +with one's companion for a placid talk and smoke +afterward? Or is one compelled to relinquish the +table as soon as one is finished, to make place for +later comers? These last are standing menacingly +near by, gazing bitterly upon us as we look over the +card and debate the desirability of having some +tapioca pudding. But our presiding Juno has +already settled the matter, and made courtesy a +matter of necessity. “These gentlemen will be +through in a moment,” she says to the new candidates. +Our companion, the amiable G—— W——, +was just then telling us of a brand of synthetic<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> +whiskey now being distilled by a famous tavern of +the underworld. The superlative charm of this +beverage seems to be the extreme rigidity it imparts +to the persevering communicant. “What does it +taste like?” we asked. “Rather like gnawing +furniture,” said G—— W——. “It's like a long, +healthy draught of shellac. It seems to me that it +would be less trouble if you offered the barkeep fifty +cents to hit you over the head with a hammer. The +general effect would be about the same, and you +wouldn't feel nearly so bad in the morning.”</p> + +<p>A windy day, and perishing chill, we thought as +we strolled through the gloomy caverns and crypts +underneath the Brooklyn Bridge. Those twisted +vistas seen through the archways give an impression +of wrecked Louvain. A great bonfire was burning in +the middle of the street. Under the Pearl Street +elevated the sunlight drifted through the girders in a +lively chequer, patterning piles of gray-black snow +with a criss-cross of brightness. We had wanted to +show our visitor Franklin Square, which he, as a man +of letters, had always thought of as a trimly gardened +plot surrounded by quiet little old-fashioned houses +with brass knockers, and famous authors tripping in +and out. As we stood examining the façade of Harper +and Brothers, our friend grew nervous. He was +carrying under his arm the dummy of an “export +catalogue” for a big brass foundry, that being his +line of work. “They'll think we're free verse poets<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> +trying to get up courage enough to go in and submit +a manuscript,” he said, and dragged us away.</p> + +<p>A windy day, we had said in the grimy recesses of +Cliff and Dover streets. (Approaching this sentiment +for the third time, perhaps we may be permitted +to accomplish our thought and say what we +had in mind.) But up on the airy decking of the +Brooklyn Bridge, where we repaired with G—— +W—— for a brief stroll, the afternoon seemed mild +and tranquil. It is a mistake to assume that the +open spaces are the windier. The subway is New +York's home of Æolus, and most of the gusts that +buffet us on the streets are merely hastening round a +corner in search of the nearest subway entrance so +that they can get down there where they feel they +belong. Up on the bridge it was plain to perceive +that the March sunshine had elements of strength. +The air was crisp but genial. A few pedestrians +were walking resolutely toward the transpontine +borough; the cop on duty stood outside his little +cabin with the air of one ungrieved by care. Behind +us stood the high profiles of the lower city, +sharpened against the splendidly clear blue sky +which is New York's special blessing. On the water +moved a large tug, towing barges. Smoke trailed +behind it in the same easy and comfortable way that +tobacco reek gushes over a man's shoulder when he +walks across a room puffing his pipe.</p> + +<p>The bridge is a curiously delightful place to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> +watch the city from. Walking toward the central +towers seems like entering a vast spider's web. The +footway between the criss-cross cables draws one +inward with a queer fascination, the perspective +diminishing the network to the eye so that it seems +to tighten round you as you advance. Even when +there is but little traffic the bridge is never still. It +is alive, trembling, vibrant, the foot moves with a +springy recoil. One feels the lift and strain of +gigantic forces, and looks in amazement on the huge +sagging hawsers that carry the load. The bars and +rods quiver, the whole lively fabric is full of a +tremor, but one that conveys no sense of insecureness. +It trembles as a tree whispers in a +light air.</p> + +<p>And of the view from the bridge, it is too sweeping +to carry wholly in mind. Best, one thinks, it is seen +in a winter dusk, when the panes of Manhattan's +mountains are still blazing against a crystal blue-green +sky, and the last flush of an orange sunset +lingers in the west. Such we saw it once, coming +over from Brooklyn, very hungry after walking in +most of the way from Jamaica, and pledged in our +own resolve not to break fast until reaching a certain +inn on Pearl Street where they used to serve banana +omelets. Dusk simplifies the prospect, washes +away the lesser units, fills in the foreground with +obliterating shadow, leaves only the monstrous +sierras of Broadway jagged against the vault.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> +It deepens this incredible panorama into broad +sweeps of gold and black and peacock blue which one +may file away in memory, tangled eyries of shining +windows swimming in empty air. As seen in the +full brilliance of noonday the bristle of detail is too +bewildering to carry in one clutch of the senses. +The eye is distracted by the abysses between buildings, +by the uneven elevation of the summits, by the +jumbled compression of the streets. In the vastness +of the scene one looks in vain for some guiding +principle of arrangement by which vision can focus +itself. It is better not to study this strange and +disturbing outlook too minutely, lest one lose what +knowledge of it one has. Let one do as the veteran +prowlers of the bridge: stroll pensively to and fro in +the sun, taking man's miracles for granted, exhilarated +and content.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THREE_HOURS_FOR_LUNCH" id="THREE_HOURS_FOR_LUNCH"></a>THREE HOURS FOR LUNCH</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>Hudson Street has a pleasant savour of food. +It resounds with the dull rumble of cruising +drays, which bear the names of well-known brands +of groceries; it is faintly salted by an aroma of the +docks. One sees great signs announcing cocoanut +and whalebone or such unusual wares; there is a +fine tang of coffee in the air round about the corner +of Beach Street. Here is that vast, massy brick +edifice, the New York Central freight station, built +1868, which gives an impression of being about to be +torn down. From a dilapidated upper window +hangs a faded banner of the Irish Republic. At +noontime this region shows a mood of repose. +Truckmen loll in sunny corners, puffing pipes, with +their curved freight hooks hung round their necks. +In a dark smithy half a dozen sit comfortably round +a huge wheel which rests on an anvil, using it as a +lunch table. Near Canal Street two men are loading +ice into a yellow refrigerator car, and their practiced +motions are pleasant to watch. One stands in the +wagon and swings the big blocks upward with his +tongs. The other, on the wagon roof, seizes the +piece deftly and drops it through a trap on top of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> +car. The blocks of ice flash and shimmer as they +pass through the sunshine. In Jim O'Dea's blacksmith +shop, near Broome Street, fat white horses are +waiting patiently to be shod, while a pink glow +wavers outward from the forge.</p> + +<p>At the corner of Hudson and Broome streets we +fell in with our friend Endymion, it being our purpose +to point out to him the house, one of that +block of old red dwellings between Hudson and +Varick, which Robert C. Holliday has described in +“Broome Street Straws,” a book which we hope is +known to all lovers of New York local colour. +Books which have a strong sense of place, and are +born out of particular streets—and especially streets +of an odd, rich, and well-worn flavour—are not any +too frequent. Mr. Holliday's Gissingesque appreciation +of the humours of landladies and all the +queer fish that shoal through the backwaters of New +York lodging houses makes this Broome Street +neighbourhood exceedingly pleasant for the pilgrim +to examine. It was in Mr. Holliday's honour that +we sallied into a Hudson Street haberdashery, just +opposite the channel of Broome Street, and adorned +ourself with a new soft collar, also having the +pleasure of seeing Endymion regretfully wave away +some gorgeous mauve and pink neckwear that the +agreeable dealer laid before him with words of +encouragement. We also stood tranced by a +marvellous lithograph advertising a roach powder in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> +a neighbouring window, and wondered whether Mr. +Holliday himself could have drawn the original in the +days when he and Walter Jack Duncan lived in +garrets on Broome Street and were art students +together. Certainly this picture had the vigorous +and spirited touch that one would expect from the +draughting wrist of Mr. Holliday. It showed a very +terrible scene, apparently a civil war among the +roaches, for one army of these agile insects was +treasonously squirting a house with the commended +specific, and the horrified and stricken inmates were +streaming forth and being carried away in roach +ambulances, attended by roach nurses, to a neighbouring +roach cemetery. All done on a large and +telling scale, with every circumstance of dismay and +reproach on the faces of the dying blattidæ. Not +even our candour, which is immense, permits us to +reprint the slogan the manufacturer has adopted for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> +his poster: those who go prowling on Hudson +Street may see it for themselves.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p183.jpg" width="500" height="276" alt="p183" title="p183" /></div> + +<p>In the old oyster and chop house just below Canal +Street we enjoyed a very agreeable lunch. To this +place the Broome Street garreteers (so Mr. Holliday +has told us) used to come on days of high prosperity +when some cheque arrived from a publisher. At +that time the tavern kept an open fireplace, with a +bright nest of coals in the chilly season; and there +was a fine mahogany bar. But we are no laudator of +acted time; the fireplace has been bricked up, it is +true; but the sweet cider is admirable, and as for the +cheesecake, we would back it against all the Times +Square variety that Ben De Casseres rattles about. +It is delightful and surprising to find on Hudson +Street an ordinary so droll and Dickensish in atmosphere, +and next door is a window bearing the +sign <span class="smcap">Walter Peter</span>. We feel sure that Mr. +Holliday, were he still living in those parts, would +have cajoled the owner into changing that <span class="smcap">E</span> to an <span class="smcap">A</span>.</p> + +<p>Our stroll led us north as far as Charlton Street, +which the geographers of Greenwich Village claim as +the lower outpost of their domain. Certainly it is a +pleasing byway, running quietly through the afternoon, +and one lays an envious eye upon the demure +brick houses, with their old-fashioned doorways, pale +blue shutters, and the studio windows on the southern +side. At the corner of Varick Street is a large +house showing the sign, “Christopher Columbus<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> +University of America.” Macdougal Street gives +one a distant blink of the thin greenery of Washington +Square.</p> + +<p>An unexpected impulse led us eastward on Grand +Street, to revisit Max Maisel's interesting bookshop.—We +had never forgotten the thrill of finding this +place by chance one night when prowling toward +Seward Park. In bookshops of a liberal sort we +always find it advisable to ask first of all for a copy +of Frank Harris's “The Man Shakespeare.” It is +hardly ever to be found (unfortunately), so the +inquiry is comparatively safe for one in a frugal +mood; and it is a tactful question, for the mention of +this book shows the bookseller that you are an intelligent +and understanding kind of person, and +puts intercourse on good terms at once. However, +we did find one book that we felt we simply had to +have, as it is our favourite book for giving away to +right-minded people—“The Invisible Playmate,” +by William Canton. We fear that there are still +lovers of children who do not know this book; but if +so, it is not our fault.</p> + +<p>Grand Street is a child at heart, and one may +watch it making merry not only along the pavement +but in the shop windows. Endymion's gallant +spirit was strongly uplifted by this lively thoroughfare, +and he strode like one whose heart was hitting +on all six cylinders. Max Maisel's bookshop alone +is enough to put one in a seemly humour. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> +then one sees the gorgeous pink and green allurements +of the pastry cooks' windows, and who can +resist those little lemon-flavoured, saffron-coloured +cakes, which are so thirst-compelling and send one +hastily to the nearest bar for another beaker of +cider? And it seems natural to find here the +oldest toyshop in New York, where Endymion +dashed to the upper floor in search of juvenile +baubles, and we both greatly admired the tall, dark, +and beauteous damsel who waited on us with such +patience and charity. Endymion by this time was +convinced that he was living in the very heart and +climax of a poem; he became more and more unreal +as we walked along: we could see his physical outline +(tenuous enough at best) shimmer and blur as he +became increasingly alcaic.</p> + +<p>Along the warm crowded pavement there suddenly +piped a liquid, gurgling, chirring whistle, rising and +dropping with just the musical trill that floats from +clumps of creekside willows at this time of year. We +had passed several birdshops on our walk, and supposed +that another was near. A song sparrow, was +our instant conclusion, and we halted to see where +the cage could be hung. And then we saw our +warbler. He was little and plump and red-faced, +with a greasy hat and a drooping beer-gilded moustache, +and he wore on his coat a bright blue peddler's +license badge. He shuffled along, stooping over a +pouch of tin whistles and gurgling in one as he went.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> +There's your poem, we said to Endymion—“The +Song-Sparrow on Grand Street.”</p> + +<p>We propose to compile a little handbook for +truants, which we shall call “How to Spend Three +Hours at Lunch Time.” This idea occurred to us on +looking at our watch when we got back to our +kennel.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="PASSAGE_FROM_SOME_MEMOIRS" id="PASSAGE_FROM_SOME_MEMOIRS"></a>PASSAGE FROM SOME MEMOIRS</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>How long ago it seems, that spring noonshine +when two young men (we will call them Dactyl +and Spondee) set off to plunder the golden bag of +Time. These creatures had an oppressive sense that +first Youth was already fled. For one of them, in +fact, it was positively his thirtieth birthday; poor +soul, how decrepitly he flitted in front of motor +trucks. As for the other, he was far decumbent in +years, quite of a previous generation, a perfect +Rameses, whose senile face was wont to crack into +wrinklish mirth when his palsied cronies called him +the greatest poet born on February 2, 1886.</p> + +<p>It was a day—well, it is fortunate that some things +do not have to be described. Suppose one had to +explain to the pallid people of the thither moon what +a noonday sunshine is like in New York about the +Nones of May? It could not be done to carry +credence. Let it be said it was a Day, and leave it +so. You have all known that gilded envelopment of +sunshine and dainty air.</p> + +<p>These pitiful creatures arose from the subway at +Fourteenth Street and took the world in their right +hands. From this revolving orb, said they, they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> +would squeeze a luncheon hour of exquisite satisfactions. +They gazed sombrely at Union Square, +and uttered curious reminiscences of the venerable +days when one of them had worked, actually toiled +for a living, upon the shores of that expanse. Ten +years had passed (yes, at least ten—<i>O edax rerum!</i>). +Upon a wall these observant strollers saw a tablet to +the memory of William Lloyd Garrison. Strange, +said they, we never noticed this before. Ah, said +one, this is hallowed ground. It was near here that +I used to borrow a quarter, the day before pay-day, +to buy my lunch. The other contributed similar +recollections. And now, quoth he, I am grown so +prosperous that when I need money I can't afford to +borrow less than two hundred dollars.</p> + +<p>They lunched (one brushes away the mist of time +to recall the details) where the bright sunlight fell +athwart a tablecloth of excellent whiteness. They +ate (may one be precise at so great a distance?)—yes, +they ate broiled mackerel to begin with; the kind of +mackerel called (but why?) Spanish. Whereupon +succeeded a course of honeycomb tripe, which moved +Dactyl to quoting Rabelais, something that +Grangousier had said about tripes. Only by these +tripes is memory supported and made positive, for it +was the first time either had tackled this dish. +Concurrent with the tripes, one inducted the other +into the true mystery of blending shandygaff, +explaining the first doctrine of that worthy draught,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> +which is that the beer must be poured into the +beaker before the ginger ale, for so arises a fatter and +lustier bubblement of foam. The reason whereof +they leave no testament. While this portion of +the meal was under discussion their minds moved +free, unpinioned, with airy lightness, over all manner +of topics. It seemed no effort at all to talk. Ripe, +mellow with long experience of men and matters, +their comments were notable for wisdom and +sagacity. The waiter, overhearing +shreds of their discourse, +made a private notation +to the effect that these +were Men of Large Affairs. +Then they embarked upon +some salty crackers, enlivened +with Camembert cheese and +green-gage jam. By this time +they were touching upon religion, +from which they moved +lightly to the poems of Louise +Imogen Guiney. It is all quite distinct as one +looks back upon it.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 289px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p190.jpg" width="289" height="500" alt="p190" title="Waiter" /></div> + +<p>Issuing upon the street, Dactyl said something +about going back to the office, but the air and sunlight +said him nay. Rather, remarked Spondee, let +us fare forward upon this street and see what +happens. This is ever a comely doctrine, adds the +chronicler. They moved gently, not without a lilac<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> +trailing of tobacco fume, across quiet stretches of +pavement. In the blue upwardness stood the tower +of the Metropolitan Life Building, a reminder that +humanity as a whole pays its premiums with decent +regularity. They conned the nice gradations of tint +in the spring foliage of Gramercy Park. They +talked, a little soberly, of thrift, and of their misspent +years.</p> + +<p>Lexington Avenue lay guileless beneath their +rambling footfalls. At the corner of Twenty-second +Street was a crowd gathered, and a man with the +customary reverted cap in charge of a moving picture +machine. A swift car drew up before the large +house at the southeast corner. Thrill upon thrill: +something being filmed for the movies! In the car, +a handsome young rogue at the wheel, and who was +this blithe creature in shiny leather coat and leather +cap, with crumpling dark curls cascading beneath it? +A suspicion tinkled in the breast of Spondee, in those +days a valiant movie fan. Up got the young man, +and hopped out of the car. Up stood the blithe +creature—how neatly breeched, indeed, a heavenly +forked radish—and those shining riding boots! She +dismounted—lifted down (so unnecessarily it +seemed) by the rogue. She stood there a moment +and Spondee was convinced. <span class="smcap">Dorothy Gish</span>, said +he to Dactyl. Miss Gish and her escort darted into +the house, the camera man reeling busily. At an +upper window of the dwelling a white-haired lady<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> +was looking out, between lace curtains, with a sort of +horror. Query, was she part of the picture, or only +the aristocratic owner of the house, dismayed at +finding her home suddenly become part of a celluloid +drama? Spondee had always had a soft spot in his +heart for Miss Dorothy, esteeming her a highly +entertaining creature. He was disappointed in the +tranquil outcome of the scene. He had hoped to +see leaping from windows and all manner of +hot stuff. Near by stood a coloured groom with +a horse. The observers concluded that Miss Gish +was to do a little galloping shortly. Dactyl and +Spondee moved away. Spondee quoted a poem he +had once written about Miss Dorothy. He recollected +only two lines:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She makes all the rest seem a shoal of poor fish<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So <i>we</i> cast <i>our</i> ballot for Dorothy Gish.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Peering again into the dark backward and abysm, +it seems that the two rejuvenated gossips trundled +up on Lexington Avenue to Alfred Goldsmith's +cheerful bookshop. Here they were startled to hear +Mr. Goldsmith cry: “Well, Chris, here are some +nice bones for you.” One of these visitors assumed +this friendly greeting was for him, but then it was +explained that Mr. Goldsmith's dog, named Christmas, +was feeling seedy, and was to be pampered. +At this moment in came the postman with a package +of books, arrived all the way from Canada. One of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> +these books was “Salt of the Sea,” a volume of tales +by Morley Roberts, and upon this Spondee fell with +a loud cry, for it contained “The Promotion of the +Admiral,” being to his mind a tale of great virtue +which he had not seen in several years. Dactyl, +meanwhile, was digging out some volumes of Gissing, +and on the faces of both these creatures might have +been seen a pleasant radiation of innocent cheer. Mr. +Goldsmith also exhibited (it is still remembered) a +beautiful photo of Walt Whitman, which entertained +the visitors, for it showed old Walt with his coat-sleeve +full of pins, which was ever Walt's way.</p> + +<p>How long ago it all seems. Does Miss Dorothy +still act for the pictures? Does Chris, the amiable +Scots terrier, still enjoy his bones? Does old +Dactyl still totter about his daily tasks? Queer to +think that it happened only yesterday. Well, time +runs swift in New York.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="FIRST_LESSONS" id="FIRST_LESSONS"></a>FIRST LESSONS IN CLOWNING</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 205px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p194.jpg" width="205" height="300" alt="p194" title="First Lessions in Clowning" /></div> + +<p>A medley of crashing music, pungently odd +and exhilarating smells, the roaring croon of +the steam calliope, the sweet lingering savour of +clown-white grease paint, elephants, sleek barking +seals, trained pigs, superb white horses, frolicking +dogs, exquisite ladies in tights and spangles, the +pallid Venuses of the “living statuary,” a whole<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> +jumble of incongruous and fantastic glimpses, moving +in perfect order through its arranged cycles—this +is the blurred and ecstatic recollection of an amateur +clown at the circus.</p> + +<p>It was pay day that afternoon and all the performers +were in cheerful humour. Perhaps that was +why the two outsiders, who played a very inconspicuous +part in the vast show, were so gently +treated. Certainly they had approached the Garden +in some secret trepidation. They had had visions +of dire jests and grievous humiliations: of finding +themselves suddenly astride the bare backs of +berserk mules, or hoisted by blazing petards, or +douched with mysterious cascades of icy water. +Pat Valdo had written: “I am glad to hear you are +going to clown a bit. I hope you both will enjoy the +experience.” To our overwrought imaginations +this sounded a little ominous. What would Pat and +his lively confrères do to us?</p> + +<p>We need not have feared. Not in the most genial +club could we have been more kindly treated than in +the dressing room where we found Pat Valdo opening +his trunk and getting out the antic costumes he had +provided. (The eye of a certain elephant, to tell the +truth, was the only real embarrassment we suffered. +We happened to stand by him as he was waiting to +go on, and in his shrewd and critical orb we saw a +complete disdain. He spotted us at once. He +knew us for interlopers. He knew that we were not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> +a real clown, and his eye showed a spark of scorn. +We felt shamed, and slunk away.)</p> + +<p>A liberal coating of clown-white, well rubbed into +the palms before applying; a rich powdering of +talcum; and decorations applied by Pat Valdo with +his red and black paint-sticks—these give an effect +that startles the amateur when he considers himself +in the mirror. Topped with a skull-cap of white +flannel (on which perches a supreme oddity in the +way of a Hooligan hat) and enveloped in a baggy +Pierrot garment—one is ready to look about and +study the dressing room, where our fellows, in every +kind of gorgeous grotesquerie, are preparing for the +Grand Introductory Pageant—followed by the +“Strange People.” (They don't call them Freaks +any more.) Here is Johannes Joseffson, the Icelandic +Gladiator, sitting on his trunk, with his bare +feet gingerly placed on his slippers to keep them off +the dusty floor while he puts on his wrestling tights. +As he bends over with arched back, and raises one +leg to insert it into the long pink stocking, one must +admire the perfect muscular grace of his thighs and +shoulders. Here is the equally muscular dwarf, +being massaged by a friend before he dons his pink +frills and dashing plumed hat and becomes Mlle. +Spangletti, “the marvel equestrienne, darling of the +Parisian boulevards.” Here is the inevitable +Charley Chaplin, and here the dean of all the clowns, +an old gentleman of seventy-four, in his frolicsome<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> +costume, as lively as ever. Here is a trunk inscribed +<i>Australian Woodchoppers</i>, and sitting on it +one of the woodchoppers himself, a quiet, humorous, +cultivated gentleman with a great fund of +philosophy. A rumour goes the rounds—as it does +behind the scenes in every kind of show. “Do you +know who we have with us to-day? I see one of +the boxes is all decorated up.” “It's Mrs. Vincent +Astor.” “Who's she?” interjects the Australian +woodchopper, satirically. “It's General Wood.” +“Did you hear, Wood and Pershing are here to-day?” +Charley Chaplin asserts that he has “a good gag” +that he's going to try out to-day and see how it goes. +One of the other clowns in the course of dressing +comes up to Pat Valdo, and Pat introduces his two +pupils. “Newspaper men, hey?” says the latter. +“What did you tell me for? I usually double-cross +the newspaper men when they come up to do some +clowning,” he explains to us. We are left wondering +in what this double-crossing consists. Suddenly they +all troop off down the dark narrow stairs for the +triumphal entry. The splendour of this parade +may not be marred by any clown costumes, so the +two novices are left upstairs, peering through holes +in the dressing-room wall. The big arena is all an +expanse of eager faces. The band strikes up a +stirring ditty. A wave of excitement sweeps +through the dingy quarters of the Garden. The +show is on, and how delirious it all is!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span></p> + +<p>Downstairs, the space behind the arena is a fascinating +jostle of odd sights. The elephants come +swaying up the runway from the basement and stand +in line waiting their turn. Here is a cage of trained +bears. In the background stands the dogcatcher's +cart, attached to the famous kicking mule. From +the ladies' dressing quarters come the aerial human +butterflies in their wings and gauzy draperies. On +the wall is a list of names, <i>Mail Uncalled For</i>. One +of the names is “Toby Hamilton.” That must +mean old Toby, and we fear the letter will never be +called for now, for Toby Hamilton, the famous old +Barnum and Bailey press agent, who cleaned up +more “free space” than any man who ever lived, +died in 1916. Suddenly appears a person clad +in flesh tights and a barrel, carrying a label announcing +himself as <i>The Common People</i>. Someone +thrusts a large sign into the hands of one of the +amateur clowns, and he is thrust upon the arena, to +precede the barrelled Common People round the +sawdust circuit. He has hardly time to see what +the sign says—something about “On Strike Against +$100 Suits.” The amateur clown is somewhat +aghast at the huge display of friendly faces. Is he to +try to be funny? Here is the flag-hung box, and he +tries to see who is in it. He doesn't see either Wood, +Pershing, or Mrs. Astor, who are not there; but a lot +of wounded soldiers, who smile at him encouragingly. +He feels better and proceeds, finding himself, with a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> +start, just beneath some flying acrobats who are +soaring in air, hanging by their teeth. Common +People shouts to him to keep the sign facing toward +the audience. The tour is made without palpable +dishonour.</p> + +<p>Things are now moving so fast it is hard to keep +up with them. Pat Valdo is dressed as a prudish +old lady with an enormous bustle. Escorted by the +clown policeman and the two amateurs, Pat sets out, +fanning himself demurely. Hullo! the bustle has +detached itself from the old lady, but she proceeds, +unconscious. The audience shouts with glee. +Finally the cop sees what has happened and screams. +The amateur clowns scream, too, and one of them, in a +burst of inspiration, takes off his absurd hat to the +bustle, which is now left yards behind. But Pat is +undismayed, turns and beckons with his hand. +The bustle immediately runs forward of its own +accord and reattaches itself to the rear of the skirt. +You see, there is a dwarf inside it. The two amateur +clowns are getting excited by this time and execute +some impromptu tumbling. One tackles the other +and they roll over and over desperately. In the +scuffle one loses both his hat and skull-cap and +flees shamefast from the scene. It is asserted by our +partner that “this went big.” He swears it got a +laugh. Pat Valdo hurries off to prepare for his +boomerang throwing. Pat is a busy man, for he is +not only a clown, but he and Mrs. Valdo also do<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> +wonderful stunts of their own on Ring Number +One.</p> + +<p>And there are moments of sheer poetry, too. Into +the darkened arena, crossed by dazzling shafts of +light, speeds a big white motor car. Bird Millman +descends, tossing aside her cloak. “A fairy on a +cobweb” the press agents call her, and as two humble +clowns watch entranced through the peepholes in +the big doors the phrase seems none too extravagant. +See her, in a foam of short fluffy green skirts, twirl +and tiptoe on the glittering wire, all grace and slenderness +and agile enchantment. She bows in the +dazzle of light and kisses her hands to the crowd. +Then she hops into the big car and is borne back +behind the scenes. Once behind the doors her gay +vivacity ceases. She sits, wearily, several minutes, +before getting out of the car. And then, later, +comes Mlle. Leitzel. She, like all the other stars, is +said to have “amazed all Europe.” We don't +know whether Europe is harder to amaze than +America. Certainly no one could be more admiringly +astounded than the amateur clowns gazing +entranced through the crack of the doorway. To +that nerve-tightening roll of drums she spins deliriously +high up in giddy air, floating, a tiny human pin-wheel, +in a shining cone of light. One can hear the +crowd catch its breath. She walks back, all smiles, +while her maid trots ahead saying something unintelligible. +Her tall husband is waiting for her at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> +the doorway. He catches her up like a child and +carries her off, limp and exhausted. One of the +clowns (irreverent creature) makes a piteous squawk +and begs us to carry him to his dressing room.</p> + +<p>A trained pig, trotting cheerfully round in search of +tidbits, is retrieved from under the hooves of Mrs. +Curtis's horse, which is about to go out and dance. +The dogcatcher's wagon is drawn up ready to rush +forth, and the trained terrier which accompanies it is +leaping with excitement. He regards it as a huge +lark, and knows his cue perfectly. When the right +time comes he makes a dash for a clown dressed as an +elderly lady and tears off her skirt. One of the +amateurs was allowed to ride behind the kicking +mule, but to his great chagrin the mule did not kick +as well as usual. Here are Charley Chaplin and some +others throwing enormous dice from a barrel. No +matter how the dice are thrown they always turn up +seven. Into this animated gamble the amateur +clown enters with enjoyment. All round him the +wildest capers are proceeding. The double-ended +flivver is prancing about. John Barleycorn's funeral +procession is going its way. “Give me plenty of +space,” says Charley Chaplin to us, “so the people +can watch me.” We do so, reverently, for Charley's +antics are worth watching. We make a wild dash, +and plan to do a tumble in imitation of Charley's. +To our disappointment we find that instead of sliding +our feet dig into the soft sawdust, and the projected<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> +collapse does not arrive. Intoxicated by the rich +spice of circus odours, the booming calliope, the +galloping horses, we hardly know what we are doing +half the time. We hear Miss May Wirth, the +Wonder Rider of the World, complaining bitterly +that someone got in front of her when she was doing +her particularly special stunt. We wonder dubiously +whether we were the guilty one. Alas, it is all +over but the washing up. Pat Valdo, gentlest of +hosts, is taking off his trick hat with the water cistern +concealed in it. He has a clean towel ready for his +grateful pupils.</p> + +<p>The band is playing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” +and all the clowns, in various stages of undress, +stand at attention. Our little peep into the gay, +good-hearted, courageous, and extraordinary world +of the circus is over. Pat and his fellows will go on, +twice a day, for the next six months. It takes +patience and endurance. But it must be some consolation +to know that nothing else in the world gives +half as much pleasure to so many people.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="HOUSE_HUNTING" id="HOUSE_HUNTING"></a>HOUSE-HUNTING</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 291px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p203.jpg" width="291" height="300" alt="p203" title="House Hunting" /></div> + +<p>A curious vertigo afflicts the mind of the +house-hunter. In the first place, it is sufficiently +maddening to see the settled homes of other +happier souls, all apparently so firmly rooted in a +warm soil of contentment while he floats, an unhappy +sea-urchin, in an ocean of indecision. Furthermore, +how confusing (to one who likes to feel himself +somewhat securely established in a familiar +spot) the startling panorama of possible places in +which he visualizes himself. One day it is Great +Neck, the next it is Nutley; one day Hollis, the next<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> +Englewood; one day Bronxville, and then Garden +City. As the telephone rings, or the suasive accents +of friendly realtors expound the joys and glories of +various regions, his uneasy imagination flits hoppingly +about the compass, conceiving his now +vanished household goods reassembled and implanted +in these contrasting scenes.</p> + +<p>Startling scenarios are filmed in his reeling mind +while he listens, over the tinkling wire, to the +enumeration of rooms, baths, pantries, mortgages, +commuting schedules, commodious closets, open +fireplaces, and what not. In the flash and coruscation +of thought he has transported his helpless +family to Yonkers, or to Manhasset, or to Forest +Hills, or wherever it may be, and tries to focus and +clarify his vision of what it would all be like. He +sees himself (in a momentary close-up) commuting on +the bland and persevering Erie, or hastening hotly +for a Liberty Street ferry, or changing at Jamaica +(that mystic ritual of the Long Island brotherhood). +For an instant he is settled again, with a modest +hearth to return to at dusk ... and then the sorrowful +compliment is paid him and he wonders how +the impression got abroad that he is a millionaire.</p> + +<p>There is one consoling aspect of his perplexity, +however, and that is the friendly intercourse he has +with high-spirited envoys who represent real estate +firms and take him voyaging to see “properties” in +the country. For these amiable souls he expresses<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> +his candid admiration. Just as when one contemplates +the existence of the doctors one knows, one +can never imagine them ill, so one cannot conceive +of the friendly realtor as in any wise distressed or +grieved by the problems of the home. There is +something Olympian about them, happy creatures! +They deal only in severely “restricted” tracts. +They have a stalwart and serene optimism. Odd +as it seems, one of these friends told us that some +people are so malign as to waste the time of real +estate men by going out to look at houses in the +country without the slightest intention of “acting.” +As a kind of amusement, indeed! A harmless way of +passing an afternoon, of getting perhaps a free motor +ride and enjoying the novelty of seeing what other +people's houses look like inside. But our friend was +convinced of one humble inquirer's passionate sincerity +when he saw him gayly tread the ice floes of +rustic Long Island in these days of slush and slither.</p> + +<p>How do these friends of ours, who see humanity in +its most painful and distressing gesture (i.e., when +it is making up its mind to part with some money), +manage to retain their fine serenity and blitheness of +spirit? They have to contemplate all the pathetic +struggles of mortality, for what is more pathetic +than the spectacle of a man trying to convince a real +estate agent that he is not really a wealthy creature +masking millions behind an eccentric pose of humility? +Our genial adviser Grenville Kleiser, who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> +has been showering his works upon us, has classified +all possible mental defects as follows:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<ol type="a"><li><i>Too easy acquiescence</i></li> +<li><i>A mental attitude of contradiction</i></li> +<li><i>Undue skepticism</i></li> +<li><i>A dogmatic spirit</i></li> +<li><i>Lack of firmness of mind</i></li> +<li><i>A tendency to take extreme views</i></li> +<li><i>Love of novelty; that is, of what is foreign, +ancient, unusual, or mysterious.</i></li></ol></div> + +<p>All these serious weaknesses of judgment may be +discerned, in rapid rotation, in the mind of the +house-hunter. It would be only natural, we think, +if the real estate man were to tell him to go away and +study Mr. Kleiser's “How to Build Mental Power.” +In the meantime, the vision of the home he had +dreamed of becomes fainter and fainter in the +seeker's mind—like the air of a popular song he has +heard whistled about the streets, but does not know +well enough to reproduce. How he envies the light-hearted +robins, whose house-hunting consists merely +in a gay flitting from twig to twig. Yet, even in his +disturbance and nostalgia of spirit, he comforts +himself with the common consolation of his cronies—“Oh, +well, one always finds something”—and thus +(in the words of good Sir Thomas Browne) teaches +his haggard and unreclaimed reason to stoop unto +the lure of Faith.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="LONG_ISLAND" id="LONG_ISLAND"></a>LONG ISLAND REVISITED</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>The anfractuosities of legal procedure having +caused us to wonder whether there really were +any such place as the home we have just bought, we +thought we would go out to Salamis, L. I., and have +a look at it. Of course we knew it had been there a +few weeks ago, but the title companies do confuse +one so. We had been sitting for several days in the +office of the most delightful lawyer in the world (and +if we did not fear that all the other harassed and +beset creatures in these parts would instantly rush to +lay their troubles in his shrewd and friendly bosom +we would mention his name right here and do a little +metrical pirouette in his honour)—we had been +sitting there, we say, watching the proceedings, +without the slightest comprehension of what was +happening. It is really quite surprising, let us add, +to find how many people are suddenly interested in +some quiet, innocent-looking shebang nestling off in +a quiet dingle in the country, and how, when it is to +be sold, they all bob up from their coverts in Flushing, +Brooklyn, or Long Island City, and have to be +“satisfied.” What floods of papers go crackling +across the table, drawn out from those mysterious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> +brown cardboard wallets; what quaint little jests +pass between the emissaries of the title company +and the legal counsel of the seller, jests that seem +to bear upon the infirmity of human affairs and +cause the well-wishing adventurer to wonder whether +he had ever sufficiently pondered the strange tissue +of mortal uncertainties that hides behind every +earthly venture ... there was, for instance, +occasional reference to a vanished gentleman who +had once crossed the apparently innocent proscenium +of our estate and had skipped, leaving someone six +thousand dollars to the bad; this ingenious buccaneer +was, apparently, the only one who did not have to be +“satisfied.” At any rate, we thought that we, who +entered so modestly and obscurely into this whole +affair, being only the purchaser, would finally satisfy +ourself, too, by seeing if the property was still there.</p> + +<p>Long Island and spring—the conjunction gives us +a particular thrill. There are more beautiful places +than the Long Island flats, but it was there that we +earned our first pay envelope, and it was there that +we first set up housekeeping; and as long as we live +the station platform of Jamaica will move us +strangely—not merely from one train to another, but +also inwardly. There is no soil that receives a more +brimming benison of sunshine than Long Island in +late April. As the train moves across the plain it +seems to swim in a golden tide of light. Billboards +have been freshly painted and announce the glories<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> +of phonographs in screaming scarlets and purples, +or the number of miles that divide you from a +Brooklyn department store. Out at Hillside the +stones that demarcate the territory of an old-fashioned +house are new and snowily whitewashed. At +Hollis the trees are a cloud of violent mustard-yellow +(the colour of a safety-matchbox label). Magnolias +(if that is what they are) are creamy pink. Moving +vans are bustling along the road. Across the wide +fields of Bellaire there is a view of the brown woods +on the ridge, turning a faint olive as the leaves gain +strength. Gus Wuest's roadhouse at Queens looks +inviting as of old, and the red-brown of the copper +beeches reminds one of the tall amber beakers. +Here is the little park by the station in Queens, the +flag on the staff, the forsythia bushes the colour of +scrambled eggs.</p> + +<p>Is it the influence of the Belmont Park race track? +There seem to be, in the smoking cars, a number of +men having the air of those accustomed to associate +(in a not unprofitable way) with horses. Here is +one, a handsome person, who holds our eye as a +bright flower might. He wears a flowing overcoat of +fleecy fawn colour and a derby of biscuit brown. He +has a gray suit and joyful socks of heavy wool, +yellow and black and green in patterned squares +which are so vivid they seem cubes rather than +squares. He has a close-cut dark moustache, his +shaven cheeks are a magnificent sirloin tint, his chin<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> +splendidly blue by the ministration of the razor. +His shirt is blue with a stripe of sunrise pink, and the +collar to match. He talks briskly and humorously +to two others, leaning over in the seat behind them. +As he argues, we see his brown low shoe tapping on +the floor. One can almost see his foot think. It +pivots gently on the heel, the toe wagging in air, as +he approaches the climax of each sentence. Every +time he drives home a point in his talk down comes +the whole foot, softly, but firmly. He relights his +cigar in the professional manner, not by inhaling as he +applies the match, but by holding the burned portion +in the flame, away from his mouth, until it has +caught. His gold watch has a hunting case; when he +has examined it, it shuts again with a fine rich snap, +which we can hear even above the noise of the car.</p> + +<p>On this early morning train there are others +voyaging for amusement. Here are two golfing +zealots, puffing pipes and discussing with amazing +persistence the minutiæ of their sport. Their +remarks are addressed to a very fashionable-looking +curate, whose manners are superb. Whether he is +going to play golf we know not; at any rate, he +smiles mildly and politely to all they say. Perhaps +he is going round the course with them, in the +hope of springing some ecclesiastical strategy while +they are softened and chastened by the glee of +the game. The name of their Maker, it is only +fair to suspect, has more than once been mentioned<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> +on the putting green; and if it should slip out, the +curate will seize the cue and develop it. In the +meantime, one of the enthusiasts (while his companion +is silenced in the act of lighting his pipe) is +explaining to the cloth how his friend plays golf. +“I'll tell you how he plays,” he says. “Imagine him +sitting down in a low chair and swinging a club. +Then take the chair away and he still keeps the +same position. That's what he looks like when he +drives.” The curate smiles at this and prepares his +face to smile with equal gentleness when the other +retorts.</p> + +<p>After Floral Park the prospect becomes more +plainly rural. The Mineola trolley zooms along, +between wide fields of tilled brown earth. There is +an occasional cow; here and there a really old barn +and farmhouse standing, incongruously, among the +settlements of modern kindling-wood cottages; and +a mysterious agricultural engine at work with a +spinning fly-wheel. Against the bright horizon +stand the profiles of Garden City: the thin cathedral +spire, the bulk of St. Paul's school, the white +cupola of the hotel. The tree-lined vistas of Mineola +are placidly simmering in the morning sun. A +white dog with erect and curly tail trots very purposefully +round the corner of the First National +Bank. We think that we see the spreading leaves of +some rhubarb plants in a garden; and there are some +of those (to us very enigmatic, as we are no gardener)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> +little glass window frames set in the soil, as though a +whole house, shamed by the rent the owner wanted +to charge, had sunk out of sight, leaving only a +skylight.</p> + +<p>As we leave East Williston we approach more interesting +country, with a semblance of hills, and +wooded thickets still brownly tapestried with the dry +funeral of last year's leaves. On the trees the new +foliage sways in little clusters, catching the light +like the wings of perching green butterflies. Some of +the buds are a coppery green, some a burning red, +but the prevailing colour is the characteristic sulphur +yellow of early spring. And now we are set down at +Salamis, where the first and most surprising impression +is of the unexpected abundance of competitive +taxicabs. Having reached the terminus of +our space, we can only add that we found our estate +still there—and there are a few stalks of rhubarb +surviving from an earlier plantation.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ON_BEING_IN_A_HURRY" id="ON_BEING_IN_A_HURRY"></a>ON BEING IN A HURRY</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>New York is a perplexing city to loaf in. +(Walt Whitman if he came back to Mannahatta +would soon get brain fever.) During the middle +hours of the day, at any rate, it is almost impossible +to idle with the proper spirit and completeness. +There is a prevailing bustle and skirmish that +“exerts a compulsion,” as President Wilson would +say. The air is electric and nervous. We have +often tried to dawdle gently about the neighbourhood +of the City Hall in the lunch hour, to let the +general form and spirit of that clearing among the +cliffs sink into our mind, so that we could get some +picture of it. We have sat under a big brown umbrella, +to have our shoes shined, when we had nothing +more important to do than go to the doughnut +foundry on Park Row and try some of those delectable +combinations of foods they have there, such as +sponge cake with whipped cream and chocolate +fudge. And in a few seconds we have found ourself +getting all stirred up and crying loudly to the artist +that we only wanted a once-over, as we had an +important appointment. You have to put a very +heavy brake on your spirit in downtown New York<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> +or you find yourself dashing about in a prickle of +excitement, gloriously happy just to be in a hurry, +without particularly caring whither you are hastening, +or why.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 328px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p214.jpg" width="328" height="400" alt="p214" title="p214" /></div> + +<p>One of the odd things about being in a hurry is +that it seems so fiercely important when you yourself +are the hurrier and so comically ludicrous when it is +someone else. We see our friend Artaxerxes scorching +up Church Street and we scream with laughter at +him, because we know perfectly well that there is +absolutely not one of his affairs important enough to +cause him to buzz along like that. We look after +him with a sort of mild and affectionate pity for a +deluded creature who thinks that his concerns are of +such glorious magnitude. And then, a few hours +later, we find ourself on +a subway car with only +ten minutes to catch the +train for Salamis at +Atlantic Avenue. And +what is our state of +mind? We stand, gritting +our teeth (we are +too excited to sit, even if +there were a seat) and +holding our watch. The +whole train, it seems to us, is occupied by invalids, +tottering souls and lumbago cripples, who creep off at +the stations as though five seconds made not the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> +slightest difference. We glare and fume and could +gladly see them all maced in sunder with battle-axes. +Nothing, it seems to us, could soothe our +bitter hunger for haste but to have a brilliant +Lexington Avenue express draw up at the platform +with not a soul in it. Out would step a polite guard, +looking at his watch. “You want to catch a train +at 5:27?” he asks. “Yes, sir, yes, sir; step aboard.” +All the other competitors are beaten back with +knotted thongs and we are ushered to a seat. The +bells go chiming in quick sequence up the length of +the train and we are off at top speed, flying wildly +past massed platforms of indignant people. We +draw up at Atlantic Avenue, and the solitary passenger, +somewhat appeased, steps off. “Compliments +of the Interborough, sir,” says the guard.</p> + +<p>The commuter, urgently posting toward the 5:27, +misses the finest flavour of the city's life, for it is in +the two or three hours after office work is over that +the town is at her best. What a spry and smiling +mood is shown along the pavements, particularly on +these clear, warm evenings when the dropping sun +pours a glowing tide of soft rosy light along the cross-town +streets. There is a cool lightness in the air; +restaurants are not yet crowded (it is, let us say, a +little after six) and beside snowy tablecloths the +waiters stand indulgently with folded arms. Everybody +seems in a blithe and spirited humour. Work +is over for the day, and now what shall we do for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> +amusement? This is the very peak of living, it +seems to us, as we sally cheerily along the street. It +is like the beginning of an O. Henry story. The +streets are fluttering with beautiful women; light +summer frocks are twinkling in the busy frolic air. +Oh, to be turned loose at the corner of Broadway +and Thirty-second Street at 6:15 o'clock of a June +evening, with nothing to do but follow the smile of +adventure to the utmost! Thirty-second, we might +add, is our favourite street in New York. It saddens +us to think that the old boarding house on the +corner of Madison Avenue is vanished now and all +those quaint and humorous persons dispersed. We +can still remember the creak of the long stairs +and the clink of a broken slab in the tiled flooring of +the hall as one walked down to the dining room.</p> + +<p>Affection for any particular street largely depends +on the associations it has accumulated in one's +mind. For several years most of our adventures in +New York centred round Thirty-second Street; but +its physique has changed so much lately that it has +lost some of its appeal. We remember an old stone-yard +that used to stand where the Pennsylvania +Hotel is now, a queer jumbled collection of odd +carvings and relics. At the front door there was a +bust of Pan on a tall pedestal, which used to face us +with a queer crooked grin twice a day, morning and +evening. We had a great affection for that effigy, +and even wrote a little piece about him in one of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> +papers, for which we got about $4 at a time when it +was considerably needed. We used to say to ourself +that some day when we had a home in the country +we would buy Pan and set him in a Long Island +garden where he would feel more at home than in the +dusty winds of Thirty-second Street. Time went on +and we disappeared from our old haunts, and when +we came back Pan had vanished, too. You may +imagine our pleasure when we found him again the +other day standing in front of a chop house on +Forty-fourth Street.</p> + +<p>But one great addition to the delights of the +Thirty-second Street region is the new and shining +white tunnel that leads one from the Penn Station +subway platform right into the heart of what used +(we think) to be called Greeley Square. It is so +dazzling and candid in its new tiling that it seems +rather like a vast hospital corridor. One emerges +through the Hudson Tube station and perhaps sets +one's course for a little restaurant on Thirty-fifth +Street which always holds first place in our affection. +It is somewhat declined from its former estate, for +the upper floors, where the violent orchestra was and +the smiling little dandruffian used to sing solos when +the evening grew glorious, are now rented to a feather +and ostrich plume factory. But the old basement is +still there, much the same in essentials, by which we +mean the pickled beet appetizers, the minestrone +soup, the delicious soft bread with its brittle crust,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> +and the thick slices of rather pale roast beef swimming +in thin, pinkish gravy. And the three old +French waiters, hardened in long experience of the +frailties of mortality, smile to see a former friend. +One, grinning upon us rather bashfully, recalls the +time when there was a hilarious Oriental wedding +celebrating in a private room upstairs and two young +men insisted on going in to dance with the bride. +He has forgiven various pranks, we can see, though +he was wont to be outraged at the time. “Getting +very stout,” he says, beaming down at us. “You +weigh a hundred pounds more than you used to.” +This is not merely cruel; it is untrue. We refrain +from retorting on the growth of his bald spot.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CONFESSIONS_OF_A_HUMAN_GLOBULE" id="CONFESSIONS_OF_A_HUMAN_GLOBULE"></a>CONFESSIONS OF A HUMAN GLOBULE</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>As a matter of fact, we find the evening subway +jam very restful. Being neatly rounded +in contour, with just a gentle bulge around the +equatorial transit, we have devised a very satisfactory +system. We make for the most crowded car +we can find, and having buffeted our way in, we are +perfectly serene. Once properly wedged, and provided +no one in the immediate neighbourhood is doing +anything with any garlic (it is well to avoid the +vestibules if one is squeamish in that particular) we +lift our feet off the floor, tuck them into the tail +of our overcoat, and remain blissfully suspended in +midair from Chambers Street to Ninety-sixth. The +pressure of our fellow-passengers, powerfully impinging +upon the globular perimeter we spoke of, +keeps us safely elevated above the floor. We have +had some leather stirrups sewed into the bottom of +our overcoat, in which we slip our feet to keep them +from dangling uncomfortably. Another feature of +our technique is that we always go into the car with +our arms raised and crossed neatly on our chest, so +that they will not be caught and pinioned to our +flanks. In that position, once we are gently nested<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> +among the elastic mass of genial humanity, it is +easy to draw out from our waistcoat pocket our copy +of Boethius's “Consolations of Philosophy” and +really get in a little mental improvement. Or, if we +have forgotten the book, we gently droop our head +into our overcoat collar, lay it softly against the +shoulder of the tall man who is always handy, and +pass into a tranquil nescience.</p> + +<p>The subway is a great consolation to the philosopher +if he knows how to make the most of it. Think +how many people one encounters and never sees +again.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="NOTES_ON_A_FIFTH_AVENUE_BUS" id="NOTES_ON_A_FIFTH_AVENUE_BUS"></a>NOTES ON A FIFTH AVENUE BUS</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p221.jpg" width="500" height="180" alt="p221" title="Notes on a Fifth Avenue Bus" /></div> + +<p>Far down the valley of the Avenue the traffic +lights wink in unison, green, yellow, red, +changing their colours with well-drilled promptness. +It is cold: a great wind flaps and tangles the flags; +the tops of the buses are almost empty. That brisk +April air seems somehow in key with the mood of the +Avenue—hard, plangent, glittering, intensely material. +It is a proud, exultant, exhilarating street; it +fills the mind with strange liveliness. A magnificent +pomp of humanity—what a flux of lacquered motors, +what a twinkling of spats along the pavements! +On what other of the world's great highways would +one find churches named for the material of which +they are built?—the <i>Brick Church</i>, the <i>Marble +Church</i>! It is not a street for loitering—there is an +eager, ambitious humour in its blood; one walks fast, +revolving schemes of worldly dominion. Only on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> +the terrace in front of the Public Library is there any +temptation for tarrying and consideration. There +one may pause and study the inscription—<i>But Above +All Things Truth Beareth Away the Victory</i> ... +of course the true eloquence of the words lies in the +<i>But</i>. Much reason for that <i>But</i>, implying a previous +contradiction—on the Avenue's part? Sometimes, +pacing vigorously in that river of lovely pride and +fascination, one might have suspected that other +things bore away the victory—spats, diamond necklaces, +smoky blue furs nestling under lovely chins.... +Hullo! here is a sign, “Headquarters of the +Save New York Committee.” Hum! Save from +what? There was a time when the great charm of +New York lay in the fact that it didn't want to be +saved. Who is it that the lions in front of the Public +Library remind us of? We have so often pondered. +Let's see: the long slanting brow, the head thrown +back, the haughty and yet genial abstraction—to be +sure, it's Vachel Lindsay!</p> + +<p>We defy the most resolute philosopher to pass +along the giddy, enticing, brilliant vanity of that +superb promenade and not be just a little moved by +worldly temptation.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="SUNDAY_MORNING" id="SUNDAY_MORNING"></a>SUNDAY MORNING</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>It was a soft, calm morning of sunshine and +placid air. Clear and cool, it was “a Herbert +Spencer of a day,” as H. G. Wells once remarked. +The vista of West Ninety-eighth Street, that engaging +alcove in the city's enormous life, was all +freshness and kempt tranquillity, from the gray roof +of the old training ship at the river side up to the tall +red spire near Columbus Avenue. This pinnacle, +which ripens to a fine claret colour when suffused with +sunset, we had presumed to be a church tower, but +were surprised, on exploration, to find it a standpipe +of some sort connected with the Croton water +system.</p> + +<p>Sunday morning in this neighbourhood has its own +distinct character. There is a certain air of luxurious +ease in the picture. One has a feeling that in +those tall apartment houses there are a great many +ladies taking breakfast in negligée. They are wearing +(if one may trust the shop windows along Broadway) +boudoir caps and mules. Mules, like their +namesakes in the animal world, are hybrid things, +the offspring of a dancing pump and a bedroom +slipper. They are distinctly futile, but no matter,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> +no matter. Wearing mules, however, is not a mere +vanity; it is a form of physical culture, for these +skimpish little things are always disappearing under +the bed, and crawling after them keeps one slender. +Again we say, no matter. This is no concern of ours.</p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 206px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p224.jpg" width="206" height="400" alt="p224" title="p224" /></div> + +<p>Near Broadway a prosperous and opulently tailored +costume emerges from an apartment house: cutaway +coat, striped trousers, very long pointed patent +leather shoes with lilac cloth tops. Within this +gear, we presently see, is a human being, in the +highest spirits. “All set!” he says, joining a group +of similars waiting by a shining limousine. Among +these, one lady of magnificently millinered aspect, +and a smallish man in very new and shiny riding +boots, of which he is grandly conscious. There are +introductions. “Mr. Goldstone, meet Mrs. Silverware.” +They are met. There is a +flashing of eyes. Three or four silk +hats simultaneously leap into the +shining air, are flourished and replaced. +The observer is aware of +the prodigious gayety and excitement +of life. All climb into the +car and roll away down Broadway. +All save the little man in riding +boots. He is left on the sidewalk, +gallantly waving his hand. Come, +we think, he is going riding. A satiny charger +waits somewhere round the corner. We will follow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> +and see. He slaps his hunting crop against his glorious +boots, which are the hue of quebracho wood. +No; to our chagrin, he descends into the subway.</p> + +<p>We sit on the shoeshining stand on Ninety-sixth +Street, looking over the Sunday papers. Very odd, +in the adjoining chairs men are busily engaged +polishing shoes that have nobody in them, not +visibly, at any rate. Perhaps Sir Oliver is right +after all. While we are not watching, the beaming +Italian has inserted a new pair of laces for us. Long +afterward, at bedtime, we find that he has threaded +them in that unique way known only to shoe merchants +and polishers, by which every time they are +tied and untied one end of the lace gets longer and +the other shorter. Life is full of needless complexities. +We descend the hill. Already (it is 9:45 +<span class="smcap">a. m.</span>) men are playing tennis on the courts at the +corner of West End Avenue. A great wagon +crammed with scarlet sides of beef comes stumbling +up the hill, drawn, with difficulty, by five horses.</p> + +<p>When we get down to the Ninety-Sixth Street pier +we see the barque <i>Windrush</i> lying near by with the +airy triangles of her rigging pencilled against the +sky, and look amorously on the gentle curve of her +strakes (if that is what they are). We feel that it +would be a fine thing to be off soundings, greeting +the bounding billow, not to say the bar-room steward; +and yet, being a cautious soul of reservations all +compact, we must admit that about the time we got<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> +abreast of New Dorp we would be homesick for our +favourite subway station.</p> + +<p>The pier, despite its deposit of filth, bales of old +shoes, reeking barrels, scows of rubbish, sodden +papers, boxes of broken bottles and a thick paste of +dust and ash-powder everywhere, is a happy lounging +ground for a few idlers on Sunday morning. A +large cargo steamer, the <i>Eclipse</i>, lay at the wharf, +standing very high out of the water. Three small +boys were watching a peevish old man tending his +fishing lines, fastened to wires with little bells on +them. “What do you catch here?” we said. Just +then one of the little bells gave a cracked tinkle +and the angler pulled up a small fish, wriggling +briskly, about three inches long. This seemed to +anger him. He seemed to consider himself in some +way humiliated by the incident. He grunted. One +of the small boys was tactful. “Oh, gee!” he said. +“Sometimes you catch fish that long,” indicating a +length which began at about a yard and diminished +to about eighteen inches as he meditated. “I don't +know what kind they are,” he said. “They're not +trouts, but some other kind of fish.”</p> + +<p>This started the topic of relative sizes, always fascinating +to small boys. “That's a pretty big boat,” +said one, craning up at the tall stem of the <i>Eclipse</i>. +“Oh, gee, that ain't big!” said another. “You +ought to see some of the Cunard boats, the <i>Olympic</i> +or the <i>Baltic</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>.”</p> + +<p>On Riverside Drive horseback riders were cantering +down the bridlepath, returning from early outings. +The squirrels, already grossly overfed, were +brooding languidly that another day of excessive +peanuts was at hand. Behind a rapidly spinning +limousine pedalled a grotesquely humped bicyclist, +using the car as a pacemaker. He throbbed fiercely +just behind the spare tire, with his face bent down +into a rich travelling cloud of gasoline exhaust. An +odd way of enjoying one's self! Children were coming +out in troops, with their nurses, for the morning +air. Here was a little boy with a sailor hat, and on +the band a gilt legend that was new to us. Instead +of the usual naval slogan, it simply said <i>Democracy</i>. +This interested us, as later in the day we saw another, +near the goldfish pond in Central Park. Behind +the cashier's grill of a Broadway drug store the +good-tempered young lady was reading Zane Grey. +“I love his books,” she said, “but they make me +want to break loose and go out West.”</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VENISON_PASTY" id="VENISON_PASTY"></a>VENISON PASTY</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 287px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p228.jpg" width="287" height="300" alt="p228" title="Venison Pasty" /></div> + +<p>The good old days are gone, we have been +frequently and authoritatively assured; and +yet, sitting in an agreeable public on William Street +where the bright eye of our friend Harold Phillips +discerned <i>venison pasty</i> on the menu, and listening to +a seafaring man describe a recent “blow” off +Hatteras during which he stood four hours up to his +waist in the bilges, and watching our five jocund +companions dismiss no less than twenty-one beakers<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> +of cider, we felt no envy whatever for the ancients +of the Mermaid Tavern. After venison pasty, +and feeling somewhat in the mood of Robin Hood +and Friar Tuck, we set off with our friend Endymion +for a stroll through the wilderness. The first adventure +of note that we encountered was the curb market +on Broad Street, where we stood entranced at the +merry antics of the brokers. This, however, is a spectacle +that no layman can long contemplate and still +deem himself sane. That sea of flickering fingers, the +hubbub of hoarse cries, and the enigmatic gestures of +youths framed in the open windows gave an impression +of something fierce and perilous happening. +Endymion, still deeming himself in Sherwood Forest, +insisted that this was the abode of the Sheriff of +Nottingham. “Stout deeds are toward!” he cried. +“These villain wights have a damsel imprisoned in +yonder keep!” With difficulty we restrained him +from pressing to the rescue of the lady (for indeed we +could see her, comely enough, appearing now and +then at one of the windows; and anon disappearing, +abashed at the wild throng). But gradually we +realized that no such dire matter was being transacted, +for the knights, despite occasional spasms of +hot gesticulating fury, were mild and meant her no +ill. One, after a sudden flux of business concerning +(it seemed) 85 shares of Arizona Copper, fell suddenly +placid, and was eating chocolate ice cream from +a small paper plate. Young gallants, wearing hats<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> +trimmed with variegated brightly coloured stuffs +(the favours of their ladies, we doubted not), were +conferring together, but without passion or rancour.</p> + +<p>We have a compact with our friend Endymion that +as soon as either of us spends money for anything not +strictly necessary he must straightway return to the +office. After leaving the curb market, we found ourselves +in a basement bookshop on Broadway, and +here Endymion fell afoul of a copy of Thomas +Hardy's “Wessex Poems,” illustrated by the author. +Piteously he tried to persuade us that it was a matter +of professional advancement to him to have this +book; moreover, he said, he had just won five dollars +at faro (or some such hazard) so that he was not +really spending money at all; but we countered all +his sophisms with slogging rhetoric. He bought the +book, and so had to return to the office in disgrace.</p> + +<p>We fared further, having a mind to revisit the old +Eastern Hotel, down by the South Ferry, of whose +cool and dusky bar-room we had pleasant memories +in times gone by; but we found to our distress that +this also, like many more of our familiar landmarks, +is a prey to the house-wrecker, and is on its way to +become an office building. On our way back up +Broadway it occurred to us to revisit what we have +long considered one of the most impressive temples +in our acquaintance, the lobby of the Telephone and +Telegraph Building, on Dey Street. Here, passing +by the enticing little terrace with brocaded chairs<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> +and soft lights where two gracious ladies sit to interview +aspiring telephone débutantes, one stands in +a dim golden glow, among great fluted pillars and +bowls of softly burning radiance swung (like censers) +by long chains. Occasionally there is an airy flutter, +a bell clangs, bronze doors slide apart, and an +elevator appears, in charge of a chastely uniformed +priestess. Lights flash up over this dark little cave +which stands invitingly open: UP, they say, LOCAL +1-13. The door-sill of the cave shines with a row of +golden beads (small lights, to guide the foot)—it is +irresistible. There is an upward impulse about the +whole place: the light blossoms upward from the +hanging translucent shells: people step gently in, +the doors close, they are not seen again. It is the +temple of the great American religion, <i>Going Up</i>. +The shining gold stars in the ceiling draw the eye +aloft. The temptation is too great. We step into +the little bronze crypt, say “Thirteen” at a venture, +and are borne softly and fluently up. Then, of +course, we have to come down again, past the +wagons of spring onions on Fulton Street, and back +to the office.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="GRAND_AVENUE" id="GRAND_AVENUE"></a>GRAND AVENUE, BROOKLYN</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>We have always been a strong partisan of +Brooklyn, and when we found ourself, in +company with Titania, set down in the middle of +a golden afternoon with the vista of Grand Avenue +before us, we felt highly elated. Just how these two +wayfarers chanced to be deposited in that quiet +serenity, so far from their customary concerns, is +not part of the narrative.</p> + +<p>There are regions of Brooklyn, we have always felt, +that are too good to be real. Placid stretches of +streets, with baby carriages simmering in the sun, +solid and comfortable brownstone houses exhaling +a prosperous condition of life, tranquil old-fashioned +apothecaries' shops without soda fountains, where +one peers in and sees only a solitary customer turning +over the pages of a telephone book. It is all +rather like a chapter from a story, and reminds us of +a passage in “The Dynamiter” where some untroubled +faubourgs of London are winningly described.</p> + +<p>Titania was wearing a little black hat with green +feathers. She looked her best, and was not unaware +of it. Our general plan, when destiny suddenly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> +plumps us into the heart of Brooklyn, is to make our +way toward Fulton Street, which is a kind of life-line. +Once on Fulton Street we know our way. +Moreover, Fulton Street has admirable second-hand +bookshops. Nor do we ever forget that it was +at the corner of Fulton and Cranberry streets that +“Leaves of Grass” was set up, in the spring of 1855, +Walt doing a good deal of the work himself. The +only difficulty about getting to Fulton Street is that +people will give you such contradictory instruction. +One will tell you to go this way; the next will point +in the opposite direction. It is as though Brooklynites +suspect the presence of a stranger, and do not +wish their sacred secrets to be discovered. There is +a deep, mysterious freemasonry among the residents +of this genial borough.</p> + +<p>At the corner of Grand and Greene avenues we +thought it well to ask our way. A lady was standing +on the corner, lost in pleasant drowse. April +sunshine shimmered all about: trees were bustling +into leaf, a wagonload of bananas stood by the curb +and the huckster sang a gay, persuasive madrigal. +We approached the lady, and Titania spoke gently: +“Can you tell me——” The lady screamed, and +leaped round in horror, her face stricken with fearful +panic. She gasped and tottered. We felt guilty +and cruel. “We were not meditating an attack,” +we said, “but just wanted to ask you the way to +Fulton Street.” Perhaps the poor soul's nerves<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> +were unstrung, for she gave us instruction that +we felt instinctively to be wrong. Had we gone as +she said (we now see by studying the map) we would +have debouched into Wallabout Bay. But undoubtedly +it was the protective instinct of the +Brooklynite, on guard before strangers. Is there +some terrific secret in Brooklyn that all residents +know about but which must never be revealed to +outsiders?</p> + +<p>Making a mental note not to speak too suddenly +at the next encounter, the two cheerful derelicts +drifted along the sunny coast of Grand Avenue. A +shining and passionless peace presided over the +streets. A gentle clop-clop of hooves came trotting +down the way: here was a man driving a white horse +in a neat rubber-tired buggy without a top. He +leaned back and smiled to himself as he drove along. +Life did not seem to be the same desperate venture +it appears round about Broadway and Wall Street. +Who can describe the settled amiability of those +rows of considerable brown houses, with their heavy +oak doors, their pots of daisies on the stoop, their +clear window panes, and now and then the face of a +benignant grandmother peeping from behind lace +curtains. The secret of Brooklyn, perhaps, is contentment, +and its cautious residents do not want the +rest of us to know too much about it, lest we all +flock over there in swarms.</p> + +<p>We then came to the bustle of Fulton Street,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> +which deserves a book in itself. Some day we want +to revisit a certain section of Fulton Street where (if +we remember rightly) a rotisserie and a certain bookstore +conspire to make one of the pleasantest haunts +in our experience. We don't know exactly what the +secret of Brooklyn may be, but we are going to spend +some time over there this spring and lie in wait for it.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ON_WAITING_FOR_THE_CURTAIN" id="ON_WAITING_FOR_THE_CURTAIN"></a>ON WAITING FOR THE CURTAIN TO GO UP</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 292px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p236.jpg" width="292" height="300" alt="p236" title="On Waiting for the Curtain to go Up" /></div> + +<p>We often wonder whether people are really +as human as they appear, or is it only our +imagination? Everybody, we suggest, thinks of +others as being excessively human, with all the +frailties and crotchets appertaining to that curious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> +condition. But each of us also (we are not dogmatic +on this matter) seems to regard himself as +existing on a detached plane of observation, exempt +(save in moments of vivid crisis) from the strange +whims of humanity en masse.</p> + +<p>For example, consider the demeanour of people at +a theatre while waiting for the curtain to go up. To +note the censoriousness with which they study each +other, one concludes that each deems himself (herself) +singularly blessed as the repository of human +correctness.</p> + +<p>Incidentally, why is it that one gets so thirsty +at the theatre? We never get thirsty at the movies, +or not nearly so thirsty. The other evening we +drank seven paper cups full of water in the intermissions +of a four-act play.</p> + +<p>The presence of people sitting behind one is the +reason (we fancy) for a great deal of the queer +antics that take place while one is waiting for the +curtain to rise, particularly when it is twenty minutes +late in going up as it was at a certain theatre +the other evening. People behind one have a horrible +advantage. One knows that they can hear +everything you say, unless you whisper it in a +furtive manner, which makes them suspect things far +worse than any one would be likely to say in a +Philadelphia theatre, except, of course, on the stage. +The fact that you know they can overhear you, and +intend to do so, leads one on to make the most out<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span>rageous, +cynical, and scoffish remarks, particularly +to denounce with fury a play that you may be enjoying +quite passably well. All over the house you +will hear (after the first act) men saying to their +accompanying damsels, “How outrageously clumsy +that act was. I can't conceive how the director +let it get by.” Now they only say this because +they think it will make the people behind feel +ashamed for having enjoyed such a botch. But does +it? The people in the row behind immediately begin +to praise the play vigorously, for the benefit of +the people behind <i>them</i>; and in a minute you see the +amusing spectacle of the theatre cheering and +damning by alternate rows.</p> + +<p>Here and there you will see a lady whispering +something to her escort, and will notice how ladies +always look backward over a lily shoulder while +whispering. They want to see what effect this +whispering will have on the people behind. There +is a deep-rooted feud between every two rows in an +audience. The front row, having nobody to hate +(except possibly the actors), take it out in speculating +why on earth anybody can want to sit in the boxes, +where they can see nothing.</p> + +<p>What the boxes think about we are not sure. +We never sat in a box except at a burlicue.</p> + +<p>And then a complete essay might be written on +the ads in the theatre program—what high-spirited +ads they are! How full of the savour and luxurious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> +tang of the <i>beau monde</i>! How they insist on saying +<i>specialité</i> instead of specialty!</p> + +<p>Well, all we meant to say when we began was, the +heroine was Only Fair—by which we mean to say +she was beautiful and nothing else.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="MUSINGS_OF_JOHN_MISTLETOE" id="MUSINGS_OF_JOHN_MISTLETOE"></a>MUSINGS OF JOHN MISTLETOE</h2> + + +<p>It was old John Mistletoe, we think, in his +“Book of Deplorable Facts,” discussing the +congenial topic of “Going to Bed” (or was it in his +essay on “The Concinnity of Washerwomen?”) +said something like this:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Life passes by with deplorable rapidity. <i>Post +commutatorem sedet horologium terrificum</i>, behind +the commuter rideth the alarm clock, no sooner hath +he attained to the office than it is time for lunch, no +sooner hath lunch been dispatched than it is time to +sign those dictated letters, no sooner this accomplished, +'tis time to hasten trainward. The essential +thing, then, is not to let one's experiences flow irrevocably +past like a river, but to clutch and hold +them, thoughtfully, long enough to examine and, in +a manner, sieve them, to halt them in the mind for +meditation. The relentless fluidity of life, the ease +with which it vanisheth down the channel of the +days, is the problem the thoughtful man must deal +with. The urgent necessity is to dam the stream +here and there so we can go swimming in it.</p> + +<p>Time is a breedy creature: the minutes propagate +hours, the hours beget days, the days raise huge +families of months, and before we know it we are +crowded out of this sweet life by mere surplus of +Time's offspring. This is a brutish Malthusianism +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span>which must be adamantly countered. Therefore +it is my counsel that every man, ere he retire for the +night and commit his intellect to inscrutable nothingness, +do let it hop abroad for a little freedom. Life +must be taken with a grain of saltation: let the spirit +dance a measure or two ere it collapse. For this +purpose it is my pleasure, about the hour of midnight, +to draw a jug of cider from the keg and a book +from the shelf. I choose some volume ill written +and stupidly conceived, to set me in conceit with +myself. I read a few pages, and then apply myself +to the composition of verses. These done, I burn +them, and go to bed with a cheerful spirit.</p></div><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_WORLDS_MOST_FAMOUS_ORATION" id="THE_WORLDS_MOST_FAMOUS_ORATION"></a>THE WORLD'S MOST FAMOUS ORATION</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<h4>Address to An Employer Upon Demanding a Raise,<br /> +or, The Battle of Manila Envelopes</h4> + +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> +<div class='center'> +<table width="400" border="0" cellpadding="6" cellspacing="6" summary="To an Employer"> +<tr><td width="33%"><center><i>As Planned</i></center> +<p>I think you will admit, +sir, that the quality +of my work during the +last two years has been +such that my services +could not easily be replaced. +I speak more +in pain than in anger +when I say that it has +been a matter of profound +surprise to me to +note that you have not +seen fit to acknowledge +my value to the firm in +some substantial way. I +think I may say that +I have been patient. +I have continued my +efforts with unremitting +zeal, and I think I may +flatter myself that my +endeavors have not been +without result. I have +here, carefully tabulated, +a memorandum of +the increased profits in +my department during +the last twelve months, +due in great part to my +careful management. I +am sorry to have to +force you into a decision, +but I think I owe it to +myself to say candidly +that unless you see the +matter in the same way +that I do I shall feel +obliged to deprive the +firm of my services.</p></td> +<td width="33%"><center><i>As Delivered</i></center> +<p>If you are not too +busy, sir, there is one +other matter—in fact, +the truth of the matter +in fact is exactly—well, +sir, I was precisely +wondering whether—of +course I know this is a +bad time—indeed I have +been very pleased to see +business picking up a +bit lately, and I am sure +my own department has +been—but to tell you the +truth, sir, I have been +wondering—of course it +is just as you think best +and I wouldn't think of +insisting, but after all, +perhaps I have made a +mistake in mentioning +it, but I was thinking +that possibly you might +bear in mind the idea of +a possible future raise in +salary at some future +time.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> +<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></p></td> +</tr></table></div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ON_LAZINESS" id="ON_LAZINESS"></a>ON LAZINESS</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 262px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p244.jpg" width="262" height="300" alt="p244" title="On Laziness" /></div> + +<p>To-day we rather intended to write an essay +on Laziness, but were too indolent to do so.</p> + +<p>The sort of thing we had in mind to write would +have been exceedingly persuasive. We intended to +discourse a little in favour of a greater appreciation +of Indolence as a benign factor in human affairs.</p> + +<p>It is our observation that every time we get into +trouble it is due to not having been lazy enough. +Unhappily, we were born with a certain fund of +energy. We have been hustling about for a number<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> +of years now, and it doesn't seem to get us anything +but tribulation. Henceforward we are going to +make a determined effort to be more languid and +demure. It is the bustling man who always gets +put on committees, who is asked to solve the problems +of other people and neglect his own.</p> + +<p>The man who is really, thoroughly, and philosophically +slothful is the only thoroughly happy man. +It is the happy man who benefits the world. The +conclusion is inescapable.</p> + +<p>We remember a saying about the meek inheriting +the earth. The truly meek man is the lazy man. +He is too modest to believe that any ferment and +hubbub of his can ameliorate the earth or assuage +the perplexities of humanity.</p> + +<p>O. Henry said once that one should be careful to +distinguish laziness from dignified repose. Alas, +that was a mere quibble. Laziness is always dignified, +it is always reposeful. Philosophical laziness, +we mean. The kind of laziness that is based +upon a carefully reasoned analysis of experience. +Acquired laziness. We have no respect for those +who were born lazy; it is like being born a millionaire: +they cannot appreciate their bliss. It is the +man who has hammered his laziness out of the stubborn +material of life for whom we chant praise and +allelulia.</p> + +<p>The laziest man we know—we do not like to +mention his name, as the brutal world does not yet<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> +recognize sloth at its community value—is one of the +greatest poets in this country; one of the keenest +satirists; one of the most rectilinear thinkers. He +began life in the customary hustling way. He was +always too busy to enjoy himself. He became +surrounded by eager people who came to him to +solve their problems. “It's a queer thing,” he said +sadly; “no one ever comes to me asking for help in +solving <i>my</i> problems.” Finally the light broke upon +him. He stopped answering letters, buying lunches +for casual friends and visitors from out of town, he +stopped lending money to old college pals and frittering +his time away on all the useless minor matters +that pester the good-natured. He sat down in a +secluded café with his cheek against a seidel of dark +beer and began to caress the universe with his intellect.</p> + +<p>The most damning argument against the Germans +is that they were not lazy enough. In the +middle of Europe, a thoroughly disillusioned, indolent +and delightful old continent, the Germans +were a dangerous mass of energy and bumptious +push. If the Germans had been as lazy, as indifferent, +and as righteously laissez-fairish as their neighbours, +the world would have been spared a great deal.</p> + +<p>People respect laziness. If you once get a reputation +for complete, immovable, and reckless indolence +the world will leave you to your own +thoughts, which are generally rather interesting.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p> + +<p>Doctor Johnson, who was one of the world's +great philosophers, was lazy. Only yesterday our +friend the Caliph showed us an extraordinarily interesting +thing. It was a little leather-bound notebook +in which Boswell jotted down memoranda of his +talks with the old doctor. These notes he afterward +worked up into the immortal Biography. And +lo and behold, what was the very first entry in this +treasured little relic?</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Doctor Johnson told me in going to Ilam from +Ashbourne, 22 September, 1777, that the way the +plan of his Dictionary came to be addressed to Lord +Chesterfield was this: He had neglected to write it +by the time appointed. Dodsley suggested a desire +to have it addressed to Lord C. Mr. J. laid hold +of this as an excuse for delay, that it might be better +done perhaps, and let Dodsley have his desire. Mr. +Johnson said to his friend, Doctor Bathurst: “Now +if any good comes of my addressing to Lord Chesterfield +it will be ascribed to deep policy and address, +when, in fact, it was only a casual excuse for laziness.”</p></div> + +<p>Thus we see that it was sheer laziness that led +to the greatest triumph of Doctor Johnson's life, +the noble and memorable letter to Chesterfield in +1775.</p> + +<p>Mind your business is a good counsel; but mind +your idleness also. It's a tragic thing to make a +business of your mind. Save your mind to amuse +yourself with.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span></p> + +<p>The lazy man does not stand in the way of progress. +When he sees progress roaring down upon him +he steps nimbly out of the way. The lazy man +doesn't (in the vulgar phrase) pass the buck. He +lets the buck pass him. We have always secretly +envied our lazy friends. Now we are going to join +them. We have burned our boats or our bridges or +whatever it is that one burns on the eve of a momentous +decision.</p> + +<p>Writing on this congenial topic has roused us up +to quite a pitch of enthusiasm and energy.</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TEACHING_THE_PRINCE" id="TEACHING_THE_PRINCE"></a>TEACHING THE PRINCE TO TAKE NOTES</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 162px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p249.jpg" width="162" height="300" alt="p249" title="Teaching the Prince" /></div> + +<p>The Prince of Wales probably suffers severely +during his tours abroad, for he is a shy youth; +but he also makes many friends, for he is a delightfully +simple and agreeable person. When we used +to see him he looked a good deal like the traditional +prince of the fairy tales, for he was a slender +boy with yellow hair, and blue eyes, and a quick pink +blush. And we feel toward him the friendly sense +of superiority that the college alumnus always feels +toward the man who was a freshman when he himself +was a senior; for the prince and ourself stood in +that relation a few years ago at a certain haunt of +letters.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span></p> + +<p>There was a course of lectures on history that we +were to attend. It was a popular course, and the attendance +was large. Arriving late at the first +lecture the room was packed, and we could see from +the door that there was only one empty seat. This +happened to be in the very front row, and wondering +how it was that so desirable a place had not been +seized we hastened to it. The lecturer was a swift +talker, and we fell to taking notes busily. Not for +some minutes did we have a chance to scrutinize +our surroundings. We then saw that in the adjoining +chair sat the prince, and surmised that no one +had wanted to take the chair for fear of being +twitted by his companions for a supposed desire to +hobnob with royalty.</p> + +<p>If we remember correctly, it was the prince's first +term of college life. The task of taking notes from +a rapid-fire lecturer was plainly one to which he was +not accustomed, and as he wrestled with his notebook +we could see that he had not learned the art of +considering the lecturer's remarks and putting down +only the gist of them, in some abbreviated system of +his own, as every experienced student learns. Grant +Robertson, the well-known historian, was lecturing +on English constitutional documents, and his swift +and informal utterance was perfectly easy to summarize +if one knew how to get down the important +points and neglect the rest. But the unhappy +prince, desperately eager to do the right thing in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> +this new experience, was trying to write down every +word. If, for instance, Mr. Robertson said (in a +humorous aside), “Henry VIII was a sinful old man +with a hobby of becoming a widower,” the experienced +listener would jot down something like +this: H 8, <i>self-made widower</i>. But we could see +that the prince was laboriously copying out the +sentence in full. And naturally, by the end of a few +paragraphs, he was hopelessly behind. But he +scribbled away industriously, doing his best. He +realized, however, that he had not quite got the +hang of the thing, and at the end of the lecture he +turned to us with most agreeable bashfulness and +asked if we would lend him our notebook, so that he +could get down the points that he had missed. We +did so, and briefly explained our own system of +abbreviating. We noticed that in succeeding sessions +our royal neighbour did very much better, +learning in some measure to discriminate between +what was advisable to note down and what was mere +explanatory matter or persiflage on the part of the +lecturer. But (if we must be candid) we would not +recommend him as a newspaper reporter. And, indeed, +the line of work to which he has been called +does not require quite as intense concentration as +that of a cub on what Philip Gibbs calls “The Street +of Adventure.”</p> + +<p>No one could come in contact with the prince +without liking him, for his bashful, gentle, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> +teachable nature is very winning. We remember +with a certain amusement the time that Grant +Robertson got off one of his annual gags to the effect +that, according to the principle of strict legitimacy, +there were in Europe several hundred (we forget the +figure) people with a greater right to the British +throne than the family at present occupying it. The +roomful of students roared with genial mirth, and +the unhappy prince blushed in a way that young girls +used to in the good old days of three-piece bathing +suits.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="A_CITY_NOTEBOOK" id="A_CITY_NOTEBOOK"></a>A CITY NOTEBOOK</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> +<h4>(<i>Philadelphia</i>)</h4> + +<p>It would be hard to find a more lovely spot +in the flush of a summer sunset than Wister +Woods. Old residents of the neighbourhood say +that the trees are not what they were fifteen and +twenty years ago; the chestnuts have died off; even +some of the tall tulip-poplars are a little bald at the +top, and one was recently felled by a gale. But still +that quiet plateau stands in a serene hush, flooded +with rich orange glow on a warm evening. The +hollyhocks in the back gardens of Rubicam Street +are scarlet and Swiss-cheese-coloured and black; and +looking across the railroad ravine one sees crypts +and aisles of green as though in the heart of some +cathedral of the great woods.</p> + +<p>Belfield Avenue, which bends through the valley +in a curve of warm thick yellow dust, will some day +be boulevarded into a spick-and-span highway for +motors. But now it lies little trafficked, and one +might prefer to have it so, for in the stillness of the +evening the birds are eloquent. The thrushes of +Wister Woods, which have been immortalized by +T. A. Daly in perhaps the loveliest poem ever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> +written in Philadelphia, flute and whistle their +tantalizing note, while the song sparrow echoes them +with his confident, challenging call. Down behind +the dusty sumac shrubbery lies the little blue-green +cottage said to have been used by Benjamin West +as a studio. In a meadow beside the road two +cows were grazing in the blue shadow of overhanging +woodland.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p254.jpg" width="500" height="237" alt="p254" title="p254" /></div> + +<p>Over the road leans a flat outcrop of stone, known +locally as “The Bum's Rock.” An antique philosopher +of those parts assured the wayfarer that it is +named for a romantic vagabond who perished there +by the explosion of a can of Bohemian goulash which +he was heating over a small fire of sticks; but one +doubts the tale. Our own conjecture is that it is +named for Jacob Boehm, the oldtime brewer of +Germantown, who predicted in his chronicles that +the world would come to an end in July, 1919. +From his point of view he was not so far wrong.</p> + +<p>Above Boehm's Rock, in a grassy level among the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> +trees, a merry little circle of young ladies was sitting +round a picnic supper. The twilight grew +darker and fireflies began to twinkle. In the steep +curve of the Cinder and Bloodshot (between Fisher's +and Wister stations) a cheerful train rumbled, with +its engine running backward just like a country +local. Its bright shaft of light wavered among the +tall tree trunks. One would not imagine that it was +less than six miles to the City Hall.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>A quarter to one <span class="smcap">a. m.</span>, and a hot, silent night. +As one walks up Chestnut Street a distant roaring is +heard, which rapidly grows louder. The sound has +a note of terrifying menace. Then, careering down +the almost deserted highway, comes a huge water-tank, +throbbing like an airplane. A creamy sheet +of water, shot out at high pressure, floods the street +on each side, dashing up on the pavements. A knot +of belated revellers in front of the Adelphia Hotel, +standing in mid-street, to discuss ways and means +of getting home, skip nimbly to one side, the ladies +lifting up their dresses with shrill squeaks of alarm +as the water splashes round them. Pedestrians +plodding quietly up the street cower fearfully against +the buildings, while a fine mist envelops them.</p> + +<p>After the tank comes, more leisurely, a squad of +brooms. The street is dripping, every sewer opening +clucks and gurgles with the falling water. There is +something unbelievably humorous in the way that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> +roaring Niagara of water dashes madly down the +silent street. There is a note of irony in it, too, for +the depressed enthusiasts who have been sitting all +evening in a restaurant over lemonade and ginger ale. +Perhaps the chauffeur is a prohibitionist gone mad.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>While eating half a dozen doughnuts in a Broad +Street lunchroom at one o'clock in the morning, we +mused happily about our friends all tucked away in +bed, sound asleep. There is one in particular on +whom we thought with serene pleasure. It was +charming to think of that delightful, argumentative, +contradictory, volatile person, his active mind stilled +in the admirable reticence of slumber. He, so endlessly +speculatory, so full of imaginative enthusiasms +and riotous intuitions and troubled zeals concerning +humanity, lost in a beneficent swoon of +unconsciousness! We could not just say why, but +we broke into chuckles to think of him lying there, +not denying any of our statements, absolutely and +positively saying nothing. To have one's friends +asleep now and then is very refreshing.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>Off Walnut Street, below Fifth, and just east of +the window where that perfectly lovely damsel sits +operating an adding machine—why is it, by the way, +that the girls who run adding machines are always so +marvellously fair? Is there some secret virtue in +the process of adding that makes one lovely? We<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> +feel sure that a subtracting engine would not have +that subtle beautifying effect—just below Fifth +Street, we started to say, there runs a little alley +called (we believe) De Silver Court. It is a sombre +little channel between high walls and barred windows, +but it is a retreat we recommend highly to +hay fever sufferers. For in one of the buildings +adjoining there seems to be a warehouse of some +company that makes an “aromatic disinfector.” +Wandering in there by chance, we stood delighted at +the sweet medicinal savour that was wafted on the air. +It had a most cheering effect upon our emunctory +woes, and we lingered so long, in a meditative and +healing ecstasy, that young women immured in the +basement of the aromatic warehouse began to peer +upward from the barred windows of their basement +and squeak with astonished and nervous mirth. We +blew a loud salute and moved away.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>We entered a lunchroom on Broad Street for our +favourite breakfast of coffee and a pair of crullers. +It was strangely early and only a few of the flat-arm +chairs were occupied. After dispatching the rations +we carefully filled our pipe. With us we had a copy +of an agreeable book, “The Calamities and Quarrels +of Authors.” It occurred to us that here, in the brisk +serenity of the morning, would be a charming opportunity +for a five-minute smoke and five pages of +reading before attacking the ardours and endurances<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> +of the day. Lovingly we applied the match to the +fuel. We began to read:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>Of all the sorrows in which the female character +may participate, there are few more affecting than +those of an authoress——</p></div> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 428px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p258.jpg" width="428" height="500" alt="p258" title="p258" /></div> + +<p>A stern, white-coated official came over to us and +tapped us on the shoulder.</p> + +<p>“There's a sign behind you,” he said.</p> + +<p>We looked, guiltily, and saw:</p> + +<center> +POSITIVELY<br /> +NO SMOKING<br /> +</center> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>The cocoateria on Eighth Street closes at one <span class="smcap">a. m.</span> +Between twelve-thirty and closing time it is full of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> +busy eaters, mostly the night shift from the Chestnut +Street newspaper offices and printing and engraving +firms in the neighbourhood. Ham and eggs blossom +merrily. The white-coated waiters move in swift, +stern circuit. Griddle cakes bake with amazing +swiftness toward the stroke of one. Little dishes of +baked beans stand hot and ready in the steam-chest. +The waiter punches your check as he brings your +frankfurters and coffee. He adds another perforation +when you get your ice cream. Then he comes +back and punches it again.</p> + +<p>“Here,” you cry, “let it alone and stop bullying it!”</p> + +<p>“Sorry, brother,” he says. “I forgot that peach +cream was fifteen cents.”</p> + +<p>One o'clock. They lock the door and turn out +the little gas jet where smokers light up. As the +tables empty the chairs are stacked up on top. And +if it is a clear warm evening the customers smoke +a final weed along the Chestnut Street doorsteps, +talking together in a cheery undertone.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>No man has ever started upon a new cheque-book +without a few sourly solemn thoughts.</p> + +<p>In the humble waters of finance wherein we paddle +we find that a book of fifty cheques lasts us about +four months, allowing for two or three duds when we +start to make out a foil payable to bearer (self) and +decide to renounce that worthy ambition and make it +out to the gas company instead.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span></p> + +<p>It occurs to us that if Bunyan had been writing +“Pilgrim's Progress” nowadays instead of making +Christian encounter lions in the path he would have +substituted gas meters, particularly the quarter-in-the-slot +kind that one finds in a seaside cottage. +However——</p> + +<p>Four months is quite a long time. It may be +weak of us, but we can never resist wondering as we +survey that flock of empty cheques just what adventures +our bank account is going to undergo during +that period, and whether our customary technique +of being aloof with the receiving teller and genial +and commentary with the paying ditto is the right +one. We always believe in keeping a paying teller +in a cheerful frame of mind. We would never admit +to him that we think it is going to rain. We say, +rather, “Well, it may blow over,” and try not to +surmise how many hundreds there are in the pile at +his elbow. Probably we think the explanation for +the really bizarre architecture of our bank is to keep +depositors' attention from the money. Unquestionably +Walt Whitman's tomb over in Harleigh—Walt's +vault—was copied from our bank.</p> + +<p>The cheques in our book are blue. We have always +regretted this. If we had known it beforehand +perhaps we would have inflicted our problems upon +another bank. Because there are so many more interesting +colours for cheques, tints upon which the ink +shows up in a more imposing manner. A pale pink<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> +or cream-coloured cheque for $2.74 looks much more +exciting than a blue cheque for $25. We have known +gray, pink, white, brown, green, and salmon-coloured +cheques. A friend of ours once showed us one that +was a bright orange, but refused to let us handle it. +But yellow is the colour that appeals to us most +strongly. When we were very young and away from +home our monthly allowance, the amount of which +we shall not state, but it cost us less effort than any +money we ever received since, came to us by way of +pale primrose-coloured cheques. For, after all, there +are no cheques like those one used to get from one's +father. We hope the Urchin will think so some day.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>We like to pay homage to the true artist in all +lines. At the corner of Market and Marshall +streets—between Sixth and Seventh—the collar-clasp +orator has his rostrum, and it seems to us that +his method of harangue has the quality of genuine +art. He does not bawl or try to terrify or bully his +audience into purchase as do the auctioneers of the +“pawnbrokers' outlets.” How gently, how winningly, +how sweetly he pleads the merits of his little +collar clasp! And there is shrewd imagination in his +attention-catching device, which is a small boy +dressed in black, wearing a white hood of cheesecloth +that hides his face. This peculiar silent figure, +with a touch of mystery about it, serves to keep the +crowd wondering until the oration begins.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span></p> + +<div class="figleft" style="width: 355px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p262.jpg" width="355" height="400" alt="p262" title="p262" /></div> + +<p>With a smile, with infinite ingratiation and gentle +persuasion, our friend exhibits the merits of his +device which does away with the traditional collar-button. +His art is to make the collar-button seem a +piteous, almost a tragic +thing. His eyes swim +with unshed tears as he describes +the discomfort of +the man whose collar, +fastened by the customary +button, cannot be given +greater freedom on a hot, +muggy day. He shows, by +exhibition on his own person, +the exquisite relief afforded by the adjustable collar +clasp. “When the day grows cool,” he says, “when +you begin to enjoy yourself and want your collar +tighter, you just loosen the clasp, slide the tabs closer +together, and there you are. And no picking at +your tie to get the knot undone. Now, how many +of you men have spoiled an expensive tie by picking +at it? Your fingers come in contact with the fibres +of the silk and the first thing you know the tie is +soiled. This little clasp”—and he casts a beam of +affection upon it—“saves your tie, it saves your +collar, and it saves your patience.” A note of +yearning pathos comes into his agreeable voice, and +he holds out a handful of the old-fashioned collar-buttons. +“You men are wearing the same buttons<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> +your great-grandfathers wore. Don't you want to +get out of collar slavery? <i>Don't</i> you want to quit +working your face all out of shape struggling with a +collar-button? Now as this is a manufacturing +demonstration——”</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>On a warm evening nothing is more pleasant than +a ride on the front platform of the Market Street L, +with the front door open. As the train leaves Sixty-ninth +Street it dips down the Millbourne bend and +the cool, damp smell of the Cobb's Creek meadows +gushes through the car. Then the track straightens +out for a long run toward the City Hall. Roaring +over the tree tops, with the lights of movies and +shops glowing up from below, a warm typhoon +makes one lean against it to keep one's footing. +The airy stations are lined by girls in light summer +dresses, attended by their swains. The groan of the +wheels underfoot causes a curious tickling in the +soles of the feet as one stands on the steel platform.</p> + +<p>This groan rises to a shrill scream as the train gathers +speed between stations, gradually diminishing +to a reluctant grumble as the cars come to a stop. +In the distance, in a peacock-blue sky, the double +gleam of the City Hall tower shines against the +night. Down on the left is the hiss and clang of +West Philadelphia station, with the long, dim, amber +glow of the platform and belated commuters pacing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> +about. Then the smoky dive across the Schuylkill +and the bellow of the subway.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>From time to time humanity is forced to revise its +customary notions in the interests of truth. This is +always painful.</p> + +<p>It is an old fetich that the week-end in summer is a +time for riotous enjoyment, of goodly cheer and +mirthful solace. A careful examination of human +beings during this hebdomadal period of carnival +leads us to question the doctrine.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p264.jpg" width="500" height="413" alt="p264" title="p264" /></div> + +<p>When we watch the horrors of discomfort and +vexation endured by simple-hearted citizens in +pursuit of a light-hearted Saturday and Sunday, we +often wonder how it is that humanity will so gleefully +inflict upon itself sufferings which, if they were +imposed by some taskmaster, would be called +atrocious.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span></p> + +<p>We observe, for instance, women and children +standing sweltering in the aisles of trains during a +two-hour run to the seashore. We observe the +number of drownings, motor accidents, murders, and +suicides that take place during the Saturday to +Monday period. We observe families loaded down +with small children, who might have been happy and +reasonably cool at home, struggling desperately to +get away for a day in the country, rising at 5 <span class="smcap">a. m.</span>, +standing in line at the station, fanning themselves +with blasphemy, and weary before they start. We +observe them chased home by thunderstorms or +colic, dazed and blistered with sunburn, or groaning +with a surfeit of ice cream cones.</p> + +<p>It is a lamentable fact (and the truth is almost always +lamentable, and hotly denied) that for the +hard-working majority the week-end is a curse +rather than a blessing. The saddest fact in human +annals is that most people are never so happy as +when they are hard at work. The time may come +when criminals will be condemned, not to the chair, +but to twenty successive week-ends spent standing +in the aisles of crowded excursion trains.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p266.jpg" width="500" height="260" alt="p266" title="p266" /></div> + +<p>Strolling downtown to a well-known home of fish +dinners, it is appetizing to pass along the curve of +Dock Street in the coolness of the evening. The +clean, lively odours of vegetables and fruit are strong +on the air. Under the broad awnings of the com<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span>mission +merchants and produce dealers the stock is +piled up in neat and engaging piles ready to be +carted away at dawn. Under the glow of pale arcs +and gas lamps the colours of the scene are vivid. +Great baskets of eggplant shine like huge grapes, a +polished port wine colour; green and scarlet peppers +catch points of light; a flat pinkish colour gleams on +carrots. Each species seems to have an ordered +pattern of its own. Potatoes are ranged in a pyramid; +watermelons in long rows; white and yellow +onions are heaped in sacks. The sweet musk of +cantaloupes is the scent that overbreathes all others. +Then, down nearer to the waterfront, comes the +strong, damp fishy whiff of oysters. To stroll +among these gleaming piles of victuals, to watch the +various colours where the lamps pour a pale silver and +yellow on cairns and pyramids of vegetables, is to +gather a lusty appetite and attack the first oyster +stew of the season with a stout heart.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span></p> + +<p>It being a very humid day, we stopped to compliment +the curly-headed sandwich man at Ninth +and Market on his décolleté corsage, which he +wears in the Walt Whitman manner. “Wish we +could get away with it the way you do,” we said, +admiringly. He looked at us with the patience of +one inured to bourgeois comment. “It's got to be +tried,” said he, “like everything else.”</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<p>We stopped by the Weather Man's little illuminated +booth at Ninth and Chestnut about +10 o'clock in the evening. We were scrutinizing his +pretty coloured pictures, wondering how soon the +rain would determine, when a slender young man +appeared out of the gloom, said “I'm sorry to have +to do this,” switched off the light, and pulled down +the rolling front of the booth. It was the Weather +Man himself.</p> + +<p>We were greatly elated to meet this mythical sage +and walked down the street a little way with him. +In order to cheer him up, we complimented him on +the artistic charm of his little booth, with its glow of +golden light shining on the coloured map and the +bright loops and curves of crayon. We told him +how almost at any time in the evening groups of +people can be seen admiring his stall, but his +sensitive heart was gloomy.</p> + +<p>“Most of them don't understand it,” he said, +morosely. “The women are the worst. I've gone<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> +there in the evening and found them studying the +map eagerly. Hopefully, I would creep up behind +to hear their comments. One will say, 'Yes, that's +where my husband came from,' or 'I spent last summer +over there,' pointing to some place on the map. +They seem to think it's put there for them to study +geography.”</p> + +<p>We tried to sympathize with the broken-hearted +scientist, but his spirit had been crushed by a long +series of woes.</p> + +<p>“The other evening,” said he, “I saw a couple of +girls gazing at the map, and they looked so intelligent +I really was charmed. Apparently they were +discussing an area of low pressure that was moving +down from the Great Lakes, and I lent an ear. Imagine +my chagrin when one of them said: 'You see +the colour of that chalk line? I'm going to make my +next knitted vestee just like that.' And the other +one said: 'I think the whole colour scheme is adorable. +I'm going to use it as a pattern for my new +camouflage bathing-suit.'</p> + +<p>“Thank goodness,” cried the miserable Weather +Man: “I have another map like that down at the +Bourse, and the brokers really give it some intelligent +attention.”</p> + +<p>We went on our way sadly, thinking how many +sorrows there are in the world. It is grievous to +think of the poor Weather Man, lurking with beating +pulses in the neighbourhood of Ninth and Chestnut<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> +in the hope of finding someone who understands his +painstaking display. The next time you are standing +in front of his booth do say something about +the Oceanic High in the South Atlantic or the +dangerous Aleutian Low or the anticyclonic condition +prevailing in the Alleghenies. He might overhear +you, and it would do his mournful heart good.</p> + +<hr style='width: 35%;' /> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p269.jpg" width="500" height="291" alt="p269" title="p269" /></div> + +<p>It was eight o'clock, a cool drizzling night. +Chestnut Street was gray with a dull, pearly, +opaque twilight. In the little portico east of Independence +Hall the gas lamp under the ceiling +cast a soft pink glow on the brick columns.</p> + +<p>Independence Square was a sea of tremulous, +dripping boughs. The quaint heptahedral lamps +threw splashed shimmers of topaz colour across the +laky pavement. “Golden lamps in a green night,” +as Marvell says, twinkled through the stir and moisture +of the evening.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ON_GOING_TO_BED" id="ON_GOING_TO_BED"></a>ON GOING TO BED</h2> +<span class="totoc"><a href="#toc">Top</a></span> + +<p>One of the characters in “The Moon and Sixpence” +remarked that he had faithfully lived +up to the old precept about doing every day two +things you heartily dislike; for, said he, every day +he had got up and he had gone to bed.</p> + +<p>It is a sad thing that as soon as the hands of the +clock have turned ten the shadow of going to bed +begins to creep over the evening. We have never +heard bedtime spoken of with any enthusiasm. +One after another we have seen a gathering disperse, +each person saying (with an air of solemn resignation): +“Well, I guess I'll go to bed.” But there was +no hilarity about it. It is really rather touching +how they cling to the departing skirts of the day that +is vanishing under the spinning shadow of night.</p> + +<p>This is odd, we repeat, for sleep is highly popular +among human beings. The reluctance to go to +one's couch is not at all a reluctance to slumber, for +almost all of us will doze happily in an armchair or on +a sofa, or even festooned on the floor with a couple of +cushions. But the actual and formal yielding to +sheets and blankets is to be postponed to the last +possible moment.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span></p> + +<p>The devil of drowsiness is at his most potent, we +find, about 10:30 <span class="smcap">p. m.</span> At this period the human +carcass seems to consider that it has finished its +cycle, which began with so much courage nearly +sixteen hours before. It begins to slack and the +mind halts on a dead centre every now and then, refusing +to complete the revolution. Now there are +those who hold that this is certainly the seemly and +appointed time to go to bed and they do so as a +matter of routine. These are, commonly, the +happier creatures, for they take the tide of sleep at +the flood and are borne calmly and with gracious +gentleness out to great waters of nothingness. They +push off from the wharf on a tranquil current and +nothing more is to be seen or heard of these voyagers +until they reappear at the breakfast table, digging +lustily into their grape fruit.</p> + +<p>These people are happy, aye, in a brutish and +sedentary fashion, but they miss the admirable +adventures of those more embittered wrestlers who +will not give in without a struggle. These latter +suffer severe pangs between 10:30 and about 11:15 +while they grapple with their fading faculties and +seek to reëstablish the will on its tottering throne. +This requires courage stout, valour unbending. +Once you yield, be it ever so little, to the tempter, +you are lost. And here our poor barren clay plays us +false, undermining the intellect with many a trick +and wile. “I will sit down for a season in that com<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span>fortable +chair,” the creature says to himself, “and +read this sprightly novel. That will ease my mind +and put me in humour for a continuance of lively +thinking.” And the end of that man is a steady +nasal buzz from the bottom of the chair where he +has collapsed, an unsightly object and a disgrace to +humanity. This also means a big bill from the +electric light company at the end of the month. In +many such ways will his corpus bewray him, leading +him by plausible self-deceptions into a pitfall of +sleep, whence he is aroused about 3 <span class="smcap">a. m.</span> when the +planet turns over on the other side. Only by stiff +perseverance and rigid avoidance of easy chairs may +the critical hour between 10:30 and 11:30 be safely +passed. Tobacco, a self-brewed pot of tea, and a +browsing along bookshelves (remain standing and do +not sit down with your book) are helps in this time of +struggle. Even so, there are some happily drowsy +souls who can never cross these shallows alone without +grounding on the Lotus Reefs. Our friend +J—— D—— K——, magnificent creature, was +(when we lived with him) so potently hypnoidal that, +even erect and determined as his bookcase and +urgently bent upon Brann's <i>Iconoclast</i> or some other +literary irritant, sleep would seep through his pores +and he would fall with a crash, lying there in unconscious +bliss until someone came in and prodded +him up, reeling and ashamed.</p> + +<p>But, as we started to say, those who survive this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> +drastic weeding out which Night imposes upon her +wooers—so as to cull and choose only the truly meritorious +lovers—experience supreme delights which +are unknown to their snoring fellows. When the +struggle with somnolence has been fought out and +won, when the world is all-covering darkness and +close-pressing silence, when the tobacco suddenly +takes on fresh vigour and fragrance and the books lie +strewn about the table, then it seems as though all +the rubbish and floating matter of the day's thoughts +have poured away and only the bright, clear, and +swift current of the mind itself remains, flowing +happily and without impediment. This perfection +of existence is not to be reached very often; but +when properly approached it may be won. It is a +different mind that one uncovers then, a spirit which +is lucid and hopeful, to which (for a few serene hours) +time exists not. The friable resolutions of the day +are brought out again and recemented and chiselled +anew. Surprising schemes are started and carried +through to happy conclusion, lifetimes of amazement +are lived in a few passing ticks. There is one +who at such moments resolves, with complete +sincerity, to start at one end of the top shelf and read +again all the books in his library, intending this +time really to extract their true marrow. He takes +a clean sheet of paper and sets down memoranda of +all the people he intends to write to, and all the +plumbers and what not that he will call up the next<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> +day. And the next time this happy seizure attacks +him he will go through the same gestures again without +surprise and without the slightest mortification. +And then, having lived a generation of good works +since midnight struck, he summons all his resolution +and goes to bed.</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p274.jpg" width="500" height="395" alt="p274" title="p274" /></div> +<h4>The End</h4> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 150px;"> +<img src="images/illo_p275.jpg" width="150" height="149" alt="p275" title="p275" /></div> +<center>THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS<br /> +GARDEN CITY, N. 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