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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/37105-8.txt b/37105-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..23a8bce --- /dev/null +++ b/37105-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4826 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Hints to Pilgrims, by Charles Stephen Brooks + +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 www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Hints to Pilgrims + +Author: Charles Stephen Brooks + +Illustrator: Florence Minard + +Release Date: August 16, 2011 [EBook #37105] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HINTS TO PILGRIMS *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images available at The Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + +Other Books of Essays by the Same Author: + +"Journeys to Bagdad" +_Fifth printing_. + +"There's Pippins and Cheese to Come" +_Third printing_. + +"Chimney-Pot Papers" +_Second printing_. + +Also a novel, published by The Century Co., +New York City, +"Luca Sarto" +_Second printing_. + + + + +Hints to Pilgrims + + + + +HINTS +TO +PILGRIMS + +BY + +CHARLES S. BROOKS + +With Pictures by +Florence Minard + +[Illustration] + +NEW HAVEN: +YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS +LONDON:HUMPHREY MILFORD +OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS +MDCCCCXXI + +Copyright, 1921, by +Yale University Press. + +Publisher's Note: + +The Yale University Press makes grateful +acknowledgment to the Editors of _The +Century Magazine_, _The Yale Review_, _The +Atlantic Monthly_ and _The Literary Review_ +for permission to include in the present +volume essays of which they were the +original publishers. + + + + +To Edward B. Greene, +as witness of our long friendship and my high regard. + + + + +Contents. + + + I. Hints to Pilgrims 11 + II. I Plan a Vacation 27 + III. At a Toy-Shop Window 42 + IV. Sic Transit-- 55 + V. The Posture of Authors 59 + VI. After-Dinner Pleasantries 77 + VII. Little Candles 86 + VIII. A Visit to a Poet 92 + IX. Autumn Days 103 + X. On Finding a Plot 107 + XI. Circus Days 122 + XII. In Praise of a Lawn-Mower 133 + XIII. On Dropping Off to Sleep 138 + XIV. Who Was Jeremy? 147 + XV. A Chapter for Children 153 + XVI. The Crowded Curb 171 + XVII. A Corner for Echoes 178 + + + + +Hints to Pilgrims. + + +When a man's thoughts in older time were set on pilgrimage, his +neighbors came forward with suggestions. One of them saw that his boots +were freshly tapped. Another was careful that his hose were darned with +honest wool--an oldish aunt, no doubt, with beeswax and thimble and +glasses forward on her nose. A third sly creature fetched in an +embroidered wallet to hold an extra shift, and hinted in return for a +true nail from the holy cross. If he were a bachelor, a tender garter +was offered him by a lonely maiden of the village, and was acknowledged +beneath the moon. But the older folk who had made the pilgrimage took +the settle and fell to argument on the merit of the inns. They scrawled +maps for his guidance on the hearth, and told him the sights that must +not be missed. Here he must veer off for a holy well. Here he must +beware a treacherous bog. Here he must ascend a steeple for the view. +They cautioned him to keep upon the highway. Was it not Christian, they +urged, who was lost in By-path Meadow? Again they talked of thieves and +warned him to lay a chair against the door. Then a honey syllabub was +drunk in clinking cups, and they made a night of it. + +Or perhaps our pilgrim belonged to a guild which--by an agreeable +precedent--voted that its members walk with him to the city's gate and +present from each a half-penny to support him on the journey. The greasy +pockets yield their treasure. He rattles on both sides with generous +copper. Here, also, is a salve for man and beast--a receipt for a +fever-draught. We may fancy now the pilgrim's mule plowing up the lazy +dust at the turn of the road as he waves his last farewell. His thoughts +already have leaped the valley to the misty country beyond the hills. + +And now above his dusty road the sun climbs the exultant noon. It whips +its flaming chariot to the west. On the rim of twilight, like a traveler +who departs, it throws a golden offering to the world. + +But there are pilgrims in these later days, also,--strangers to our own +fair city, script in wallet and staff in hand,--who come to place their +heavy tribute on our shrine. And to them I offer these few suggestions. + +The double stars of importance--as in Baedeker--mark our restaurants and +theatres. Dear pilgrim, put money in thy purse! Persuade your guild to +advance you to a penny! They mark the bridges, the shipping, the sharp +canyons of the lower city, the parks--limousines where silk and lace +play nurse to lap dogs--Bufo on an airing, the precious spitz upon a +scarlet cushion. They mark the parade of wealth, the shops and glitter +of Fifth Avenue on a winter afternoon. "If this is Fifth Avenue,"--as I +heard a dazzled stranger comment lately on a bus-top,--"my God! what +must First Avenue be like!" + +And then there are the electric signs--the mammoth kitten rolling its +ball of silk, ginger-ale that forever issues from a bottle, a fiery +motor with a flame of dust, the Wrigley triplets correcting their +sluggish livers by exercise alongside the Astor roof. Surely letters +despatched home to Kalamazoo deal excitedly with these flashing +portents. And of the railroad stations and the Woolworth Tower with its +gothic pinnacles questing into heaven, what pilgrim words are adequate! +Here, certainly, Kalamazoo is baffled and must halt and bite its pen. + +Nor can the hotels be described--toppling structures that run up to +thirty stories--at night a clatter in the basement and a clatter on the +roof--sons of Belial and rich folk from Akron who are spending the +profit on a few thousand hot-water bottles and inner tubes--what mad +pursuit! what pipes and timbrels! what wild ecstasy! Do we set a noisy +bard upon our towers in the hope that our merriment will sound to Mars? +Do we persuade them that jazz is the music of the spheres? But at +morning in these hotels are thirty stories of snoring bipeds--exhausted +trousers across the bed-post, frocks that have been rumpled in the +hubbub--tier on tier of bipeds, with sleepy curtains drawn against the +light. Boniface, in the olden time, sunning himself beneath his bush and +swinging dragon, watching the dust for travelers, how would he be amazed +at the advancement of the inn! Dear pilgrim, you must sag and clink for +entrance to the temples of our joyous gods. Put money in thy purse and +wire ahead! + +On these streets there is a roar of traffic that Babylon never heard. +Nineveh in its golden age could have packed itself with all its splendid +luggage in a single building. Athens could have mustered in a street. +Our block-parties that are now the fashion--neighborhood affairs in +fancy costumes, with a hot trombone, and banners stretched from house to +house--produce as great an uproar as ever arose upon the Acropolis. And +lately, when our troops returned from overseas and marched beneath our +plaster arches, Rome itself could not have matched the largeness of our +triumph. Here, also, men have climbed up to walls and battlements--but +to what far dizzier heights!--to towers and windows, and to +chimney-tops, to see great Pompey pass the streets. + +And by what contrast shall we measure our tall buildings? Otus and +Ephialtes, who contracted once to pile Pelion on top of Ossa, were +evidently builders who touched only the larger jobs. They did not stoop +to a cottage or a bungalow, but figured entirely on such things as arks +and the towers of Jericho. When old Cheops sickened, it is said, and +thought of death, they offered a bid upon his pyramid. Noah, if he was +indeed their customer, as seems likely, must have fretted them as their +work went forward. Whenever a cloud appeared in the rainy east he nagged +them for better speed. He prowled around on Sunday mornings with his +cubit measure to detect any shortness in the beam. Or he looked for +knot-holes in the gopher wood. But Otus and Ephialtes could not, with +all their sweating workmen, have fetched enough stones for even the +foundations of one of our loftier structures. + +The Tower of Babel, if set opposite Wall Street, would squat as low as +Trinity: for its top, when confusion broke off the work, had advanced +scarcely more than seven stories from the pavement. My own windows, +dwarfed by my surroundings, look down from as great a height. Indeed, I +fancy that if the famous tower were my neighbor to the rear--on Ninth +Street, just off the L--its whiskered masons on the upmost platform +could have scraped acquaintance with our cook. They could have gossiped +at the noon hour from gutter to sink, and eaten the crullers that the +kind creature tossed across. Our whistling grocery-man would have found +a rival. And yet the good folk of the older Testament, ignorant of our +accomplishment to come, were in amazement at the tower, and strangers +came in from Gilead and Beersheba. Trippers, as it were, upon a +holiday--staff in hand and pomegranates in a papyrus bag--locusts and +wild honey, or manna to sustain them in the wilderness on their +return--trippers, I repeat, cocked back their heads, and they counted +the rows of windows to the top and went off to their far land marveling. + +The Bankers Trust Building culminates in a pyramid. Where this narrows +to a point there issues a streamer of smoke. I am told that inside this +pyramid, at a dizzy height above the street, there is a storage room +for gold. Is it too fanciful to think that inside, upon this unsunned +heap of metal, there is concealed an altar of Mammon with priests to +feed the fire, and that this smoke, rising in the lazy air, is sweet in +the nostrils of the greedy god? + +There is what seems to be a chapel on the roof of the Bush Terminal. +Gothic decoration marks our buildings--the pointed arch, mullions and +gargoyles. There are few nowadays to listen to the preaching of the +church, but its symbol is at least a pretty ornament on our commercial +towers. + +Nor in the general muster of our sights must I forget the magic view +from across the river, in the end of a winter afternoon, when the lower +city is still lighted. The clustered windows shine as if a larger +constellation of stars had met in thick convention. But it is to the eye +of one who travels in the evening mist from Staten Island that towers of +finest gossamer arise. They are built to furnish a fantastic dream. The +architect of the summer clouds has tried here his finer hand. + +It was only lately when our ferry-boat came around the point of +Governor's Island, that I noticed how sharply the chasm of Broadway cuts +the city. It was the twilight of a winter's day. A rack of sullen clouds +lay across the sky as if they met for mischief, and the water was black +with wind. In the threatening obscurity the whole island seemed a +mightier House of Usher, intricate of many buildings, cleft by Broadway +in its middle, and ready to fall prostrate into the dark waters of the +tarn. But until the gathering tempest rises and an evil moon peers +through the crevice, as in the story, we must judge the city to be safe. + +Northward are nests of streets, thick with children. One might think +that the old woman who lived in a shoe dwelt hard by, with all of her +married sisters roundabout. Children scurry under foot, oblivious of +contact. They shoot their marbles between our feet, and we are the +moving hazard of their score. They chalk their games upon the pavement. +Baseball is played, long and thin, between the gutters. Peddlers' carts +line the curb--carrots, shoes and small hardware--and there is shrill +chaffering all the day. Here are dim restaurants, with truant smells for +their advertisement. In one of these I was served unleavened bread. Folk +from Damascus would have felt at home, and yet the shadow of the +Woolworth Tower was across the roof. The loaf was rolled thin, like a +chair-pad that a monstrous fat man habitually sits upon. Indeed, I +looked sharply at my ample waiter on the chance that it was he who had +taken his ease upon my bread. If Kalamazoo would tire for a night of the +Beauty Chorus and the Wrigley triplets, and would walk these streets of +foreign population, how amazing would be its letters home! + +Our Greenwich Village, also, has its sights. Time was when we were +really a village beyond the city. Even more remotely there were farms +upon us and comfortable burghers jogged up from town to find the peace +of country. There was once a swamp where Washington Square now is, and, +quite lately, masons in demolishing a foundation struck into a conduit +of running water that still drains our pleasant park. When Broadway was +a muddy post-road, stretching for a weary week to Albany, ducks quacked +about us and were shot with blunderbuss. Yes, and they were doubtless +roasted, with apple-sauce upon the side. And then a hundred years went +by, and the breathless city jumped to the north and left us a village in +its midst. + +It really is a village. The grocer gives you credit without question. +Further north, where fashion shops, he would inspect you up and down +with a cruel eye and ask a reference. He would linger on any patch or +shiny spot to trip your credit. But here he wets his pencil and writes +down the order without question. His friendly cat rubs against your +bundles on the counter. The shoemaker inquires how your tapped soles are +wearing. The bootblack, without lifting his eyes, knows you by the knots +in your shoe-strings. I fear he beats his wife, for he has a great red +nose which even prohibition has failed to cool. The little woman at the +corner offers you the _Times_ before you speak. The cigar man tosses you +a package of Camels as you enter. Even the four-corners beyond +Berea--unknown, remote, quite off the general travel--could hardly be +more familiar with the preference of its oldest citizen. We need only a +pump, and a pig and chickens in the street. + +Our gossip is smaller than is found in cities. If we had yards and +gardens we would talk across the fence on Monday like any village, with +clothes-pins in our mouths, and pass our ailments down the street. + +But we are crowded close, wall to wall. I see my neighbor cooking across +the street. Each morning she jolts her dust-mop out of the window. I see +shadows on a curtain as a family sits before the fire. A novelist is +down below. By the frenzy of his fingers on the typewriter it must be a +tale of great excitement. He never pauses or looks at the ceiling for a +plot. At night he reads his pages to his patient wife, when they +together have cleared away the dishes. In another window a girl lies +abed each morning. Exactly at 7.45, after a few minutes of sleepy +stretching, I see her slim legs come from the coverlet. Once she caught +my eye. She stuck out her tongue. Your stockings, my dear, hang across +the radiator. + +We have odd characters, too, known to everybody, just as small towns +have, who, in country circumstance, would whittle on the bench outside +the village store. The father of a famous poet, but himself unknown +except hereabouts, has his chair in the corner of a certain restaurant, +and he offers wisdom and reminiscence to a coterie. He is our Johnson at +the Mitre. Old M----, who lives in the Alley in what was once a +hayloft--now a studio,--is known from Fourth to Twelfth Street for his +Indian curry and his knowledge of the older poets. It is his pleasant +custom to drop in on his friends from time to time and cook their +dinner. He tosses you an ancient sonnet as he stirs the pot, or he beats +time with his iron spoon to a melody of the Pathétique. He knows +Shakespeare to a comma, and discourses so agreeably that the Madison +Square clock fairly races up to midnight. Every morning, it is said--but +I doubt the truth of this, for a gossiping lady told me--every morning +until the general drouth set in, he issued from the Alley for a toddy to +sustain his seventy years. Sometimes, she says, old M---- went without +tie or collar on these quick excursions, yet with the manners of the +Empire and a sweeping bow, if he met any lady of his acquaintance. + +A famous lecturer in a fur collar sweeps by me often, with his eyes on +the poetic stars. As he takes the air this sunny morning he thinks of +new paradoxes to startle the ladies at his matinée. How they love to be +shocked by his wicked speech! He is such a daring, handsome fellow--so +like a god of ancient Greece! And of course most of us know T----, who +gives a yearly dinner at an Assyrian restaurant--sixty cents a plate, +with a near-beer extra from a saloon across the way. Any guest may bring +a friend, but he must give ample warning in order that the table may be +stretched. + +The chief poet of our village wears a corduroy suit and goes without his +hat, even in winter. If a comedy of his happens to be playing at a +little theatre, he himself rings a bell in his favorite restaurant and +makes the announcement in true Elizabethan fashion. "Know ye, one and +all, there is a conceited comedy this night--" His hair is always +tousled. But, as its confusion continues from March into the quieter +months, the disarrangement springs not so much from the outer tempest as +from the poetic storms inside. + +Then we have a kind of Peter Pan grown to shiny middle life, who makes +ukuleles for a living. On any night of special celebration he is +prevailed upon to mount a table and sing one of his own songs to this +accompaniment. These songs tell what a merry, wicked crew we are. He +sings of the artists' balls that ape the Bohemia of Paris, of our +genius, our unrestraint, our scorn of all convention. What is morality +but a suit to be discarded when it is old? What is life, he sings, but a +mad jester with tinkling bells? Youth is brief, and when dead we're +buried deep. So let's romp and drink and kiss. It is a pagan song that +has lasted through the centuries. If it happens that any folk are down +from the uptown hotels, Peter Pan consents to sell a ukulele between his +encores. Here, my dear pilgrims, is an entertainment to be squeezed +between Ziegfeld's and the Winter Garden. + +You are welcome at all of our restaurants--our Samovars, the Pig and +Whistle, the Three Steps Down (a crowded room, where you spill your soup +as you carry it to a table, but a cheap, honest place in which to eat), +the Green Witch, the Simple Simon. The food is good at all of these +places. Grope your way into a basement--wherever one of our fantastic +signs hangs out--or climb broken stairs into a dusty garret--over a +contractor's storage of old lumber and bath-tubs--over the litter of the +roofs--and you will find artistic folk with flowing ties, spreading +their elbows at bare tables with unkept, dripping candles. + +Here is youth that is blown hither from distant villages--youth that was +misunderstood at home--youth that looks from its poor valley to the +heights and follows a flame across the darkness--youth whose eyes are a +window on the stars. Here also, alas, are slim white moths about a +candle. And here wrinkled children play at life and art. + +Here are radicals who plot the reformation of the world. They hope it +may come by peaceful means, but if necessary will welcome revolution and +machine-guns. They demand free speech, but put to silence any utterance +less red than their own. + +Here are seething sonneteers, playwrights bulging with rejected +manuscript, young women with bobbed hair and with cigarettes lolling +limply at their mouths. For a cigarette, I have observed, that hangs +loosely from the teeth shows an artistic temperament, just as in +business circles a cigar that is tilted up until it warms the nose marks +a sharp commercial nature. + +But business counts for little with us. Recently, to make a purchase, I +ventured of an evening into one of our many small shops of fancy wares. +Judge my embarrassment to see that the salesman was entertaining a young +lady on his knee. I was too far inside to retreat. Presently the +salesman shifted the lady to his other knee and, brushing a lock of her +hair off his nose, asked me what I wanted. But I was unwilling to +disturb his hospitality. I begged him not to lay down his pleasant +burden, but rather to neglect my presence. He thanked me for my +courtesy, and made his guest comfortable once more while I fumbled along +the shelves. By good luck the price was marked upon my purchase. I laid +down the exact change and tip-toed out. + +The peddlers of our village, our street musicians, our apple men, belong +to us. They may wander now and then to the outside world for a silver +tribute, yet they smile at us on their return as at their truest +friends. Ice creaks up the street in a little cart and trickles at the +cracks. Rags and bottles go by with a familiar, jangling bell. Scissors +grinders have a bell, also, with a flat, tinny sound, like a cow that +forever jerks its head with flies. But it was only the other day that +two fellows went by selling brooms. These were interlopers from a +noisier district, and they raised up such a clamor that one would have +thought that the Armistice had been signed again. The clatter was so +unusual--our own merchants are of quieter voice--that a dozen of us +thrust our heads from our windows. Perhaps another German government had +fallen. The novelist below me put out his shaggy beard. The girl with +the slim legs was craned out of the sill with excitement. My pretty +neighbor below, who is immaculate when I meet her on the stairs, was in +her mob-cap. + +My dear pilgrim from the West, with your ample house and woodshed, your +yard with its croquet set and hammock between the wash-poles, you have +no notion how we are crowded on the island. Laundry tubs are concealed +beneath kitchen tables. Boxes for clothes and linen are ambushed under +our beds. Any burglar hiding there would have to snuggle among the moth +balls. Sitting-room tables are swept of books for dinner. Bookcases are +desks. Desks are beds. Beds are couches. Couches are--bless you! all the +furniture is at masquerade. Kitchen chairs turn upside down and become +step-ladders. If anything does not serve at least two uses it is a +slacker. Beds tumble out of closets. Fire escapes are nurseries. A patch +of roof is a pleasant garden. A bathroom becomes a kitchen, with a lid +upon the tub for groceries, and the milk cooling below with the cold +faucet drawn. + +A room's use changes with the clock. That girl who lives opposite, when +she is dressed in the morning, puts a Bagdad stripe across her couch. +She punches a row of colored pillows against the wall. Her bedroom is +now ready for callers. It was only the other day that I read of a new +invention by which a single room becomes four rooms simply by pressing a +button. This is the manner of the magic. In a corner, let us say, of a +rectangular room there is set into the floor a turntable ten feet +across. On this are built four compartments, shaped like pieces of pie. +In one of these is placed a bath-tub and stand, in another a folding-bed +and wardrobe, in a third is a kitchen range and cupboard, and in the +fourth a bookcase and piano. Must I explain the mystery? On rising you +fold away your bed and spin the circle for your tub. And then in turn +your stove appears. At last, when you have whirled your dishes to +retirement, the piano comes in sight. It is as easy as spinning the +caster for the oil and vinegar. A whirling Susan on the supper table is +not more nimble. With this device it is estimated that the population of +our snug island can be quadruplicated, and that landlords can double +their rents with untroubled conscience. Or, by swinging a fifth piece of +pie out of the window, a sleeping-porch could be added. When the morning +alarm goes off you have only to spin the disk and dress in comfort +beside the radiator. Or you could--but possibilities are countless. + +Tom Paine died on Grove Street. O. Henry lived on Irving Place and ate +at Allaire's on Third Avenue. The Aquarium was once a fort on an island +in the river. Later Lafayette was welcomed there. And Jenny Lind sang +there. John Masefield swept out a saloon, it's said, on Sixth Avenue +near the Jefferson Market, and, for all I know, his very broom may be +still standing behind the door. The Bowery was once a post-road up +toward Boston. In the stream that flowed down Maiden Lane, Dutch girls +did the family washing. In William Street, not long ago, they were +tearing down the house in which Alexander Hamilton lived. These are +facts at random. + +But Captain Kidd lived at 119 Pearl Street. Dear me, I had thought that +he was a creature of a nursery book--one of the pirates whom Sinbad +fought. And here on Pearl Street, in our own city, he was arrested and +taken to hang in chains in London. A restaurant now stands at 119. A +bucket of oyster shells is at the door, and, inside, a clatter of hungry +spoons. + +But the crowd thickens on these narrow streets. Work is done for the day +and tired folk hurry home. Crowds flow into the subway entrances. The +streets are flushed, as it were, with people, and the flood drains to +the rushing sewers. Now the lights go out one by one. The great +buildings, that glistened but a moment since at every window, are now +dark cliffs above us in the wintry mist. + +It is time, dear pilgrim, to seek your hotel or favorite cabaret. + +The Wrigley triplets once more correct by exercise their sluggish +livers. The kitten rolls its ball of fiery silk. Times Square flashes +with entertainment. It stretches its glittering web across the night. + +Dear pilgrim, a last important word! Put money in thy purse! + + + + +I Plan a Vacation. + + +It is my hope, when the snow is off the ground and the ocean has been +tamed by breezes from the south, to cross to England. Already I fancy +myself seated in the pleasant office of the steamship agent, listening +to his gossip of rates and sailings, bending over his colored charts, +weighing the merit of cabins. Here is one amidships in a location of +greatest ease upon the stomach. Here is one with a forward port that +will catch the sharp and wholesome wind from the Atlantic. I trace the +giant funnels from deck to deck. My finger follows delightedly the +confusing passages. I smell the rubber on the landings and the salty +rugs. From on top I hear the wind in the cordage. I view the moon, and I +see the mast swinging among the stars. + +Then, also, at the agent's, for my pleasure, there is a picture of a +ship cut down the middle, showing its inner furnishing and the hum of +life on its many decks. I study its flights of steps, its strange tubes +and vents and boilers. Munchausen's horse, when its rearward end was +snapped off by the falling gate (the faithful animal, you may recall, +galloped for a mile upon its forward legs alone before the misadventure +was discovered)--Munchausen's horse, I insist,--the unbroken, forward +half,--did not display so frankly its confusing pipes and coils. Then +there is another ship which, by a monstrous effort of the printer, is +laid in Broadway, where its stacks out-top Trinity. I pace its mighty +length on the street before my house, and my eye climbs our tallest tree +for a just comparison. + +It is my hope to find a man of like ambition and endurance as myself and +to walk through England. He must be able, if necessary, to keep to the +road for twenty-five miles a day, or, if the inn runs before us in the +dark, to stretch to thirty. But he should be a creature, also, who is +content to doze in meditation beneath a hedge, heedless whether the sun, +in faster boots, puts into lodging first. Careless of the hour, he may +remark in my sleepy ear "how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines." + +He must be able to jest when his feet are tired. His drooping grunt must +be spiced with humor. When stiffness cracks him in the morning, he can +the better play the clown. He will not grumble at his bed or poke too +shrewdly at his food. Neither will he talk of graves and rheumatism when +a rainstorm finds us unprepared. If he snuffle at the nose, he must +snuffle cheerfully and with hope. Wit, with its unexpected turns, is to +be desired; but a pleasant and even humor is a better comrade on a dusty +road. It endures blisters and an empty stomach. A pack rests more +lightly on its weary shoulders. If he sing, he should know a round of +tunes and not wear a single melody to tatters. The merriest lilt grows +dull and lame when it travels all the day. But although I wish my +companion to be of a cheerful temper, he need not pipe or dance until +the mists have left the hills. Does not the shining sun itself rise +slowly to its noonday glory? A companion must give me leave to enjoy in +silence my sullen breakfast. + +A talent for sketching shall be welcome. Let him produce his pencils and +his tablet at a pointed arch or mullioned window, or catch us in absurd +posture as we travel. If one tumbles in a ditch, it is but decency to +hold the pose until the picture's made. + +But, chiefly, a companion should be quick with a smile and nod, apt for +conversation along the road. Neither beard nor ringlet must snub his +agreeable advance. Such a fellow stirs up a mixed acquaintance between +town and town, to point the shortest way--a bit of modest gingham mixing +a pudding at a pantry window, age hobbling to the gate on its friendly +crutch, to show how a better path climbs across the hills. Or in a +taproom he buys a round of ale and becomes a crony of the place. He +enlists a dozen friends to sniff outdoors at bedtime, with conflicting +prophecy of a shifting wind and the chance of rain. + +A companion should be alert for small adventure. He need not, therefore, +to prove himself, run to grapple with an angry dog. Rather, let him +soothe the snarling creature! Let him hold the beast in parley while I +go on to safety with unsoiled dignity! Only when arbitration and soft +terms fail shall he offer a haunch of his own fair flesh. Generously he +must boost me up a tree, before he seeks safety for himself. + +But many a trivial mishap, if followed with a willing heart, leads to +comedy and is a jest thereafter. I know a man who, merely by following +an inquisitive nose through a doorway marked "No Admittance," became +comrade to a company of traveling actors. The play was _Uncle Tom's +Cabin_, and they were at rehearsal. Presently, at a changing of the +scene, my friend boasted to Little Eva, as they sat together on a pile +of waves, that he performed upon the tuba. It seems that she had +previously mounted into heaven in the final picture without any +welcoming trumpet of the angels. That night, by her persuasion, my +friend sat in the upper wings and dispensed flutings of great joy as she +ascended to her rest. + +Three other men of my acquaintance were caught once, between towns, on a +walking trip in the Adirondacks, and fell by chance into a kind of +sanitarium for convalescent consumptives. At first it seemed a gloomy +prospect. But, learning that there was a movie in a near-by village, +they secured two jitneys and gave a party for the inmates. In the church +parlor, when the show was done, they ate ice-cream and layer-cake. Two +of the men were fat, but the third, a slight and handsome fellow--I +write on suspicion only--so won a pretty patient at the feast, that, on +the homeward ride--they were rattling in the tonneau--she graciously +permitted him to steady her at the bumps and sudden turns. + +Nor was this the end. As it still lacked an hour of midnight the general +sanitarium declared a Roman holiday. The slight fellow, on a challenge, +did a hand-stand, with his feet waving against the wall, while his knife +and keys and money dropped from his pockets. The pretty patient read +aloud some verses of her own upon the spring. She brought down her +water-colors, and laying a charcoal portrait off the piano, she ranged +her lovely wares upon the top. The fattest of my friends, also, eager to +do his part, stretched himself, heels and head, between two chairs. But, +when another chair was tossed on his unsupported middle, he fell with a +boom upon the carpet. Then the old doctor brought out wine and Bohemian +glasses with long stems and, as the clock struck twelve, the company +pledged one another's health, with hopes for a reunion. They lighted +their candles on the landing, and so to bed. + +I know a man, also, who once met a sword-swallower at a county fair. A +volunteer was needed for his trick--someone to hold the scarlet cushion +with its dangerous knives--and zealous friends pushed him from his seat +and toward the stage. Afterwards he met the Caucasian Beauties and, +despite his timidity, they dined together with great merriment. + +Then there is a kind of humorous philosophy to be desired on an +excursion. It smokes a contented pipe to the tune of every rivulet. It +rests a peaceful stomach on the rail of every bridge, and it observes +the floating leaves, like golden caravels upon the stream. It interprets +a trivial event. It is both serious and absurd. It sits on a fence to +moralize on the life of cows and flings in Plato on the soul. It plays +catch and toss with life and death and the world beyond. And it sees +significance in common things. A farmer's cart is a tumbril of the +Revolution. A crowing rooster is Chanticleer. It is the very cock that +proclaimed to Hamlet that the dawn was nigh. When a cloud rises up, such +a philosopher discourses of the flood. He counts up the forty rainy days +and names the present rascals to be drowned--profiteers in food, +plumbers and all laundrymen. + +A stable lantern, swinging in the dark, rouses up a race of giants-- + +I think it was some such fantastic quality of thought that Horace +Walpole had in mind when he commended the Three Princes of Serendip. +Their Highnesses, it seems, "were always making discoveries, by accident +and sagacity, of things which they were not in quest of: for instance," +he writes, "one of them discovered that a mule blind of the right eye +had traveled the same road lately, because the grass was eaten on the +left side." At first, I confess, this employment seems a waste of time. +Sherlock Holmes did better when he pronounced, on finding a neglected +whisp of beard, that Doctor Watson's shaving mirror had been shifted to +an opposite window. But doubtless the Princes put their deduction to +higher use, and met the countryside and village with shrewd and vivid +observation. + +Don Quixote had this same quality, but with more than a touch of +madness. Did he not build up the Lady Tolosa out of a common creature +at an inn? He sought knighthood at the hands of its stupid keeper and +watched his armor all night by the foolish moon. He tilted against a +windmill. I cannot wholeheartedly commend the Don, but, for an +afternoon, certainly, I would prefer his company between town and town +to that of any man who carries his clanking factory on his back. + +But, also, I wish a companion of my travels to be for the first time in +England, in order that I may have a fresh audience for my superior +knowledge. In the cathedral towns I wish to wave an instructive finger +in crypt and aisle. Here is a bit of early glass. Here is a wall that +was plastered against the plague when the Black Prince was still alive. +I shall gossip of scholars in cord and gown, working at their rubric in +sunny cloisters. Or if I choose to talk of kings and forgotten battles, +I wish a companion ignorant but eager for my boasting. + +It was only last night that several of us discussed vacations. Wyoming +was the favorite--a ranch, with a month on horseback in the mountains, +hemlock brouse for a bed, morning at five and wood to chop. But a horse +is to me a troubled creature. He stands to too great a height. His eye +glows with exultant deviltry as he turns and views my imperfection. His +front teeth seem made for scraping along my arm. I dread any fly or bee +lest it sting him to emotion. I am point to point in agreement with the +psalmist: "An horse is a vain thing for safety." If I must ride, I +demand a tired horse, who has cropped his wild oats and has come to a +slippered state. Are we not told that the horse in the crustaceous +age--I select a large word at random--was built no bigger than a dog? +Let this snug and peerless ancestor be saddled and I shall buy a ticket +for the West. + +But I do not at this time desire to beard the wilderness. There is a +camp of Indians near the ranch. I can smell them these thousand miles +away. Their beads and greasy blankets hold no charm. Smoky bacon, +indeed, I like. I can lie pleasurably at the flap of the tent with +sleepy eyes upon the stars. I can even plunge in a chilly pool at dawn. +But the Indians and horses that infest Wyoming do not arouse my present +interest. + +I am for England, therefore--for its winding roads, its villages that +nest along the streams, its peaked bridges with salmon jumping at the +weir, its thatched cottages and flowering hedges. + + "The chaffinch sings on the orchard bough + In England--now!" + +I wish to see reapers at work in Surrey fields, to stride over the windy +top of Devon, to cross Wiltshire when wind and rain and mist have +brought the Druids back to Stonehenge. At a crossroad Stratford is ten +miles off. Raglan's ancient towers peep from a wooded hill. Tintern or +Glastonbury can be gained by night. Are not these names sweet upon the +tongue? And I wish a black-timbered inn in which to end the day--with +polished brasses in the tap and the smell of the musty centuries upon +the stairs. + +At the window of our room the Cathedral spire rises above the roofs. +There is no trolley-car or creaking of any wheel, and on the pavement we +hear only the fall of feet in endless pattern. Day weaves a hurrying +mesh, but this is the quiet fabric of the night. + +[Illustration] + +I wish to walk from London to Inverness, to climb the ghostly ramparts +of Macbeth's castle, to hear the shrill cry of Duncan's murder in the +night, to watch for witches on the stormy moor. I shall sit on the bench +where Johnson sat with Boswell on his journey to the Hebrides. I shall +see the wizard of the North, lame of foot, walking in the shade of +ruined Dryburgh. With drunken Tam, I shall behold in Alloway Kirk +warlocks in a dance. From the gloomy house of Shaws and its broken tower +David Balfour runs in flight across the heather. Culloden echoes with +the defeat of an outlaw prince. The stairs of Holyrood drip with +Rizzio's blood. But also, I wish to follow the Devon lanes, to rest in +villages on the coast at the fall of day when fishermen wind their nets, +to dream of Arthur and his court on the rocks beyond Tintagel. Merlin +lies in Wales with his dusty garments pulled about him, and his magic +sleeps. But there is wind tonight in the noisy caverns of the sea, and +Spanish pirates dripping with the slime of a watery grave, bury their +treasure when the fog lies thick. + +Thousands of years have peopled these English villages. Their pavements +echo with the tread of kings and poets. Here is a sunny bower for lovers +when the world was young. Bishops of the Roman church--Saint Thomas +himself in his robes pontifical has walked through these broken +cloisters. Here is the altar where he knelt at prayer when his assassins +came. From that tower Mary of Scotland looked vainly for assistance to +gallop from the north. + +Here stretches the Pilgrims' Way across the downs of Surrey--worn and +scratched by pious feet. From the west they came to Canterbury. The wind +stirs the far-off traffic, and the mist covers the hills as with an +ancient memory. + +How many thirsty elbows have rubbed this table in the forgotten years! +How many feasts have come steaming from the kitchen when the London +coach was in! That pewter cup, maybe, offered its eager pledge when the +news of Agincourt was blown from France. Up that stairway Tom Jones +reeled with sparkling canary at his belt. These cobbles clacked in the +Pretender's flight. Here is the chair where Falstaff sat when he cried +out that the sack was spoiled with villainous lime. That signboard +creaked in the tempest that shattered the Armada. + +My fancy mingles in the past. It hears in the inn-yard the chattering +pilgrims starting on their journey. Here is the Pardoner jesting with +the merry Wife of Bath, with his finger on his lips to keep their +scandal private. It sees Dick Turpin at the crossroads with loaded +pistols in his boots. There is mist tonight on Bagshot Heath, and men in +Kendal green are out. And fancy rebuilds a ruined castle, and lights the +hospitable fires beneath its mighty caldrons. It hangs tapestry on its +empty walls and, like a sounding trumpet, it summons up a gaudy company +in ruff and velvet to tread the forgotten measures of the past. + +Let Wyoming go and hang itself in its muddy riding-boots and khaki +shirt! Let its tall horses leap upward and click their heels upon the +moon! I am for England. + +It is my preference to land at Plymouth, and our anchor--if the captain +is compliant--will be dropped at night, in order that the Devon hills, +as the thrifty stars are dimmed, may appear first through the mists of +dawn. If my memory serves, there is a country church with +stone-embattled tower on the summit above the town, and in the early +twilight all the roads that climb the hills lead away to promised +kingdoms. Drake, I assert, still bowls nightly on the quay at Plymouth, +with pins that rattle in the windy season, but the game is done when the +light appears. + +We clatter up to London. Paddington station or Waterloo, I care not. But +for arrival a rainy night is best, when the pavements glisten and the +mad taxis are rushing to the theatres. And then, for a week, by way of +practice and to test our boots, we shall trudge the streets of +London--the Strand and the Embankment. And certainly we shall explore +the Temple and find the sites of Blackfriars and the Globe. Here, beyond +this present brewery, was the bear-pit. Tarlton's jests still sound upon +the bank. A wherry, once, on this busy river, conveyed Sir Roger up to +Vauxhall. Perhaps, here, on the homeward trip, he was rejected by the +widow. The dear fellow, it is recorded, out of sentiment merely, kept +his clothes unchanged in the fashion of this season of his +disappointment. Here, also, was the old bridge across the Fleet. Here +was Drury Lane where Garrick acted. Tender hearts, they say, in pit and +stall, fluttered to his Romeo, and sighed their souls across the +candles. On this muddy curb link-boys waited when the fog was thick. +Here the footmen bawled for chairs. + +But there are bookshops still in Charing Cross Road. And, for frivolous +moments, haberdashery is offered in Bond Street and vaudeville in +Leicester Square. + +And then on a supreme morning we pack our rucksacks. + +It was a grievous oversight that Christian failed to tell us what +clothing he carried in his pack. We know it was a heavy burden, for it +dragged him in the mire. But did he carry slippers to ease his feet at +night? And what did the Pardoner put inside his wallet? Surely the Wife +of Bath was supplied with a powder-puff and a fresh taffeta to wear at +the journey's end. I could, indeed, spare Christian one or two of his +encounters for knowledge of his wardrobe. These homely details are of +interest. The mad Knight of La Mancha, we are told, mortgaged his house +and laid out a pretty sum on extra shirts. Stevenson, also, tells us the +exact gear that he loaded on his donkey, but what did Marco Polo carry? +And Munchausen and the Wandering Jew? I have skimmed their pages vainly +for a hint. + +For myself, I shall take an extra suit of underwear and another flannel +shirt, a pair of stockings, a rubber cape of lightest weight that falls +below the knees, slippers, a shaving-kit and brushes. I shall wash my +linen at night and hang it from my window, where it shall wave like an +admiral's flag to show that I sleep upon the premises. I shall replace +it as it wears. And I shall take a book, not to read but to have ready +on the chance. I once carried the Book of Psalms, but it was Nick Carter +I read, which I bought in a tavern parlor, fifteen pages missing, from a +fat lady who served me beer. + +We run to the window for a twentieth time. It has rained all night, but +the man in the lift was hopeful when we came up from breakfast. We +believe him; as if he sat on a tower with a spy-glass on the clouds. We +cherish his tip as if it came from Æolus himself, holding the winds in +leash. + +And now a streak of yellowish sky--London's substitute for blue--shows +in the west. + +We pay our bill. We scatter the usual silver. Several senators in +uniform bow us down the steps. We hale a bus in Trafalgar Square. We +climb to the top--to the front seat with full prospect. The Haymarket. +Sandwich men with weary step announce a vaudeville. We snap our fingers +at so stale an entertainment. There are flower-girls in Piccadilly +Circus. Regent Street. We pass the Marble Arch, near which cut-throats +were once hanged on the three-legged mare of Tyburn. Hammersmith. +Brentford. The bus stops. It is the end of the route. We have ridden out +our sixpence. We climb down. We adjust our packs and shoe-strings. The +road to the western country beckons. + +My dear sir, perhaps you yourself have planned for a landaulet this +summer and an English trip. You have laid out two swift weeks to make +the breathless round. You journey from London to Bristol in a day. +Another day, and you will climb out, stiff of leg, among the northern +lakes. If then, as you loll among the cushions, lapped in luxury, pink +and soft--if then, you see two men with sticks in hand and packs on +shoulder, know them for ourselves. We are singing on the road to +Windsor--to Salisbury, to Stonehenge, to the hills of Dorset, to +Lyme-Regis, to Exeter and the Devon moors. + +It was a shepherd who came with a song to the mountain-top. "The sun +shone, the bees swept past me singing; and I too sang, shouted, World, +world, I am coming!" + +[Illustration] + + + + +At a Toy-Shop Window. + + +In this Christmas season, when snowflakes fill the air and twilight is +the pleasant thief of day, I sometimes pause at the window of a toy-shop +to see what manner of toys are offered to the children. It is only five +o'clock and yet the sky is dark. The night has come to town to do its +shopping before the stores are shut. The wind has Christmas errands. + +And there is a throng of other shoppers. Fathers of families drip with +packages and puff after street cars. Fat ladies--Now then, all +together!--are hoisted up. Old ladies are caught in revolving doors. And +the relatives of Santa Claus--surely no nearer than nephews (anæmic +fellows in faded red coats and cotton beards)--pound their kettles for +an offering toward a Christmas dinner for the poor. + +But, also, little children flatten their noses on the window of the +toy-shop. They point their thumbs through their woolly mittens in a +sharp rivalry of choice. Their unspent nickels itch for large +investment. Extravagant dimes bounce around their pockets. But their +ears are cold, and they jiggle on one leg against a frosty toe. + +Here in the toy-shop is a tin motor-car. Here is a railroad train, with +tracks and curves and switches, a pasteboard mountain and a tunnel. Here +is a steamboat. With a turning of a key it starts for Honolulu behind +the sofa. The stormy Straits of Madagascar lie along the narrow hall. +Here in the window, also, are beams and girders for a tower. Not since +the days of Babel has such a vast supply been gathered. And there are +battleships and swift destroyers and guns and armoured tanks. The +nursery becomes a dangerous ocean, with submarines beneath the stairs: +or it is the plain of Flanders and the great war echoes across the +hearth. Château-Thierry is a pattern in the rug and the andirons are the +towers of threatened Paris. + +But on this Christmas night, as I stand before the toy-shop in the +whirling storm, the wind brings me the laughter of far-off children. +Time draws back its sober curtain. The snow of thirty winters is piled +in my darkened memory, but I hear shrill voices across the night. + +Once upon a time--in the days when noses and tables were almost on a +level, and manhood had wavered from kilts to pants buttoning at the +side--once there was a great chest which was lodged in a closet behind +a sitting-room. It was from this closet that the shadows came at night, +although at noon there was plainly a row of hooks with comfortable +winter garments. And there were drawers and shelves to the ceiling where +linen was kept, and a cupboard for cough-syrup and oily lotions for +chapped hands. A fragrant paste, also, was spread on the tip of the +little finger, which, when wiggled inside the nostril and inhaled, was +good for wet feet and snuffles. Twice a year these bottles were smelled +all round and half of them discarded. It was the ragman who bought them, +a penny to the bottle. He coveted chiefly, however, lead and iron, and +he thrilled to old piping as another man thrills to Brahms. He was a sly +fellow and, unless Annie looked sharp, he put his knee against the +scale. + +But at the rear of the closet, beyond the lamplight, there was a chest +where playing-blocks were kept. There were a dozen broken sets of +various shapes and sizes--the deposit and remnant of many years. + +These blocks had once been covered with letters and pictures. They had +conspired to teach us. C had stood for cat. D announced a dog. Learning +had put on, as it were, a sugar coat for pleasant swallowing. The arid +heights teased us to mount by an easy slope. But we scraped away the +letters and the pictures. Should a holiday, we thought, be ruined by +insidious instruction? Must a teacher's wagging finger always come among +us? It was sufficient that five blocks end to end made a railway car, +with finger-blocks for platforms; that three blocks were an engine, with +a block on top to be a smokestack. We had no toy mountain and pasteboard +tunnel, as in the soft fashion of the present, but we jacked the rug +with blocks up hill and down, and pushed our clanking trains through the +hollow underneath. It was an added touch to build a castle on the +summit. A spool on a finger-block was the Duke himself on horseback, +hunting across his sloping acres. + +There was, also, in the chest, a remnant of iron coal-cars with real +wheels. Their use was too apparent. A best invention was to turn +playthings from an obvious design. So we placed one of the coal-cars +under the half of a folding checkerboard and by adding masts and turrets +and spools for guns we built a battleship. This could be sailed all +round the room, on smooth seas where the floor was bare, but it pitched +and tossed upon a carpet. If it came to port battered by the storm, +should it be condemned like a ship that is broken on a sunny river? Its +plates and rivets had been tested in a tempest. It had skirted the +headlands at the staircase and passed the windy Horn. + +Or perhaps we built a fort upon the beach before the fire. It was a +pretty warfare between ship and fort, with marbles used shot and shot in +turn. A lucky marble toppled the checkerboard off its balance and +wrecked the ship. The sailors, after scrambling in the water, put to +shore on flat blocks from the boat deck and were held as prisoners until +supper, in the dungeons of the fort. It was in the sitting-room that we +played these games, under the family's feet. They moved above our sport +like a race of tolerant giants; but when callers came, we were brushed +to the rear of the house. + +Spools were men. Thread was their short and subsidiary use. Their larger +life was given to our armies. We had several hundred of them threaded on +long strings on the closet-hooks. But if a great campaign was +planned--if the Plains of Abraham were to be stormed or Cornwallis +captured--our recruiting sergeants rummaged in the drawers of the +sewing-machine for any spool that had escaped the draft. Or we peeked +into mother's work-box, and if a spool was almost empty, we suddenly +became anxious about our buttons. Sometimes, when a great spool was +needed for a general, mother wound the thread upon a piece of cardboard. +General Grant had carried black silk. Napoleon had been used on +trouser-patches. And my grandmother and a half-dozen aunts and elder +cousins did their bit and plied their needles for the war. In this +regard grandfather was a slacker, but he directed the battle from the +sofa with his crutch. + +Toothpicks were guns. Every soldier had a gun. If he was hit by a marble +in the battle and the toothpick remained in place, he was only wounded; +but he was dead if the toothpick fell out. Of each two men wounded, by +Hague Convention, one recovered for the next engagement. + +Of course we had other toys. Lead soldiers in cocked hats came down the +chimney and were marshaled in the Christmas dawn. A whole Continental +Army lay in paper sheets, to be cut out with scissors. A steam engine +with a coil of springs and key furnished several rainy holidays. A red +wheel-barrow supplied a short fury of enjoyment. There were sleds and +skates, and a printing press on which we printed the milkman's tickets. +The memory still lingers that five cents, in those cheap days, bought a +pint of cream. There was, also, a castle with a princess at a window. +Was there no prince to climb her trellis and bear her off beneath the +moon? It had happened so in Astolat. The princes of the gorgeous East +had wooed, also, in such a fashion. Or perhaps this was the very castle +that the wicked Kazrac lifted across the Chinese mountains in the night, +cheating Aladdin of his bride. It was a rather clever idea, as things +seem now in this time of general shortage, to steal a lady, house and +all, not forgetting the cook and laundress. But one day a little girl +with dark hair smiled at me from next door and gave me a Christmas cake, +and in my dreams thereafter she became the princess in my castle. + +We had stone blocks with arches and round columns that were too delicate +for the hazard of siege and battle. Once, when a playmate had scarlet +fever, we lent them to him for his convalescence. Afterwards, against +contagion, we left them for a month under a bush in the side yard. Every +afternoon we wet them with a garden hose. Did not Noah's flood purify +the world? It would be a stout microbe, we thought, that could survive +the deluge. At last we lifted out the blocks at arm's length. We smelled +them for any lurking fever. They were damp to the nose and smelled like +the cement under the back porch. But the contagion had vanished like +Noah's wicked neighbors. + +But store toys always broke. Wheels came off. Springs were snapped. Even +the princess faded at her castle window. + +Sometimes a toy, when it was broken, arrived at a larger usefulness. +Although I would not willingly forget my velocipede in its first gay +youth, my memory of sharpest pleasure reverts to its later days, when +one of its rear wheels was gone. It had been jammed in an accident +against the piano. It has escaped me whether the piano survived the +jolt; but the velocipede was in ruins. When the wheel came off the +brewery wagon before our house and the kegs rolled here and there, the +wreckage was hardly so complete. Three spokes were broken and the hub +was cracked. At first, it had seemed that the day of my velocipede was +done. We laid it on its side and tied the hub with rags. It looked like +a jaw with tooth-ache. Then we thought of the old baby-carriage in the +storeroom. Perhaps a transfusion of wheels was possible. We conveyed +upstairs a hammer and a saw. It was a wobbling and impossible +experiment. But at the top of the house there was a kind of race-track +around the four posts of the attic. With three wheels complete, we had +been forced to ride with caution at the turns or be pitched against the +sloping rafters. We now discovered that a missing wheel gave the +necessary tilt for speed. I do not recall that the pedals worked. We +legged it on both sides. Ten times around was a race; and the audience +sat on the ladder to the roof and held a watch with a second-hand for +records. + +Ours was a roof that was flat in the center. On winter days, when snow +would pack, we pelted the friendly milkman. Ours, also, was a cellar +that was lost in darkened mazes. A blind area off the laundry, where the +pantry had been built above, seemed to be the opening of a cavern. And +we shuddered at the sights that must meet the candle of the furnaceman +when he closed the draught at bedtime. + +Abandoned furniture had uses beyond a first intention. A folding-bed of +ours closed to about the shape of a piano. When the springs and mattress +were removed it was a house with a window at the end where a wooden flap +let down. Here sat the Prisoner of Chillon, with a clothes-line on his +ankle. A pile of old furniture in the attic, covered with a cloth, +became at twilight a range of mountains with a gloomy valley at the +back. I still believe--for so does fancy wanton with my thoughts--that +Aladdin's cave opens beneath those walnut bed-posts, that the cavern of +jewels needs but a dusty search on hands and knees. The old house, alas, +has come to foreign use. Does no one now climb the attic steps? Has time +worn down the awful Caucasus? No longer is there children's laughter on +the stairs. The echo of their feet sleeps at last in the common day. + +Nor must furniture, of necessity, be discarded. We dived from the +footboard of our bed into a surf of pillows. We climbed its headboard +like a mast, and looked for pirates on the sea. A sewing-table with legs +folded flat was a sled upon the stairs. Must I do more than hint that +two bed-slats make a pair of stilts, and that one may tilt like King +Arthur with the wash-poles? Or who shall fix a narrow use for the +laundry tubs, or put a limit on the coal-hole? And step-ladders! There +are persons who consider a step-ladder as a menial. This is an injustice +to a giddy creature that needs but a holiday to show its metal. On +Thursday afternoons, when the cook was out, you would never know it for +the same thin creature that goes on work-days with a pail and cleans the +windows. It is a tower, a shining lighthouse, a crowded grandstand, a +circus, a ladder to the moon. + +But perhaps, my dear young sir, you are so lucky as to possess a smaller +and inferior brother who frets with ridicule. He is a toy to be desired +above a red velocipede. I offer you a hint. Print upon a paper in bold, +plain letters--sucking the lead for extra blackness--that he is afraid +of the dark, that he likes the girls, that he is a butter-fingers at +baseball and teacher's pet and otherwise contemptible. Paste the paper +inside the glass of the bookcase, so that the insult shows. Then lock +the door and hide the key. Let him gaze at this placard of his weakness +during a rainy afternoon. But I caution you to secure the keys of all +similar glass doors--of the china closet, of the other bookcase, of the +knick-knack cabinet. Let him stew in his iniquity without chance of +retaliation. + +But perhaps, in general, your brother is inclined to imitate you and be +a tardy pattern of your genius. He apes your fashion in suspenders, the +tilt of your cap, your method in shinny. If you crouch in a barrel in +hide-and-seek, he crowds in too. You wag your head from side to side on +your bicycle in the manner of Zimmerman, the champion. Your brother wags +his, too. You spit in your catcher's mit, like Kelly, the +ten-thousand-dollar baseball beauty. Your brother spits in his mit, too. +These things are unbearable. If you call him "sloppy" when his face is +dirty, he merely passes you back the insult unchanged. If you call him +"sloppy-two-times," still he has no invention. You are justified now to +call him "nigger" and to cuff him to his place. + +Tagging is his worst offense--tagging along behind when you are engaged +on serious business. "Now then, sonny," you say, "run home. Get nurse to +blow your nose." Or you bribe him with a penny to mind his business. + +I must say a few words about paper-hangers, although they cannot be +considered as toys or play--things by any rule of logic. There is +something rather jolly about having a room papered. The removal of the +pictures shows how the old paper looked before it faded. The furniture +is pushed into an agreeable confusion in the hall. A rocker seems +starting for the kitchen. The great couch goes out the window. A chair +has climbed upon a table to look about. It needs but an alpenstock to +clamber on the bookcase. The carpet marks the places where the piano +legs came down. + +And the paper-hanger is a rather jolly person. He sings and whistles in +the empty room. He keeps to a tune, day after day, until you know it. He +slaps his brush as if he liked his work. It is a sticky, splashing, +sloshing slap. Not even a plasterer deals in more interesting material. +And he settles down on you with ladders and planks as if a circus had +moved in. After hours, when he is gone, you climb on his planking and +cross Niagara, as it were, with a cane for balance. To this day I think +of paper-hangers as a kindly race of men, who sing in echoing rooms and +eat pie and pickles for their lunch. Except for their Adam's apples--got +with gazing at the ceiling--surely not the wicked apple of the Garden--I +would wish to be a paper-hanger. + +Plumbers were a darker breed, who chewed tobacco fetched up from their +hip-pockets. They were enemies of the cook by instinct, and they spat in +dark corners. We once found a cake of their tobacco when they were gone. +We carried it to the safety of the furnace-room and bit into it in turn. +It was of a sweetish flavor of licorice that was not unpleasant. But the +sin was too enormous for our comfort. + +But in November, when days were turning cold and hands were chapped, our +parents' thoughts ran to the kindling-pile, to stock it for the winter. +Now the kindling-pile was the best quarry for our toys, because it was +bought from a washboard factory around the corner. Not every child has +the good fortune to live near a washboard factory. Necessary as +washboards are, a factory of modest output can supply a county, with +even a little dribble for export into neighbor counties. Many unlucky +children, therefore, live a good ten miles off, and can never know the +fascinating discard of its lathes--the little squares and cubes, the +volutes and rhythmic flourishes which are cast off in manufacture and +are sold as kindling. They think a washboard is a dull and common thing. +To them it smacks of Monday. It smells of yellow soap and suds. It +wears, so to speak, a checkered blouse and carries clothes-pins in its +mouth. It has perspiration on its nose. They do not know, in their +pitiable ignorance, the towers and bridges that can be made from the +scourings of a washboard factory. + +Our washboard factory was a great wooden structure that had been built +for a roller-skating rink. Father and mother, as youngsters in the time +of their courtship, had cut fancy eights upon the floor. And still, in +these later days, if you listened outside a window, you heard a whirling +roar, as if perhaps the skaters had returned and again swept the corners +madly. But it was really the sound of machinery that you heard, +fashioning toys and blocks for us. At noonday, comely red-faced girls +ate their lunches on the window-sills, ready for conversation and +acquaintance. + +And now, for several days, a rumor has been running around the house +that a wagon of kindling is expected. Each afternoon, on our return from +school, we run to the cellar. Even on baking-day the whiff of cookies +holds us only for a minute. We wait only to stuff our pockets. And at +last the great day comes. The fresh wood is piled to the ceiling. It is +a high mound and chaos, without form but certainly not void. For there +are long pieces for bridges, flat pieces for theatre scenery, tall +pieces for towers and grooves for marbles. It is a vast quarry for our +pleasant use. You will please leave us in the twilight, sustained by +doughnuts, burrowing in the pile, throwing out sticks to replenish our +chest of blocks. + +And therefore on this Christmas night, as I stand before the toy-shop in +the whirling storm, the wind brings me the laughter of these far-off +children. The snow of thirty winters is piled in my darkened memory, but +I hear shrill voices across the night. + + + + +Sic Transit-- + + +I do not recall a feeling of greater triumph than on last Saturday when +I walked off the eighteenth green of the Country Club with my opponent +four down. I have the card before me now with its pleasant row of fives +and sixes, and a four, _and a three_. Usually my card has mounted here +and there to an eight or nine, or I have blown up altogether in a +sandpit. Like Byron--but, oh, how differently!--I have wandered in the +pathless wood. Like Ruth I have stood in tears amid the alien corn. + +In those old days--only a week ago, but dim already (so soon does time +wash the memory white)--in those old days, if I were asked to make up a +foursome, some green inferior fellow, a novice who used his sister's +clubs, was paired against me; or I was insulted with two strokes a hole, +with three on the long hole past the woods. But now I shall ascend to +faster company. It was my elbow. I now square it and cock it forward a +bit. And I am cured. Keep your head down, Fritzie Boy, I say. Mind your +elbow--I say it aloud--and I have no trouble. + +There is a creek across the course. Like a thread in the woof it cuts +the web of nearly every green. It is a black strand that puts trouble in +the pattern, an evil thread from Clotho's ancient loom. Up at the sixth +hole this creek is merely a dirty rivulet and I can get out of the +damned thing--one must write, they say, as one talks and not go on +stilts--I can get out with a niblick by splashing myself a bit. But even +here, in its tender youth, as it were, the rivulet makes all the +mischief that it can. Gargantua with his nurses was not so great a +rogue. It crawls back and forth three times before the tee with a kind +of jeering tongue stuck out. It seems foredoomed from the cradle to a +villainous course. Farther down, at the seventeenth and second holes, +which are near together, it cuts a deeper chasm. The bank is shale and +steep. As I drive I feel like a black sinner on the nearer shore of +Styx, gazing upon the sunny fields of Paradise beyond. I put my caddy at +the top of the slope, where he sits with his apathetic eye upon the +sullen, predestined pool. + +But since last Saturday all is different. I sailed across on every +drive, on every approach. The depths beckoned but I heeded not. And, +when I walked across the bridge, I snapped my fingers in contempt, as at +a dog that snarls safely on a leash. + +I play best with a niblick. It is not entirely that I use it most. (Any +day you can hear me bawling to my caddy to fetch it behind a bunker or +beyond a fence.) Rather, the surface of the blade turns up at a +reassuring, hopeful angle. Its shining eye seems cast at heaven in a +prayer. I have had spells, also, of fondness for my mashie. It is fluted +for a back-spin. Except for the click and flight of a prosperous drive I +know nothing of prettier symmetry than an accurate approach. But my +brassie I consider a reckless creature. It has bad direction. It treads +not in the narrow path. I have driven. Good! For once I am clear of the +woods. That white speck on the fairway is my ball. But shall my ambition +o'erleap itself? Shall I select my brassie and tempt twice the gods of +chance? No! I'll use my mashie. I'll creep up to the hole on hands and +knees and be safe from trap and ditch. + +Has anyone spent more time than I among the blackberry bushes along the +railroad tracks on the eleventh? It is no grossness of appetite. My +niblick grows hot with its exertions. + +Once our course was not beset with sandpits. In those bright days woods +and gulley were enough. Once clear of the initial obstruction I could +roll up unimpeded to the green. I practiced a bouncing stroke with my +putter that offered security at twenty yards. But now these approaches +are guarded by traps. The greens are balanced on little mountains with +sharp ditches all about. I hoist up from one to fall into another. "What +a word, my son, has passed the barrier of your teeth!" said Athene once +to Odysseus. Is the game so ancient? Were there sandpits, also, on the +hills of stony Ithaca? Or in Ortygia, sea-girt? Was the dear wanderer +off his game and fallen to profanity? The white-armed nymph Calypso must +have stuffed her ears. + +But now my troubles are behind me. I have cured my elbow of its fault. I +keep my head down. My very clubs have taken on a different look since +Saturday. I used to remark their nicks against the stones. A bit of +green upon the heel of my driver showed how it was that I went sidewise +to the woods. In those days I carried the bag spitefully to the shower. +Could I leave it, I pondered, as a foundling in an empty locker? Or +should I strangle it? But now all is changed. My clubs are servants to +my will, kindly, obedient creatures that wait upon my nod. Even my +brassie knows me for its master. And the country seems fairer. The +valleys smile at me. The creek is friendly to my drive. The tall hills +skip and clap their hands at my approach. My game needs only thought and +care. My fives will become fours, my sixes slip down to fives. And here +and there I shall have a three. + +Except for a row of books my mantelpiece is bare. Who knows? Some day I +may sweep off a musty row of history and set up a silver cup. + +Later--Saturday again. I have just been around in 123. Horrible! I was +in the woods and in the blackberry bushes, and in the creek seven times. +My envious brassie! My well-belovèd mashie! Oh, vile conspiracy! +Ambition's debt is paid. 123! Now--now it's my shoulder. + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Posture of Authors. + + +There is something rather pleasantly suggestive in the fashion employed +by many of the older writers of inscribing their books from their +chambers or lodging. It gives them at once locality and circumstance. It +brings them to our common earth and understanding. Thomas Fuller, for +example, having finished his Church History of Britain, addressed his +reader in a preface from his chambers in Sion College. "May God alone +have the glory," he writes, "and the ingenuous reader the benefit, of my +endeavors! which is the hearty desire of Thy servant in Jesus Christ, +Thomas Fuller." + +One pictures a room in the Tudor style, with oak wainscot, tall +mullioned windows and leaded glass, a deep fireplace and black beams +above. Outside, perhaps, is the green quadrangle of the college, +cloistered within ancient buildings, with gay wall--flowers against the +sober stones. Bells answer from tower to belfry in agreeable dispute +upon the hour. They were cast in a quieter time and refuse to bicker on +a paltry minute. The sunlight is soft and yellow with old age. Such a +dedication from such a place might turn the most careless reader into +scholarship. In the seat of its leaded windows even the quirk of a Latin +sentence might find a meaning. Here would be a room in which to meditate +on the worthies of old England, or to read a chronicle of forgotten +kings, queens, and protesting lovers who have faded into night. + +Here we see Thomas Fuller dip his quill and make a start. "I have +sometimes solitarily pleased myself," he begins, and he gazes into the +dark shadows of the room, seeing, as it were, the pleasant spectres of +the past. Bishops of Britain, long dead, in stole and mitre, forgetful +of their solemn office, dance in the firelight on his walls. Popes move +in dim review across his studies and shake a ghostly finger at his +heresy. The past is not a prude. To her lover she reveals her beauty. +And the scholar's lamp is her marriage torch. + +Nor need it entirely cool our interest to learn that Sion College did +not slope thus in country fashion to the peaceful waters of the Cam, +with its fringe of trees and sunny meadow; did not possess even a gothic +tower and cloister. It was built on the site of an ancient priory, +Elsing Spital, with almshouses attached, a Jesuit library and a college +for the clergy. It was right in London, down near the Roman wall, in the +heart of the tangled traffic, and street cries kept breaking +in--muffins, perhaps, and hot spiced gingerbread and broken glass. I +hope, at least, that the good gentleman's rooms were up above, somewhat +out of the clatter, where muffins had lost their shrillness. +Gingerbread, when distance has reduced it to a pleasant tune, is not +inclined to rouse a scholar from his meditation. And even broken glass +is blunted on a journey to a garret. I hope that the old gentleman +climbed three flights or more and that a range of chimney-pots was his +outlook and speculation. + +It seems as if a rather richer flavor were given to a book by knowing +the circumstance of its composition. Not only would we know the +complexion of a man, whether he "be a black or a fair man," as Addison +suggests, "of a mild or choleric disposition, married or a bachelor," +but also in what posture he works and what objects meet his eye when he +squares his elbows and dips his pen. We are concerned whether sunlight +falls upon his papers or whether he writes in shadow. Also, if an +author's desk stands at a window, we are curious whether it looks on a +street, or on a garden, or whether it squints blindly against a wall. A +view across distant hills surely sweetens the imagination, whereas the +clatter of the city gives a shrewder twist to fancy. + +And household matters are of proper concern. We would like to be +informed whether an author works in the swirl of the common +sitting-room. If he writes within earshot of the kitchen, we should know +it. There has been debate whether a steam radiator chills a poet as +against an open fire, and whether a plot keeps up its giddy pace upon a +sweeping day. Histories have balked before a household interruption. +Novels have been checked by the rattle of a careless broom. A smoky +chimney has choked the sturdiest invention. + +If a plot goes slack perhaps it is a bursted pipe. An incessant grocer's +boy, unanswered on the back porch, has often foiled the wicked Earl in +his attempts against the beautiful Pomona. Little did you think, my dear +madam, as you read your latest novel, that on the very instant when the +heroine, Mrs. Elmira Jones, deserted her babies to follow her conscience +and become a movie actress--that on that very instant when she slammed +the street door, the plumber (the author's plumber) came in to test the +radiator. Mrs. Jones nearly took her death on the steps as she waited +for the plot to deal with her. Even a Marquis, now and then, one of the +older sort in wig and ruffles, has been left--when the author's ashes +have needed attention--on his knees before the Lady Emily, begging her +to name the happy day. + +Was it not Coleridge's cow that calved while he was writing "Kubla +Khan"? In burst the housemaid with the joyful news. And that man from +Porlock--mentioned in his letters--who came on business? Did he not +despoil the morning of its poetry? Did Wordsworth's pigs--surely he +owned pigs--never get into his neighbor's garden and need quick +attention? Martin Luther threw his inkpot, supposedly, at the devil. Is +it not more likely that it was at Annie, who came to dust? Thackeray is +said to have written largely at his club, the Garrick or the Athenæum. +There was a general stir of feet and voices, but it was foreign and did +not plague him. A tinkle of glasses in the distance, he confessed, was +soothing, like a waterfall. + +Steele makes no complaint against his wife Prue, but he seems to have +written chiefly in taverns. In the very first paper of the _Tatler_ he +gratifies our natural curiosity by naming the several coffee-houses +where he intends to compose his thoughts. "Foreign and domestic news," +he says, "you will have from Saint James's Coffee-House." Learning will +proceed from the Grecian. But "all accounts of gallantry, pleasure and +entertainment shall be under the article of White's Chocolate-House." In +the month of September, 1705, he continues, a gentleman "was washing his +teeth at a tavern window in Pall Mall, when a fine equipage passed by, +and in it, a young lady who looked up at him; away goes the coach--" +Away goes the beauty, with an alluring smile--rather an ambiguous smile, +I'm afraid--across her silken shoulder. But for the continuation of this +pleasant scandal (you may be sure that the pretty fellow was quite +distracted from his teeth) one must turn up the yellow pages of the +_Tatler_. + +We may suppose that Steele called for pens and paper and a sandbox, and +took a table in one of White's forward windows. He wished no garden view +or brick wall against the window. We may even go so far as to assume +that something in the way of punch, or canary, or negus _luke_, _my +dear_, was handy at his elbow. His paragraphs are punctuated by the gay +procession of the street. Here goes a great dandy in red heels, with +lace at his beard and wrists. Here is a scarlet captain who has served +with Marlborough and has taken a whole regiment of Frenchmen by the +nose. Here is the Lady Belinda in her chariot, who is the pledge of all +the wits and poets. That little pink ear of hers has been rhymed in a +hundred sonnets--ear and tear and fear and near and dear. The King has +been toasted from her slipper. The pretty creature has been sitting at +ombre for most of the night, but now at four of the afternoon she takes +the morning air with her lap dog. That great hat and feather will slay +another dozen hearts between shop and shop. She is attended by a female +dragon, but contrives by accident to show an inch or so of charming +stocking at the curb. Steele, at his window, I'm afraid, forgets for the +moment his darling Prue and his promise to be home. + +There is something rather pleasant in knowing where these old authors, +who are now almost forgotten, wrote their books. Richardson wrote +"Clarissa" at Parson's Green. That ought not to interest us very much, +for nobody reads "Clarissa" now. But we can picture the fat little +printer reading his daily batch of tender letters from young ladies, +begging him to reform the wicked Lovelace and turn the novel to a happy +end. For it was issued in parts and so, of course, there was no +opportunity for young ladies, however impatient, to thumb the back pages +for the plot. + +Richardson wrote "Pamela" at a house called the Grange, then in the open +country just out of London. There was a garden at the back, and a +grotto--one of the grottoes that had been the fashion for prosperous +literary gentlemen since Pope had built himself one at Twickenham. Here, +it is said, Richardson used to read his story, day by day, as it was +freshly composed, to a circle of his lady admirers. Hugh Thompson has +drawn the picture in delightful silhouette. The ladies listen in +suspense--perhaps the wicked Master is just taking Pamela on his +knee--their hands are raised in protest. La! The Monster! Their noses +are pitched up to a high excitement. One old lady hangs her head and +blushes at the outrage. Or does she cock her ear to hear the better? + +Richardson had a kind of rocking-horse in his study and he took his +exercise so between chapters. We may imagine him galloping furiously on +the hearth--rug, then, quite refreshed, after four or five dishes of +tea, hiding his villain once more under Pamela's bed. Did it never occur +to that young lady to lift the valance? Half a dozen times at least he +has come popping out after she has loosed her stays, once even when she +has got her stockings off. Perhaps this is the dangerous moment when the +old lady in the silhouette hung her head and blushed. If Pamela had gone +rummaging vigorously with a poker beneath her bed she could have cooled +her lover. + +Goldsmith wrote his books, for the most part, in lodgings. We find him +starving with the beggars in Axe Lane, advancing to Green Arbour +Court--sending down to the cook-shop for a tart to make his +supper--living in the Temple, as his fortunes mended. Was it not at his +window in the Temple that he wrote part of his "Animated Nature"? His +first chapter--four pages--is called a sketch of the universe. In four +pages he cleared the beginning up to Adam. Could anything be simpler or +easier? The clever fellow, no doubt, could have made the +universe--actually made it out of chaos--stars and moon and fishes in +the sea--in less than the allotted six days and not needed a rest upon +the seventh. He could have gone, instead, in plum-colored coat--"in full +fig"--to Vauxhall for a frolic. Goldsmith had nothing in particular +outside of his window to look at but the stone flagging, a pump and a +solitary tree. Of the whole green earth this was the only living thing. +For a brief season a bird or two lodged there, and you may be sure that +Goldsmith put the remnant of his crumbs upon the window casement. +Perhaps it was here that he sent down to the cook-shop for a tart, and +he and the birds made a common banquet across the glass. + +Poets, depending on their circumstance, are supposed to write either in +garrets or in gardens. Browning, it is true, lived at Casa Guidi, which +was "yellow with sunshine from morning to evening," and here and there a +prosperous Byron has a Persian carpet and mahogany desk. But, for the +most part, we put our poets in garrets, as a cheap place that has the +additional advantage of being nearest to the moon. From these high +windows sonnets are thrown, on a windy night. Rhymes and fancies are +roused by gazing on the stars. The rumble of the lower city is potent to +start a metaphor. "These fringes of lamplight," it is written, +"struggling up through smoke and thousandfold exhalation, some fathoms +into the ancient reign of Night, what thinks Boötes of them, as he leads +his Hunting-dogs over the Zenith in their leash of sidereal fire? That +stifled hum of Midnight, when Traffic has lain down to rest...." + +Here, under a sloping roof, the poet sits, blowing at his fingers. +Hogarth has drawn him--the _Distressed Poet_--cold and lean and shabby. +That famous picture might have been copied from the life of any of a +hundred creatures of "The Dunciad," and, with a change of costume, it +might serve our time as well. The poor fellow sits at a broken table in +the dormer. About him lie his scattered sheets. His wife mends his +breeches. Outside the door stands a woman with the unpaid milk-score. +There is not a penny in the place--and for food only half a loaf and +something brewing in a kettle. You may remember that when Johnson was a +young poet, just come to London, he lived with Mr. Cave in St. John's +Gate. When there were visitors he ate his supper behind a screen because +he was too shabby to show himself. I wonder what definition he gave the +poet in his dictionary. If he wrote in his own experience, he put him +down as a poor devil who was always hungry. But Chatterton actually died +of starvation in a garret, and those other hundred poets of his time and +ours got down to the bone and took to coughing. Perhaps we shall change +our minds about that sonnet which we tossed lightly to the moon. The +wind thrusts a cold finger through chink and rag. The stars travel on +such lonely journeys. The jest loses its relish. Perhaps those merry +verses to the Christmas--the sleigh bells and the roasted goose--perhaps +those verses turn bitter when written on an empty stomach. + +But do poets ever write in gardens? Swift, who was by way of being a +poet, built himself a garden-seat at Moor Park when he served Sir +William Temple, but I don't know that he wrote poetry there. Rather, it +was a place for reading. Pope in his prosperous days wrote at +Twickenham, with the sound of his artificial waterfall in his ears, and +he walked to take the air in his grotto along the Thames. But do poets +really wander beneath the moon to think their verses? Do they compose +"on summer eve by haunted stream"? I doubt whether Gray conceived his +Elegy in an actual graveyard. I smell oil. One need not see the thing +described upon the very moment. Shelley wrote of mountains--the awful +range of Caucasus--but his eye at the time looked on sunny Italy. Ibsen +wrote of the north when living in the south. When Bunyan wrote of the +Delectable Mountains he was snug inside a jail. Shakespeare, doubtless, +saw the giddy cliffs of Dover, the Rialto, the Scottish heath, from the +vantage of a London lodging. + +Where did Andrew Marvell stand or sit or walk when he wrote about +gardens? Wordsworth is said to have strolled up and down a gravel path +with his eyes on the ground. I wonder whether the gardener ever broke +in--if he had a gardener--to complain about the drouth or how the +dandelions were getting the better of him. Or perhaps the lawn-mower +squeaked--if he had a lawn-mower--and threw him off. But wasn't it +Wordsworth who woke up four times in one night and called to his wife +for pens and paper lest an idea escape him? Surely he didn't take to the +garden at that time of night in his pajamas with an inkpot. But did +Wordsworth have a wife? How one forgets! Coleridge told Hazlitt that he +liked to compose "walking over uneven ground, or breaking through the +straggling branches of a copse-wood." But then, you recall that a calf +broke into "Kubla Khan." On that particular day, at least, he was snug +in his study. + +No, I think that poets may like to sit in gardens and smoke their pipes +and poke idly with their sticks, but when it comes actually to composing +they would rather go inside. For even a little breeze scatters their +papers. No poet wishes to spend his precious morning chasing a frisky +sonnet across the lawn. Even a heavy epic, if lifted by a sudden squall, +challenges the swiftest foot. He puts his stick on one pile and his pipe +on another and he holds down loose sheets with his thumb. But it is +awkward business, and it checks the mind in its loftier flight. + +Nor do poets care to suck their pencils too long where someone may see +them--perhaps Annie at the window rolling her pie-crust. And they can't +kick off their shoes outdoors in the hot agony of composition. And also, +which caps the argument, a garden is undeniably a sleepy place. The bees +drone to a sleepy tune. The breeze practices a lullaby. Even the +sunlight is in the common conspiracy. At the very moment when the poet +is considering Little Miss Muffet and how she sat on a tuffet--doubtless +in a garden, for there were spiders--even at the very moment when she +sits unsuspectingly at her curds and whey, down goes the poet's head and +he is fast asleep. Sleepiness is the plague of authors. You may remember +that when Christian--who, doubtless, was an author in his odd +moments--came to the garden and the Arbour on the Hill Difficulty, "he +pulled his Roll out of his bosom and read therein to his comfort.... +Thus pleasing himself awhile, he at last fell into a slumber." I have no +doubt--other theories to the contrary--that "Kubla Khan" broke off +suddenly because Coleridge dropped off to sleep. A cup of black coffee +might have extended the poem to another stanza. Mince pie would have +stretched it to a volume. Is not Shakespeare allowed his forty winks? +Has it not been written that even the worthy Homer nods? + + "A pleasing land of drowsyhed it was: + Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; + And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, + For ever flushing round a summer sky." + +No, if one has a bit of writing to put out of the way, it is best to +stay indoors. Choose an uncomfortable, straight-backed chair. Toss the +sheets into a careless litter. And if someone will pay the milk-score +and keep the window mended, a garret is not a bad place in which to +write. + +Novelists--unless they have need of history--can write anywhere, I +suppose, at home or on a journey. In the burst of their hot imagination +a knee is a desk. I have no doubt that Mr. Hugh Walpole, touring in this +country, contrives to write a bit even in a Pullman. The ingenious Mr. +Oppenheim surely dashes off a plot on the margin of the menu-card +between meat and salad. We know that "Pickwick Papers" was written +partly in hackney coaches while Dickens was jolting about the town. + +An essayist, on the other hand, needs a desk and a library near at hand. +Because an essay is a kind of back-stove cookery. A novel needs a hot +fire, so to speak. A dozen chapters bubble in their turn above the +reddest coals, while an essay simmers over a little flame. Pieces of +this and that, an odd carrot, as it were, a left potato, a pithy bone, +discarded trifles, are tossed in from time to time to enrich the +composition. Raw paragraphs, when they have stewed all night, at last +become tender to the fork. An essay, therefore, cannot be written +hurriedly on the knee. Essayists, as a rule, chew their pencils. Their +desks are large and are always in disorder. There is a stack of books on +the clock shelf. Others are pushed under the bed. Matches, pencils and +bits of paper mark a hundred references. When an essayist goes out from +his lodging he wears the kind of overcoat that holds a book in every +pocket. His sagging pockets proclaim him. He is a bulging person, so +stuffed, even in his dress, with the ideas of others that his own +leanness is concealed. An essayist keeps a notebook, and he thumbs it +for forgotten thoughts. Nobody is safe from him, for he steals from +everyone he meets. + +An essayist is not a mighty traveler. He does not run to grapple with a +roaring lion. He desires neither typhoon nor tempest. He is content in +his harbor to listen to the storm upon the rocks, if now and then, by a +lucky chance, he can shelter someone from the wreck. His hands are not +red with revolt against the world. He has glanced upon the thoughts of +many men; and as opposite philosophies point upon the truth, he is +modest with his own and tolerant toward the opinion of others. He looks +at the stars and, knowing in what a dim immensity we travel, he writes +of little things beyond dispute. There are enough to weep upon the +shadows, he, like a dial, marks the light. The small clatter of the city +beneath his window, the cry of peddlers, children chalking their games +upon the pavement, laundry dancing on the roofs and smoke in the +winter's wind--these are the things he weaves into the fabric of his +thoughts. Or sheep upon the hillside--if his window is so lucky--or a +sunny meadow, is a profitable speculation. And so, while the novelist is +struggling up a dizzy mountain, straining through the tempest to see the +kingdoms of the world, behold the essayist snug at home, content with +little sights. He is a kind of poet--a poet whose wings are clipped. He +flaps to no great heights and sees neither the devil, the seven oceans +nor the twelve apostles. He paints old thoughts in shiny varnish and, as +he is able, he mends small habits here and there. And therefore, as +essayists stay at home, they are precise--almost amorous--in the posture +and outlook of their writing. Leigh Hunt wished a great library next his +study. "But for the study itself," he writes, "give me a small snug +place, almost entirely walled with books. There should be only one +window in it looking upon trees." How the precious fellow scorns the +mountains and the ocean! He has no love, it seems, for typhoons and +roaring lions. "I entrench myself in my books," he continues, "equally +against sorrow and the weather. If the wind comes through a passage, I +look about to see how I can fence it off by a better disposition of my +movables." And by movables he means his books. These were his screen +against cold and trouble. But Leigh Hunt had been in prison for his +political beliefs. He had grappled with his lion. So perhaps, after all, +my argument fails. + +Mr. Edmund Gosse had a different method to the same purpose. He "was so +anxious to fly all outward noise" that he desired a library apart from +the house. Maybe he had had some experience with Annie and her +clattering broomstick. "In my sleep," he writes, "'Where dreams are +multitude' I sometimes fancy that one day I shall have a library in a +garden. The phrase seems to contain the whole felicity of man.... It +sounds like having a castle in Spain, or a sheep-walk in Arcadia." + +Montaigne's study was a tower, walled all about with books. At his table +in the midst he was the general focus of their wisdom. Hazlitt wrote +much at an inn at Winterslow, with Salisbury Plain around the corner of +his view. Now and then, let us hope, when the London coach was due, he +received in his nostrils a savory smell from the kitchen stove. I taste +pepper, sometimes, and sharp sauces in his writing. Stevenson, except +for ill-health and a love of the South Seas (here was the novelist +showing himself), would have preferred a windy perch over--looking +Edinburgh. + +It does seem as if a rather richer flavor were given to a book by +knowing the circumstance of its composition. Consequently, readers, as +they grow older, turn more and more to biography. It is chiefly not the +biographies that deal with great crises and events, but rather the +biographies that are concerned with small circumstance and agreeable +gossip, that attract them most. The life of Gladstone, with its hard +facts of British policy, is all very well; but Mr. Lucas's life of Lamb +is better. Who would willingly neglect the record of a Thursday night at +Inner Temple Lane? In these pages Talfourd, Procter, Hazlitt and Hunt +have written their memories of these gatherings. It was to his partner +at whist, as he was dealing, that Lamb once said, "If dirt was trumps, +what hands you would hold!" Nights of wit and friendly banter! Who would +not crowd his ears with gossip of that mirthful company?--George Dyer, +who forgot his boots until half way home (the dear fellow grew forgetful +as the smoking jug went round)--Charles Lamb feeling the stranger's +bumps. Let the Empire totter! Let Napoleon fall! Africa shall be +parceled as it may. Here will we sit until the cups are empty. + +Lately, in a bookshop at the foot of Cornhill, I fell in with an old +scholar who told me that it was his practice to recommend four books, +which, taken end on end, furnished the general history of English +letters from the Restoration to a time within our own memory. These +books were "Pepys' Diary," "Boswell's Johnson," the "Diary and Letters +of Madame d'Arblay" and the "Diary of Crabb Robinson." + +Beginning almost with the days of Cromwell here is a chain of pleasant +gossip across the space of more than two hundred years. Perhaps, at the +first, there were old fellows still alive who could remember +Shakespeare--who still sat in chimney corners and babbled through their +toothless gums of Blackfriars and the Globe. And at the end we find a +reference to President Lincoln and the freeing of the slaves. + +Here are a hundred authors--perhaps a thousand--tucking up their cuffs, +looking out from their familiar windows, scribbling their large or +trivial masterpieces. + +[Illustration] + + + + +After-Dinner Pleasantries. + + +There is a shop below Fourteenth Street, somewhat remote from fashion, +that sells nothing but tricks for amateur and parlor use. It is a region +of cobblers, tailors and small grocers. Upstairs, locksmiths and +buttonhole cutters look through dusty windows on the L, which, under +some dim influence of the moon, tosses past the buildings here its human +tide, up and down, night and morning. The Trick Shop flatters itself on +its signboard that it carries the largest line of its peculiar trickery +on the western hemisphere--hinting modestly that Baluchistan, perhaps, +or Mesopotamia (where magic might be supposed to flourish) may have an +equal stock. The shop does not proclaim its greatness to the casual +glance. Its enormity of fraud offers no hint to the unsuspecting curb. +There must be caverns and cellars at the rear--a wealth of baffling sham +un-rumored to the street, shelves sagging with agreeable deception, huge +bales of sleight-of-hand and musty barrels of old magic. + +But to the street the shop reveals no more than a small show-window, of +a kind in which licorice-sticks and all-day-suckers might feel at home. +It is a window at which children might stop on their way from school and +meditate their choice, fumbling in their pockets for their wealth. + +I have stood at this window for ten minutes together. There are cards +for fortune tellers and manuals of astrology, decks with five aces and +marked backs, and trick hats and boxes with false bottoms. There are +iron cigars to be offered to a friend, and bleeding fingers, and a +device that makes a noise like blowing the nose, "only much louder." +Books of magic are displayed, and conjurers' outfits--shell games and +disappearing rabbits. There is a line of dribble-glasses--a humorous +contrivance with little holes under the brim for spilling water down the +front of an unwary guest. This, it is asserted, breaks the social ice +and makes a timid stranger feel at home. And there are puzzle pictures, +beards for villains and comic masks--Satan himself, and other painted +faces for Hallowe'en. + +Some persons, of course, can perform their parlor tricks without this +machinery and appliance. I know a gifted fellow who can put on the +expression of an idiot. Or he wrinkles his face into the semblance of +eighty years, shakes with palsy and asks his tired wife if she will love +him when he's old. Again he puts a coffee cup under the shoulder of his +coat and plays the humpback. On a special occasion he mounts a table--or +two kitchen chairs become his stage--and recites Richard and the winter +of his discontent. He needs only a pillow to smother Desdemona. And then +he opens an imaginary bottle--the popping of the cork, the fizzing, the +gurgle when it pours. Sometimes he is a squealing pig caught under a +fence, and sometimes two steamboats signaling with their whistles in a +fog. + +I know a young woman--of the newer sort--who appears to swallow a +lighted cigarette, with smoke coming from her ears. This was once a +man's trick, but the progress of the weaker sex has shifted it. On +request, she is a nervous lady with a fear of monkeys, taking five +children to the circus. She is Camille on her deathbed. I know a man, +too, who can give the Rebel yell and stick a needle, full length, into +his leg. The pulpy part above his knee seems to make an excellent +pincushion. And then there is the old locomotive starting on a slippery +grade (for beginners in entertainment), the hand-organ man and his +infested monkey (a duet), the chicken that is chased around the +barnyard, Hamlet with the broken pallet (this is side-splitting in any +company) and Moriarty on the telephone. I suppose our best vaudeville +performers were once amateurs themselves around the parlor lamp. + +And there is Jones, too, who plays the piano. Jones, when he is asked, +sits at the keyboard and fingers little runs and chords. He seems to be +thinking which of a hundred pieces he will play. "What will you have?" +he asks. And a fat man wants "William Tell," and a lady with a powdered +nose asks for "Bubbles." But Jones ignores both and says, "Here's a +little thing of Schumann. It's a charming bit." On the other hand, when +Brown is asked to sing, it is generally too soon after dinner. Brown, +evidently, takes his food through his windpipe, and it is, so to speak, +a one-way street. He can hardly permit the ascending "Siegfried" to +squeeze past the cheese and crackers that still block the crowded +passage. + +There is not a college dinner without the mockery of an eccentric +professor. A wag will catch the pointing of his finger, his favorite +phrase. Is there a lawyers' dinner without its imitation of Harry +Lauder? Isn't there always someone who wants to sing "It's Nice to Get +Up in the Mornin'," and trot up and down with twinkling legs? Plumbers +on their lodge nights, I am told, have their very own Charlie Chaplin. +And I suppose that the soda clerks' union--the dear creatures with their +gum--has its local Mary Pickford, ready with a scene from _Pollyanna_. +What jolly dinners dentists must have, telling one another in dialect +how old Mrs. Finnigan had her molars out! Forceps and burrs are their +unwearied jest across the years. When they are together and the doors +are closed, how they must frolic with our weakness! + +And undertakers! Even they, I am informed, throw off their solemn +countenance when they gather in convention. Their carnation and mournful +smile are gone--that sober gesture that waves the chilly relations to +the sitting-room. But I wonder whether their dismal shop doesn't cling +always just a bit to their mirth and songs. That poor duffer in the poem +who asked to be laid low, wrapped in his tarpaulin jacket--surely, +undertakers never sing of him. They must look at him with disfavor for +his cheap proposal. He should have roused for a moment at the end, with +a request for black broadcloth and silver handles. + +I once sat with an undertaker at a tragedy. He was of a lively sympathy +in the earlier parts and seemed hopeful that the hero would come through +alive. But in the fifth act, when the clanking army was defeated in the +wings and Brutus had fallen on his sword, then, unmistakably his +thoughts turned to the peculiar viewpoint of his profession. In fancy he +sat already in the back parlor with the grieving Mrs. Brutus, arranging +for the music. + +To undertakers, Cæsar is always dead and turned to clay. Falstaff is +just a fat old gentleman who drank too much sack, a' babbled of green +fields and then needed professional attention. Perhaps at the very pitch +of their meetings when the merry glasses have been three times filled, +they pledge one another in what they are pleased to call the embalmers' +fluid. This jest grows rosier with the years. For these many centuries +at their banquets they have sung that it was a cough that carried him +off, that it was a coffin--Now then, gentlemen! All together for the +chorus!--that it was a coffin they carried him off in. + +I dined lately with a man who could look like a weasel. When this was +applauded, he made a face like the Dude of _Palmer Cox's Brownies_. Even +Susan, the waitress, who knows her place and takes a jest soberly, broke +down at the pantry door. We could hear her dishes rattling in +convulsions in the sink. And then our host played the insect with his +fingers on the tablecloth, smelling a spot of careless gravy from the +roast with his long thin middle finger. He caught the habit that insects +have of waving their forward legs. + +I still recall an uncle who could wiggle his ears. He did it every +Christmas and Thanksgiving Day. It was as much a part of the regular +program as the turkey and the cranberries. It was a feature of his +engaging foolery to pretend that the wiggle was produced by rubbing the +stomach, and a circle of us youngsters sat around him, rubbing our +expectant stomachs, waiting for the miracle. A cousin brought a guitar +and played the "Spanish Fandango" while we sat around the fire, sleepy +after dinner. And there was a maiden aunt with thin blue fingers, who +played waltzes while we danced, and she nodded and slept to the drowsy +sound of her own music. + +Of my own after-dinner pleasantries I am modest. I have only one trick. +Two. I can recite the fur-bearing animals of North America--the bison, +the bear, the wolf, the seal, and sixteen others--and I can go +downstairs behind the couch for the cider. This last requires little +skill. As the books of magic say, it is an easy and baffling trick. With +every step you crook your legs a little more, until finally you are on +your knees, hunched together, and your head has disappeared from view. +You reverse the business coming up, with tray and glasses. + +But these are my only tricks. There is a Brahms waltz that I once had +hopes of, but it has a hard run on the second page. I can never get my +thumb under in time to make connections. My best voice, too, covers only +five notes. You cannot do much for the neighbors with that cramped kind +of range. "A Tailor There Sat on His Window Ledge" is one of the few +tunes that fall inside my poverty. He calls to his wife, you may +remember, to bring him his old cross-bow, and there is a great Zum! Zum! +up and down in the bass until ready, before the chorus starts. On a +foggy morning I have quite a formidable voice for those Zums. But +after-dinner pleasantries are only good at night and then my bass is +thin. "A Sailor's Life, Yo, Ho!" is a very good tune but it goes up to +D, and I can sing it only when I am reckless of circumstance, or when I +am taking ashes from the furnace. I know a lady who sings only at her +sewing-machine. She finds a stirring accompaniment in the whirling of +the wheel. Others sing best in tiled bathrooms. Sitting in warm and +soapy water their voices swell to Caruso's. Laundresses, I have noticed, +are in lustiest voice at their tubs, where their arms keep a vigorous +rhythm on the scrubbing-board. But I choose ashes. I am little short of +a Valkyr, despite my sex, when I rattle the furnace grate. + +With hymns I can make quite a showing in church if the bass part keeps +to a couple of notes. I pound along melodiously on some convenient low +note and slide up now and then, by a happy instinct, when the tune seems +to require it. The dear little lady, who sits in front of me, turns what +I am pleased to think is an appreciative ear, and now and then, for my +support, she throws in a pretty treble. But I have no tolerance with a +bass part that undertakes a flourish and climbs up behind the tenor. +This is mere egotism and a desire to shine. "Art thou there, true-penny? +You hear this fellow in the cellarage?" That is the proper bass. + +Dear me! Now that I recall it, we have guests--guests tonight for +dinner. Will I be asked to sing? Am I in voice? I tum-a-lum a little, up +and down, for experiment. The roar of the subway drowns this from my +neighbors, but by holding my hand over my mouth I can hear it. Is my low +F in order? No--undeniably, it is not. Thin. And squeaky. The Zums would +never do. And that fast run in Brahms? Can I slip through it? Or will my +thumb, as usual, catch and stall? Have my guests seen me go +down--stairs behind the couch for the cider? Have they heard the +fur-bearing animals--the bison, the bear, the wolf, the seal, the +beaver, the otter, the fox and raccoon? + +Perhaps--perhaps it will be better to stop at the Trick Shop and buy a +dribble-glass and a long black beard to amuse my guests. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Little Candles. + + +High conceit of one's self and a sureness of one's opinion are based so +insecurely in experience that one is perplexed how their slight +structure stands. One marvels why these emphatic builders trust again +their glittering towers. Surely anyone who looks into himself and sees +its void or malformation ought by rights to shrink from adulation of +self, and his own opinion should appear to him merely as one candle +among a thousand. + +And yet this conceit of self outlasts innumerable failures, and any new +pinnacle that is set up, neglecting the broken rubble on the ground and +all the wreckage at the base, boasts again of its sure communion with +the stars. A man, let us say, has gone headlong from one formula of +belief into another. In each, for a time, he burns with a hot +conviction. Then his faith cools. His god no longer nods. But just when +you think that failure must have brought him modesty, again he amazes +you with the golden prospect of a new adventure. He has climbed in his +life a hundred hillocks, thinking each to be a mountain. He has +journeyed on many paths, but always has fallen in a bog. Conceit is a +thin bubble in the wind, it is an empty froth and breath, yet, hammered +into ship-plates, it defies the U-boat. + +On every sidewalk, also, we see some fine fellow, dressed and curled to +his satisfaction, parading in the sun. An accident of wealth or birth +has marked him from the crowd. He has decked his outer walls in gaudy +color, but is bare within. He is a cypher, but golden circumstance, like +a figure in the million column, gives him substance. Yet the void cries +out on all matters in dispute with firm conviction. + +But this cypher need not dress in purple. He is shabby, let us say, and +pinched with poverty. Whose fault? Who knows? But does misfortune in +itself give wisdom? He is poor. Therefore he decides that the world is +sick with pestilence, and accordingly he proclaims himself a doctor. Or +perhaps he sits at ease in middle circumstance. He judges that his is an +open mind because he lets a harsh opinion blow upon his ignorance until +it flames with hatred. He sets up to be a thinker, and he is resolved to +shatter the foundations of a thousand years. + +The outer darkness stretches to such a giddy distance! And these +thousand candles of belief, flickering in the night, are so insufficient +even in their aggregate! Shall a candle wink at flaming Jupiter as an +equal? By what persuasion is one's own tiny wick, shielded in the +fingers from misadventure, the greatest light? + +Who is there who has read more than a single chapter in the book of +life? Most of us have faltered through scarcely a dozen paragraphs, yet +we scribble our sure opinion in the margin. We hear a trifling pebble +fall in a muddy pool, and we think that we have listened to the pounding +of the sea. We hold up our little candle and we consider that its light +dispels the general night. + +But it has happened once in a while that someone really strikes a larger +light and offers it to many travelers for their safety. He holds his +candle above his head for the general comfort. And to it there rush the +multitude of those whose candles have been gutted. They relight their +wicks, and go their way with a song and cry, to announce their +brotherhood. If they see a stranger off the path, they call to him to +join their band. And they draw him from the mire. + +And sometimes this company respects the other candles that survive the +wind. They confess with good temper that their glare, also, is +sufficient; that there is, indeed, more than one path across the night. +But sometimes in their intensity--in their sureness of exclusive +salvation--they fall to bickering. One band of converts elbows another. +There is a mutual lifting of the nose in scorn, an amused contempt, or +they come to blows and all candles are extinguished. And sometimes, +with candles out, they travel onward, still telling one another of their +band how the darkness flees before them. + +We live in a world of storm, of hatred, of blind conceit, of shrill and +intolerant opinion. The past is worshiped. The past is scorned. Some +wish only to kiss the great toe of old convention. Others shout that we +must run bandaged in the dark, if we would prove our faith in God and +man. It is the best of times, and the worst of times. It is the dawn. We +grope toward midnight. Our fathers were saints in judgment. Our fathers +were fools and rogues. Let's hold minutely to the past! Any change is +sacrilege. Let's rip it up! Let's destroy it altogether! + +We'll kill him and stamp on him: He's a Montague. We'll draw and quarter +him: He's a Capulet. He's a radical: He must be hanged. A conservative: +His head shall decorate our pike. + +A plague on both your houses! + +Panaceas are hawked among us, each with a magic to cure our ills. +Universal suffrage is a leap to perfection. Tax reform will bring the +golden age. With capital and interest smashed, we shall live in heaven. +The soviet, the recall from office, the six-hour day, the demands of +labor, mark the better path. The greater clamor of the crowd is the +guide to wisdom. Men with black beards and ladies with cigarettes say +that machine-guns and fire and death are pills that are potent for our +good. We live in a welter of quarrel and disagreement. One pictures a +mighty shelf with bottles, and doctors running to and fro. The poor +world is on its back, opening its mouth to every spoon. By the hubbub in +the pantry--the yells and scuffling at the sink--we know that drastic +and contrary cures are striving for the mastery. + +There was a time when beacons burned on the hills to be our guidance. +The flames were fed and moulded by the experience of the centuries. Men +might differ on the path--might even scramble up a dozen different +slopes--but the hill-top was beyond dispute. + +But now the great fires smoulder. The Constitution, it is said,--pecked +at since the first,--must now be carted off and sold as junk. Art has +torn down its older standards. The colors of Titian are in the dust. +Poets no longer bend the knee to Shakespeare. + +Conceit is a pilot who scorns the harbor lights-- + +Modesty was once a virtue. Patience, diligence, thrift, humility, +charity--who pays now a tribute to them? Charity is only a sop, it +seems, that is thrown in fright to the swift wolves of revolution. +Humility is now a weakness. Diligence is despised. Thrift is the advice +of cowards. Who now cares for the lessons that experience and tested +fact once taught? Ignorance sits now in the highest seat and gives its +orders, and the clamor of the crowd is its high authority. + +And what has become of modesty? A maid once was prodigal if she unmasked +her beauty to the moon. Morality? Let's all laugh together. It's a +quaint old word. + +Tolerance is the last study in the school of wisdom. Lord! Lord! Tonight +let my prayer be that I may know that my own opinion is but a candle in +the wind! + + + + +A Visit to a Poet. + + +Not long ago I accepted the invitation of a young poet to visit him at +his lodging. As my life has fallen chiefly among merchants, lawyers and +other practical folk, I went with much curiosity. + +My poet, I must confess, is not entirely famous. His verses have +appeared in several of the less known papers, and a judicious printer +has even offered to gather them into a modest sheaf. There are, however, +certain vile details of expense that hold up the project. The printer, +although he confesses their merit, feels that the poet should bear the +cost. + +His verses are of the newer sort. When read aloud they sound pleasantly +in the ear, but I sometimes miss the meaning. I once pronounced an +intimate soul-study to be a jolly description of a rainy night. This was +my stupidity. I could see a soul quite plainly when it was pointed out. +It was like looking at the moon. You get what you look for--a man or a +woman or a kind of map of Asia. In poetry of this sort I need a hint or +two to start me right. But when my nose has been rubbed, so to speak, +against the anise-bag, I am a very hound upon the scent. + +The street where my friend lives is just north of Greenwich Village, and +it still shows a remnant of more aristocratic days. Behind its shabby +fronts are long drawing-rooms with tarnished glass chandeliers and +frescoed ceilings and gaunt windows with inside blinds. Plaster cornices +still gather the dust of years. There are heavy stairways with black +walnut rails. Marble Lincolns still liberate the slaves in niches of the +hallway. Bronze Ladies of the Lake await their tardy lovers. Diana runs +with her hunting dogs upon the newel post. In these houses lived the +heroines of sixty years ago, who shopped for crinoline and spent their +mornings at Stewart's to match a Godey pattern. They drove of an +afternoon with gay silk parasols to the Crystal Palace on Forty-second +Street. In short, they were our despised Victorians. With our +advancement we have made the world so much better since. + +I pressed an electric button. Then, as the door clicked, I sprang +against it. These patent catches throw me into a momentary panic. I feel +like one of the foolish virgins with untrimmed lamp, just about to be +caught outside--but perhaps I confuse the legend. Inside, there was a +bare hallway, with a series of stairways rising in the gloom--round and +round, like the frightful staircase of the Opium Eater. At the top of +the stairs a black disk hung over the rail--probably a head. + +"Hello," I said. + +"Oh, it's you. Come up!" And the poet came down to meet me, with +slippers slapping at the heels. + +There was a villainous smell on the stairs. "Something burning?" I +asked. + +At first the poet didn't smell it. "Oh, _that_ smell!" he said at last. +"That's the embalmer." + +"The embalmer?" + +We were opposite a heavy door on the second floor. He pointed his thumb +at it. "There's an embalmer's school inside." + +"Dear me!" I said. "Has he any--anything to practice on?" + +The poet pushed the door open a crack. It was very dark inside. It +smelled like Ptolemy in his later days. Or perhaps I detected Polonius, +found at last beneath the stairs. + +"Bless me!" I asked, "What does he teach in his school?" + +"Embalming, and all that sort of thing." + +"It never occurred to me," I confessed, "that undertakers had to learn. +I thought it came naturally. Ducks to water, you know. They look as if +they could pick up a thing like embalming by instinct. I don't suppose +you knew old Mr. Smith." + +"No." + +"He wore a white carnation on business afternoons." + +We rounded a turn of the black walnut stair. + +"There!" exclaimed the poet. "That is the office of the _Shriek_." + +I know the _Shriek_. It is one of the periodicals of the newer art that +does not descend to the popular taste. It will not compromise its +ideals. It prints pictures of men and women with hideous, distorted +bodies. It is solving sex. Once in a while the police know what it is +talking about, and then they rather stupidly keep it out of the mails +for a month or so. + +Now I had intended for some time to subscribe to the _Shriek_, because I +wished to see my friend's verses as they appeared. In this way I could +learn what the newer art was doing, and could brush out of my head the +cobwebs of convention. Keats and Shelley have been thrown into the +discard. We have come a long journey from the older poets. + +"I would like to subscribe," I said. + +The poet, of course, was pleased. He rapped at a door marked "Editor." + +A young woman's head in a mob-cap came into view. She wore a green and +purple smock, and a cigarette hung loosely from her mouth. She looked at +me at first as if I were an old-fashioned poem or a bundle of modest +drawings, but cheered when I told my errand. There was a cup of steaming +soup on an alcohol burner, and half a loaf of bread. On a string across +the window handkerchiefs and stockings were hung to dry. A desk was +littered with papers. + +I paid my money and was enrolled. I was given a current number of the +_Shriek_, and was told not to miss a poem by Sillivitch. + +"Sillivitch?" I asked. + +"Sillivitch," the lady answered. "Our greatest poet--maybe the greatest +of all time. Writes only for the _Shriek_. Wonderful! Realistic!" + +"Snug little office," I said to the poet, when we were on the stairs. +"She lives in there, too?" + +"Oh, yes," he said. "Smart girl, that. Never compromises. Wants reality +and all that sort of thing. You must read Sillivitch. Amazing! Doesn't +seem to mean anything at first. But then you get it in a flash." + +We had now come to the top of the building. + +"There isn't much smell up here," I said. + +"You don't mind the smell. You come to like it," he replied. "It's +bracing." + +At the top of the stairs, a hallway led to rooms both front and back. +The ceiling of these rooms, low even in the middle, sloped to windows of +half height in dormers. The poet waved his hand. "I have been living in +the front room," he said, "but I am adding this room behind for a +study." + +We entered the study. A man was mopping up the floor. Evidently the room +had not been lived in for years, for the dirt was caked to a half inch. +A general wreckage of furniture--a chair, a table with marble top, a +carved sideboard with walnut dingles, a wooden bed with massive +headboard, a mattress and a broken pitcher--had been swept to the middle +of the room. There was also a pile of old embalmer's journals, and a +great carton that seemed to contain tubes of tooth-paste. + +"You see," said the poet, "I have been living in the other room. This +used to be a storage--years ago, for the family that once lived here, +and more recently for the embalmer." + +"Storage!" I exclaimed. "You don't suppose that they kept any--?" + +"No." + +"Well," I said, "it's a snug little place." + +I bent over and picked up one of the embalmer's journals. On the cover +there was a picture of a little boy in a night-gown, saying his prayer +to his mother. The prayer was printed underneath. "And, mama," it read, +"have God make me a good boy, and when I grow up let me help papa in his +business, and never use anything but _Twirpp's Old Reliable Embalming +Fluid_, the kind that papa has always used, and grandpa before him." + +Now, Charles Lamb, I recall, once confessed that he was moved to +enthusiasm by an undertaker's advertisement. "Methinks," he writes, "I +could be willing to die, in death to be so attended. The two rows all +round close-drove best black japanned nails,--how feelingly do they +invite, and almost irresistibly persuade us to come and be fastened +down." But the journal did not stir me to this high emotion. + +I crossed the room and stooped to look out of the dormer window--into a +shallow yard where an abandoned tin bath-tub and other unprized +valuables were kept. A shabby tree acknowledged that it had lost its +way, but didn't know what to do about it. It had its elbow on the fence +and seemed to be in thought. A wash-stand lay on its side, as if it +snapped its fingers forever at soap and towels. Beyond was a tall +building, with long tables and rows of girls working. + +One of the girls desisted for a moment from her feathers with which she +was making hats, and stuck out her tongue at me in a coquettish way. I +returned her salute. She laughed and tossed her head and went back to +her feathers. + +The young man who had been mopping up the floor went out for fresh +water. + +"Who is that fellow?" I asked. + +"He works downstairs." + +"For the _Shriek?_" + +"For the embalmer. He's an apprentice." + +"I would like to meet him." + +Presently I did meet him. + +"What have you there?" I asked. He was folding up a great canvas bag of +curious pattern. + +"It's when you are shipped away--to Texas or somewhere. This is a little +one. You'd need--" he appraised me from head to foot--"you'd need a +number ten." + +He desisted from detail. He shifted to the story of his life. Since he +had been a child he had wished to be an undertaker. + +Now I had myself once known an undertaker, and I had known his son. The +son went to Munich to study for Grand Opera. I crossed on the steamer +with him. He sang in the ship's concert, "Oh, That We Two Were Maying." +It was pitched for high tenor, so he sang it an octave low, and was +quite gloomy about it. In the last verse he expressed a desire to lie +at rest beneath the churchyard sod. The boat was rolling and I went out +to get the air. And then I did not see him for several years. We met at +a funeral. He wore a long black coat and a white carnation. He smiled at +me with a gentle, mournful smile and waved me to a seat. He was Tristan +no longer. Valhalla no more echoed to his voice. He had succeeded to his +father's business. + +Here the poet interposed. "The Countess came to see me yesterday." + +"Mercy," I said, "what countess?" + +"Oh, don't you know her work? She's a poet and she writes for the people +downstairs. She's the Countess Sillivitch." + +"Sillivitch!" I answered, "of course I know her. She is the greatest +poet, maybe, of all time." + +"No doubt about it," said the poet excitedly, "and there's a poem of +hers in this number. She writes in italics when she wants you to yell +it. And when she puts it in capitals, my God! you could hear her to the +elevated. It's ripping stuff." + +"Dear me," I said, "I should like to read it. Awfully. It must be +funny." + +"It isn't funny at all," the poet answered. "It isn't meant to be funny. +Did you read her 'Burning Kiss'?" + +"I'm sorry," I answered. + +The poet sighed. "It's wonderfully realistic. There's nothing +old-fashioned about that poem. The Countess wears painted stockings." + +"Bless me!" I cried. + +"Stalks with flowers. She comes from Bulgaria, or Esthonia, or +somewhere. Has a husband in a castle. Incompatible. He stifles her. +Common. In business. Beer spigots. She is artistic. Wants to soar. And +tragic. You remember my study of a soul?" + +"The rainy night? Yes, I remember." + +"Well, she's the one. She sat on the floor and told me her troubles." + +"You don't suppose that I could meet her, do you?" I asked. + +The poet looked at me with withering scorn. "You wouldn't like her," he +said. "She's very modern. She says very startling things. You have to be +in the modern spirit to follow her. And sympathetic. She doesn't want +any marriage or government or things like that. Just truth and freedom. +It's convention that clips our wings." + +"Conventions are stupid things," I agreed. + +"And the past isn't any good, either," the poet said. "The past is a +chain upon us. It keeps us off the mountains." + +"Exactly," I assented. + +"That's what the Countess thinks. We must destroy the past. Everything. +Customs. Art. Government. We must be ready for the coming of the dawn." + +"Naturally," I said. "Candles trimmed, and all that sort of thing. You +don't suppose that I could meet the Countess? Well, I'm sorry. What's +the bit of red paper on the wall? Is it over a dirty spot?" + +"It's to stir up my ideas. It's gay and when I look at it I think of +something." + +"And then I suppose that you look out of that window, against that brick +wall and those windows opposite, and write poems--a sonnet to the girl +who stuck out her tongue at me." + +"Oh, yes." + +"Hot in summer up here?" + +"Yes." + +"And cold in winter?" + +"Yes." + +"And I suppose that you get some ideas out of that old tin bath-tub and +those ash-cans." + +"Well, hardly." + +"And you look at the moon through that dirty skylight?" + +"No! There's nothing in that old stuff. Everybody's fed up on the moon." + +"It's a snug place," I said. And I came away. + +I circled the stairs into the denser smell which, by this time, I found +rather agreeable. The embalmer's door was open. In the gloom inside I +saw the apprentice busied in some dark employment. "I got somethin' to +show you," he called. + +"Tomorrow," I answered. + +As I was opening the street door, a woman came up the steps. She was a +dark, Bulgarian sort of woman. Or Esthonian, perhaps. I held back the +door to let her pass. She wore long ear-rings. Her skirt was looped high +in scollops. She wore sandals--and painted stockings. + + + + +Autumn Days. + + +It was rather a disservice when the poet wrote that the melancholy days +were come. His folly is inexplicable. If he had sung through his nose of +thaw and drizzle, all of us would have pitched in to help him in his +dismal chorus. But October and November are brisk and cheerful months. + +In the spring, to be sure, there is a languid sadness. Its beauty is too +frail. Its flowerets droop upon the plucking. Its warm nights, its +breeze that blows from the fragrant hills, warn us how brief is the +blossom time. In August the year slumbers. Its sleepy days nod across +the heavy orchards and the yellow grain fields. Smoke looks out from +chimneys, but finds no wind for comrade. For a penny it would stay at +home and doze upon the hearth, to await a playmate from the north. The +birds are still. Only the insects sing. A threshing-machine, far off, +sinks to as drowsy a melody as theirs, like a company of grasshoppers, +but with longer beard and deeper voice. The streams that frolicked to +nimble tunes in May now crawl from pool to pool. The very shadows linger +under cover. They crouch close beneath shed and tree, and scarcely stir +a finger until the fiery sun has turned its back. + +September rubs its eyes. It hears autumn, as it were, pounding on its +bedroom door, and turns for another wink of sleep. But October is +awakened by the frost. It dresses itself in gaudy color. It flings a +scarlet garment on the woods and a purple scarf across the hills. The +wind, at last, like a merry piper, cries out the tune, and its brisk and +sunny days come dancing from the north. + +Yesterday was a holiday and I went walking in the woods. Although it is +still September it grows late, and there is already a touch of October +in the air. After a week of sultry weather--a tardy remnant from last +month--a breeze yesterday sprang out of the northwest. Like a good +housewife it swept the dusty corners of the world. It cleared our path +across the heavens and raked down the hot cobwebs from the sky. Clouds +had yawned in idleness. They had sat on the dull circle of the earth +like fat old men with drooping chins, but yesterday they stirred +themselves. The wind whipped them to their feet. It pursued them and +plucked at their frightened skirts. It is thus, after the sleepy season, +that the wind practices for the rough and tumble of November. It needs +but to quicken the tempo into sixteenth notes, to rouse a wholesome +tempest. + +Who could be melancholy in so brisk a month? The poet should hang his +head for shame at uttering such a libel. These dazzling days could hale +him into court. The jury, with one voice, without rising from its box, +would hold for a heavy fine. Apples have been gathered in. There is a +thirsty, tipsy smell from the cider presses. Hay is pitched up to the +very roof. Bursting granaries show their golden produce at the cracks. +The yellow stubble of the fields is a promise that is kept. And who +shall say that there is any sadness in the fallen leaves? They are a gay +and sounding carpet. Who dances here needs no bell upon his ankle, and +no fiddle for the tune. + +And sometimes in October the air is hazy and spiced with smells. Nature, +it seems, has cooked a feast in the heat of summer, and now its viands +stand out to cool. + +November lights its fires and brings in early candles. This is the +season when chimneys must be tightened for the tempest. Their mighty +throats roar that all is strong aloft. Dogs now leave a stranger to go +his way in peace, and they bark at the windy moon. Windows rattle, but +not with sadness. They jest and chatter with the blast. They gossip of +storms on barren mountains. + +Night, for so many months, has been a timid creature. It has hid so long +in gloomy cellars while the regal sun strutted on his way. But now night +and darkness put their heads together for his overthrow. In shadowy +garrets they mutter their discontent and plan rebellion. They snatch the +fields by four o'clock. By five they have restored their kingdom. They +set the stars as guardsmen of their rule. + +Now travelers are pelted into shelter. Signboards creak. The wind +whistles for its rowdy company. Night, the monarch, rides upon the +storm. + +A match! We'll light the logs. We'll crack nuts and pass the cider. How +now, master poet, is there no thirsty passage in your throat? I offer +you a bowl of milk and popcorn. Must you brood tonight upon the barren +fields--the meadows brown and sear? Who cares now how the wind grapples +with the chimneys? Here is snug company, warm and safe. Here are syrup +and griddle-cakes. Do you still suck your melancholy pen when such a +feast is going forward? + + + + +On Finding a Plot. + + +A young author has confessed to me that lately, in despair at hitting on +a plot, he locked himself in his room after breakfast with an oath that +he would not leave it until something was contrived and under way. He +did put an apple and sandwich prudently at the back of his desk, but +these, he swore, like the locusts and wild honey in the wilderness, +should last him through his struggle. By a happy afterthought he took +with him into retirement a volume of De Maupassant. Perhaps, he +considered, if his own invention lagged and the hour grew late, he might +shift its characters into new positions. Rather than starve till dawn he +could dress a courtezan in honest cloth, or tease a happy wife from her +household in the text to a mad elopement. Or by jiggling all the plots +together, like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope, the pieces might +fall into strange and startling patterns. + +This is not altogether a new thought with him. While sucking at his pen +in a former drouth he considered whether a novel might not be made by +combining the characters of one story with the circumstance of another. +Let us suppose, for example, that Carmen, before she got into that ugly +affair with the Toreador, had settled down in Barchester beneath the +towers. Would the shadow of the cloister, do you think, have cooled her +southern blood? Would she have conformed to the decent gossip of the +town? Or, on the contrary, does not a hot color always tint the colder +mixture? Suppose that Carmen came to live just outside the Cathedral +close and walked every morning with her gay parasol and her pretty +swishing skirts past the Bishop's window. + +We can fancy his pen hanging dully above his sermon, with his eyes on +space for any wandering thought, as if the clouds, like treasure ships +upon a sea, were freighted with riches for his use. The Bishop is +brooding on an address to the Ladies' Sewing Guild. He must find a text +for his instructive finger. It is a warm spring morning and the +daffodils are waving in the borders of the grass. A robin sings in the +hedge with an answer from his mate. There is wind in the tree-tops with +lively invitation to adventure, but the Bishop is bent to his sober +task. Carmen picks her way demurely across the puddles in the direction +of the Vicarage. Her eyes turn modestly toward his window. Surely she +does not see him at his desk. That dainty inch of scarlet stocking is +quite by accident. It is the puddles and the wind frisking with her +skirt. + +"Eh! Dear me!" The good man is merely human. He pushes up his spectacles +for nearer sight. He draws aside the curtain. "Dear me! Bless my soul! +Who is the lady? Quite a foreign air. I don't remember her at our little +gatherings for the heathen." A text is forgotten. The clouds are empty +caravels. He calls to Betsy, the housemaid, for a fresh neck-cloth and +his gaiters. He has recalled a meeting with the Vicar and goes out +whistling softly, to disaster. + +Alas! In my forgetfulness I have skimmed upon the actual plot. You have +recalled already how La Signora Madeline descended on the Bishop's +Palace. Her beauty was a hard assault. Except for her crippled state she +might herself have toppled the Bishop over. But she pales beside the +dangerous Carmen. + +Suppose, for a better example, that the cheerful Mark Tapley who always +came out strong in adversity, were placed in a modern Russian novel. As +the undaunted Taplovitch he would have shifted its gloom to a sunny +ending. Fancy our own dear Pollyanna, the glad girl, adopted by an aunt +in "Crime and Punishment." Even Dostoyevsky must have laid down his +doleful pen to give her at last a happy wedding--flower-girls and +angel-food, even a shrill soprano behind the hired palms and a table of +cut glass. + +Oliver Twist and Nancy,--merely acquaintances in the original +story,--with a fresh hand at the plot, might have gone on a bank holiday +to Margate. And been blown off shore. Suppose that the whole excursion +was wrecked on Treasure Island and that everyone was drowned except +Nancy, Oliver and perhaps the trombone player of the ship's band, who +had blown himself so full of wind for fox-trots on the upper deck that +he couldn't sink. It is Robinson Crusoe, lodging as a handsome bachelor +on the lonely island,--observe the cunning of the plot!--who battles +with the waves and rescues Nancy. The movie-rights alone of this are +worth a fortune. And then Crusoe, Oliver, Friday and the trombone player +stand a siege from John Silver and Bill Sikes, who are pirates, with +Spanish doubloons in a hidden cove. And Crusoe falls in love with Nancy. +Here is a tense triangle. But youth goes to youth. Crusoe's whiskers are +only dyed their glossy black. The trombone player, by good luck (you see +now why he was saved from the wreck), is discovered to be a retired +clergyman--doubtless a Methodist. The happy knot is tied. And then--a +sail! A sail! Oliver and Nancy settle down in a semi-detached near +London, with oyster shells along the garden path and cat-tails in the +umbrella jar. The story ends prettily under their plane-tree at the +rear--tea for three, with a trombone solo, and the faithful Friday and +Old Bill, reformed now, as gardener, clipping together the shrubs +against the sunny wall. + +Was there a serpent in the garden at peaceful Cranford? Suppose that one +of the gay rascals of Dumas, with tall boots and black moustachios, had +got in when the tempting moon was up. Could the gentle ladies in their +fragile guard of crinoline have withstood this French assault? + +Or Camille, perhaps, before she took her cough, settled at Bath and +entangled Mr. Pickwick in the Pump Room. Do not a great hat and feather +find their victim anywhere? Is not a silken ankle as potent at Bath as +in Bohemia? Surely a touch of age and gout is no prevention against the +general plague. Nor does a bald head tower above the softer passions. +Camille's pretty nose is powdered for the onslaught. She has arranged +her laces in dangerous hazard to the eye. And now the bold huzzy +undeniably winks at Mr. Pickwick over her pint of "killibeate." She +drops her fan with usual consequence. A nod. A smile. A word. At the +Assembly--mark her sudden progress and the triumphant end!--they sit +together in the shadows of the balcony. "My dear," says Mr. Pickwick, +gazing tenderly through his glasses, "my love, my own, will you--bless +my soul!--will you share my lodgings at Mrs. Bardell's in Goswell +Street?" We are mariners, all of us, coasting in dangerous waters. It is +the syren's voice, her white beauty gleaming on the shoal--it is the +moon that throws us on the rocks. + +And then a dozen dowagers breed the gossip. Duchesses, frail with years, +pop and burst with the pleasant secret. There is even greater commotion +than at Mr. Pickwick's other disturbing affair with the middle-aged lady +in the yellow curl-papers. This previous affair you may recall. He had +left his watch by an oversight in the taproom, and he went down to get +it when the inn was dark. On the return he took a false direction at the +landing and, being misled by the row of boots along the hall, he entered +the wrong room. He was in his nightcap in bed when, peeping through the +curtains, he saw the aforesaid lady brushing her back hair. A duel was +narrowly averted when this startling scandal came to the ears of the +lady's lover, Mr. Peter Magnus. Camille, I think, could have kept this +sharper scandal to herself. At most, with a prudent finger on her lips, +she would have whispered the intrigue harmlessly behind her fan and set +herself to snare a duke. + +I like to think, also, of the incongruity of throwing Rollo (Rollo the +perfect, the Bayard of the nursery, the example of our suffering +childhood)--Rollo grown up, of course, and without his aseptic Uncle +George--into the gay scandal, let us say, of the Queen's Necklace. +Perhaps it is forgotten how he and his little sister Jane went to the +Bull Fight in Rome on Sunday morning by mistake. They were looking for +the Presbyterian Church, and hand in hand they followed the crowd. It is +needless to remind you how Uncle George was vexed. Rollo was a prig. He +loved his Sunday school and his hour of piano practice. He brushed his +hair and washed his face without compulsion. He even got in behind his +ears. He went to bed cheerfully upon a hint. Thirty years ago--I was so +pestered--if I could have met Rollo in the flesh I would have lured him +to the alleyway behind our barn and pushed him into the manure-pit. In +the crisp vernacular of our street, I would have punched the everlasting +tar out of him. + +It was circumstance that held the Bishop and Rollo down. Isn't +Cinderella just a common story of sordid realism until the fairy +godmother appears? Except for the pumpkin and a very small foot she +would have married the butcher's boy, and been snubbed by her sisters +to the end. It was only luck that it was a prince who awakened the +Sleeping Beauty. The plumber's assistant might have stumbled by. What +was Aladdin without his uncle, the magician? Do princesses still sleep +exposed to a golden kiss? Are there lamps for rubbing, discarded now in +attics? + +Sinbad, with a steady wife, would have stayed at home and become an +alderman. Romeo might have married a Montague and lived happily ever +after. It was but chance that Titania awakened in the Ass's +company--chance that Viola was cast on the coast of Illyria and found +her lover. Any of these plots could have been altered by jogging the +author's elbow. A bit of indigestion wrecks the crimson shallop. Comedy +or tragedy is but the falling of the dice. By the flip of a coin comes +the poisoned goblet or the princess. + +But my young author's experiment with De Maupassant was not successful. +He tells me that hunger caught him in the middle of the afternoon, and +that he went forth for a cup of malted milk, which is his weakness. His +head was as empty as his stomach. + +And yet there are many novels written and even published, and most of +them seem to have what pass for plots. Bipeds, undeniably, are set up +with some likeness to humanity. They talk from page to page without any +squeak of bellows. They live in lodgings and make acquaintance across +the air-shaft. They wrestle with villains. They fall in love. They +starve and then grow famous. And at last, in all good books, journeys +end in lovers' meeting. It is as easy as lying. Only a plot is needed. + +And may not anyone set up the puppets? Rich man, poor man, beggarman, +thief! You have only to say _eenie meenie_ down the list, and trot out a +brunette or a blonde. There is broadcloth in the tiring-box, and swords +and velvet; and there is, also, patched wool, and shiny elbows. Your +lady may sigh her soul to the Grecian tents, or watch for honest Tom on +his motor-cycle. On Venetian balcony and village stoop the stars show +alike for lovers and everywhere there are friendly shadows in the night. + +Like a master of marionettes, we may pull the puppets by their strings. +It is such an easy matter--if once a plot is given--to lift a beggar or +to overthrow a rascal. A virtuous puppet can be hoisted to a tinsel +castle. A twitching of the thumb upsets the wicked King. Rollo is +pitched to his knees before a scheming beauty. And would it not be fun +to dangle before the Bishop that little Carmen figure with her daring +lace and scarlet stockings?--or to swing the bold Camille by the strings +into Mr. Pickwick's arms as the curtain falls? + +Was it not Hawthorne who died leaving a notebook full of plots? And +Walter Scott, when that loyal, harassed hand of his was shriveled into +death, must have had by him a hundred hints for projected books. One +author--I forget who he was--bequeathed to another author--the name has +escaped me--a memorandum of characters and events. At any author's +death there must be a precious salvage. Among the surviving papers there +sits at least one dusty heroine waiting for a lover. Here are notes for +the Duchess's elopement. Here is a sketch how the deacon proved to be a +villain. As old ladies put by scraps of silk for a crazy quilt, shall +not an author, also, treasure in his desk shreds of character and odds +and ends to make a plot? + +Now the truth is, I suspect, that the actual plot has little to do with +the merits of a great many of the best books. It is only the bucket that +fetches up the water from the well. It is the string that holds the +shining beads. Who really cares whether Tom Jones married Sophia? And +what does it matter whether Falstaff died in bed or in his boots, or +whether Uncle Toby married the widow? It is the mirth and casual +adventure by the way that hold our interest. + +Some of the best authors, indeed, have not given a thought to their +plots until it is time to wind up the volume. When Dickens sent the +Pickwick Club upon its travels, certainly he was not concerned whether +Tracy Tupman found a wife. He had not given a thought to Sam's romance +with the pretty housemaid at Mr. Nupkins's. The elder Mrs. Weller's +fatal cough was clearly a happy afterthought. Thackeray, at the start, +could hardly have foreseen Esmond's marriage. When he wrote the early +chapters of "Vanity Fair," he had not traced Becky to her shabby garret +of the Elephant at Pumpernickel. Dumas, I have no doubt, wrote from +page to page, careless of the end. Doubtless he marked Milady for a bad +end, but was unconcerned whether it would be a cough or noose. Victor +Hugo did no more than follow a trail across the mountains of his +invention, content with the kingdoms of each new turning. + +In these older and more deliberate books, if a young lady smiled upon +the hero, it was not already schemed whether they would be lovers, with +the very manner of his proposal already set. The glittering moon was not +yet bespoken for the night. "My dear young lady," this older author +thinks, "you have certainly very pretty eyes and I like the way that +lock of brown hair rests against your ear, but I am not at all sure that +I shall let you marry my hero. Please sit around for a dozen chapters +while I observe you. I must see you in tweed as well as silk. Perhaps +you have an ugly habit of whining. Or safe in a married state you might +wear a mob-cap in to breakfast. I'll send my hero up to London for his +fling. There is an actress I must have him meet. I'll let him frolic +through the winter. On his return he may choose between you." + +"My dear madam," another of these older authors meditates, "how can I +judge you on a first acquaintance? Certainly you talk loosely for an +honest wife. It is too soon, as yet, to know how far your flirtation +leads. I must observe you with Mr. Fopling in the garden after dinner. +If, later, I grow dull and my readers nod, your elopement will come +handy." + +Nor was a lady novelist of the older school less deliberate. When a +bold adventurer appears, she holds her heroine to the rearward of her +affection. "I'll make no decision yet for Lady Emily," she thinks. "This +gay fellow may have a wife somewhere. His smooth manner with the ladies +comes with practice. It is soon enough if I decide upon their affair in +my second volume. Perhaps, after all, the captain may prove to be the +better man." + +And yet this spacious method requires an ample genius. A smaller writer +must take a map and put his finger beforehand on his destination. When a +hero fares forth singing in the dawn, the author must know at once his +snug tavern for the night. The hazard of the morning has been matched +already with a peaceful twilight. The seeds of time are planted, the +very harvest counted when the furrow's made. My heart goes out to that +young author who sits locked in his study, munching his barren apple. He +must perfect his scenario before he starts. How easy would be his task, +if only he could just begin, "Once upon a time," and follow his careless +contrivance. + +I know a teacher who has a full-length novel unpublished and concealed. +Sometimes, I fancy, at midnight, when his Latin themes are marked, he +draws forth its precious pages. He alters and smooths his sentences +while the household sleeps. And even in his classroom, as he listens to +the droning of a conjugation, he leaps to horse. Little do his students +suspect, as they stutter with their verbs, that with their teacher, +heedless of convention, rides the dark lady of his swift adventure. + +I look with great awe on an acquaintance who averages more than one +story a week and publishes them in a periodical called _Frisky Stories_. +He shifts for variety among as many as five or six pen-names. And I +marvel at a friend who once wrote a story a day for a newspaper +syndicate. But his case was pathetic. When I saw him last, he was +sitting on a log in the north forest, gloomily estimating how many of +his wretched stories would cover the wood-pulp of the state. His health +was threatened. He was resting from the toil + + "Of dropping buckets into empty wells, + And growing old in drawing nothing up." + +From all this it must appear that the real difficulty is in finding a +sufficient plot. The start of a plot is easy, but it is hard to carry it +on and end it. I myself, on any vacant morning, could get a hero tied +hand and foot inside a cab, but then I would not know where to drive +him. I have thought, in an enthusiastic moment, that he might be lowered +down a manhole through the bottom of the cab. This is an unprecedented +villainy, and I have gone so far as to select a lonely manhole in +Gramercy Park around the corner from the Players' Club. But I am lost +how my hero could be rescued. Covered with muck, I could hardly hope +that his lady would go running to his arms. I have, also, a pretty +pencil for a fight in the ancient style, with swords upon a stairway. +But what then? And what shall I do with the gallant Percival de Vere, +after he has slid down the rope from his beetling dungeon tower? As for +ladies--I could dress up the pretty creatures, but would they move or +speak upon my bidding? No one would more gladly throw a lady and +gentleman on a desert island. At a pinch I flatter myself I could draw a +roaring lion. But in what circumstance should the hungry cannibals +appear? These questions must tax a novelist heavily. + +Or might I not, for copy, strip the front from that building opposite? + + "The whole of the frontage shaven sheer, + The inside gaped: exposed to day, + Right and wrong and common and queer, + Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay." + +Every room contains a story. That chair, the stove, the very tub for +washing holds its secrets. The stairs echo with the tread of a dozen +lives. And in every crowd upon the street I could cast a stone and find +a hero. There is a seamstress somewhere, a locksmith, a fellow with a +shovel. I need but the genius to pluck out the heart of their mystery. +The rumble of the subway is the friction of lives that rub together. The +very roar of cities is the meshing of our human gear. + +I dream of this world I might create. In romantic mood, a castle lifts +its towers into the blue dome of heaven. I issue in spirit with Jeanne +d'Arc from the gate of Orleans, and I play the tragedy with changing +scene until the fires of Rouen have fallen into ashes. I sail the seas +with Raleigh. I scheme with the hump-backed Richard. Out of the north, +with wind and sunlight, my hero comes singing to his adventures. + +It would be glorious fun to create a world, to paint a valley in autumn +colors and set up a village at the crossroads. Housewives chatter at +their wash-lines. Wheels rattle on the wooden bridge. Old men doze on +the grocery bench. And now let's throw the plot, at a hazard, around the +lovely Susan, the grocer's clerk. For her lover we select a young +garage-man, the jest of the village, who tinkers at an improvement of a +carburetor. The owner of a thousand acres on the hill shall be our +villain--a wastrel and a gambler. There is a mortgage on his acres. He +is pressed for payment. He steals the garage-man's blueprints. And now +it is night. Susan dearly loves a movie. The Orpheum is eight miles off. +Painted Cupids. Angels with trumpets. The villain. An eight-cylindered +runabout. Susan. B-r-r-r-r! The movie. The runabout again. A lonely +road. Just a kiss, my pretty girl. Help! Help! Chug! Chug! Aha! Foiled! +The garage-man. You cur! You hound! Take that! And that! Susan. The +garage-man. The blueprints. Name the happy day. Oh, joy! Oh, bliss! + +It would be fun to model these little worlds and set them up to cool. + +Is it any wonder that there are a million stars across the night? God +Himself enjoyed the vast creation of His worlds. It was the evening and +the morning of the sixth day when He set his puppets moving in their +stupendous comedy. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Circus Days. + + +There have been warm winds out of the south for several days, soft rains +have teased the daffodils into blossom along the fences, and this +morning I heard the first clicking of a lawn-mower. It seems but +yesterday that winter was tugging at the chimneys, that March freshets +were brawling in the gutters; but, with the shifting of the cock upon +the steeple, the spring comes from its hiding in the hills. At this +moment, to prove the changing of the season, a street organ plays +beneath my window. It is a rather miserable box and is stocked with +sentimental tunes for coaxing nickels out of pity. Its inlaid mahogany +is soiled with travel. It has a peg-leg and it hangs around the +musician's neck as if weary of the road. "Master," it seems to say, "may +we sit awhile? My old stump is wearing off." And yet on this warm +morning in the sunlight there is almost a touch of frolic in the box. A +syncopation attempts a happier temper. It has sniffed the fragrant air, +and desires to put a better face upon its troubles. + +The housemaid next door hangs out the Monday's garments to dry, and +there is a pleasant flapping of legs and arms as if impatient for +partners in a dance. Must a petticoat sit unasked when the music plays? +Surely breeches and stockings will not hold back when a lively skirt +shall beckon. A slow waltz might even tempt aunty's night-gown off the +line. If only a vegetable man would come with a cart of red pieplant and +green lettuce and offer his gaudy wares along the street, then the +evidence of spring would be complete. + +But there is even better evidence at hand. This morning I noticed that a +circus poster had been pasted on the billboard near the school-house. +Several children and I stopped to see the wonders that were promised. +Then the school-bell rang and they dawdled off. At Stratford, also, once +upon a time, boys with shining morning faces crept like snails to +school. Were there circus billboards in so remote a day? The pundits, +bleared with search, are strangely silent. This morning it will be a +shrewd lesson that keeps the children's thoughts from leaping out the +window. Two times two will hardly hold their noses on the desk. + +On the billboard there is the usual blonde with pink legs, balanced on +one toe on a running horse. The clown holds the paper hoop. The band is +blowing itself very red in the face. An acrobat leaps headlong from a +high trapeze. There are five rings, thirty clowns, an amazing variety of +equestrian and slack-wire genius, a galaxy of dazzling beauties; and +every performance includes a dizzy, death-defying dive by a dauntless +dare-devil--on a bicycle from the top of the tent. And of course there +are elephants and performing dogs and fat ladies. One day only--two +performances--rain or shine. + +Does not this kind of billboard stir the blood in these languid days of +spring? It is a tonic to the sober street. It is a shining dial that +marks the coming of the summer. In the winter let barns and fences +proclaim the fashion of our dress and tease us with bargains for the +kitchen. But in the spring, when the wind is from the south, fences have +a better use. They announce the circus. What child now will not come +upon a trot? What student can keep to his solemn book? There is a sleepy +droning from the school-house. The irregular verbs--lawless rascals with +a past--chafe in a dull routine. The clock loiters through the hour. + +It was by mere coincidence that last night on my way home I stopped at a +news-stand for a daily paper, and saw a periodical by the name of the +_Paste-Brush_. On a gay cover was the picture of another blonde--a +sister, maybe, of the lady of the billboard. She was held by an ankle +over a sea of up-turned faces, but by her happy, inverted smile she +seemed unconscious of her danger. + +The _Paste-Brush_ is new to me. I bought a copy, folded its scandalous +cover out of sight and took it home. It proves to be the trade journal +of the circus and amusement-park interests. It announces a circulation +of seventy thousand, which I assume is largely among acrobats, +magicians, fat ladies, clowns, liniment-venders, lion-tamers, Caucasian +Beauties and actors on obscure circuits. + +Now it happens that among a fairly wide acquaintance I cannot boast a +single acrobat or liniment-vender. Nor even a professional fat man. A +friend of mine, it is true, swells in that direction as an amateur, but +he rolls night and morning as a corrective. I did once, also, pass an +agreeable hour at a County Fair with a strong man who bends iron bars in +his teeth. He had picked me from his audience as one of convincing +weight to hang across the bar while he performed his trick. When the +show was done, he introduced me to the Bearded Beauty and a talkative +Mermaid from Chicago. One of my friends, also, has told me that she is +acquainted with a lady--a former pupil of her Sunday school--who leaps +on holidays in the park from a parachute. The bantam champion, too, many +years ago, lived behind us around the corner; but he was a distant hero, +sated with fame, unconscious of our youthful worship. But these meetings +are exceptional and accidental. Most of us, let us assume, find our +acquaintance in the usual walks of life. Last night, therefore, having +laid by the letters of Madame d'Arblay, on whose seven volumes I have +been engaged for a month, I took up the _Paste-Brush_ and was carried at +once into another and unfamiliar world. + +The frontispiece is the big tent of the circus with side-shows in the +foreground. There is a great wheel with its swinging baskets, a +merry-go-round, a Funny Castle, and a sword-swallower's booth. By a +dense crowd around a wagon I am of opinion that here nothing less than +red lemonade is sold. Certainly Jolly Maude, "that mountain of flesh," +holds a distant, surging crowd against the ropes. + +An article entitled "Freaks I Have Known" is worth the reading. You may +care to know that a celebrated missing-link--I withhold the lady's +name--plays solitaire in her tent as she waits her turn. Bearded ladies, +it is asserted, are mostly married and have a fondness for crocheting +out of hours. A certain three-legged boy, "the favorite of applauding +thousands," tried to enlist for the war, but was rejected because he +broke up a pair of shoes. The Wild Man of Borneo lived and died in +Waltham, Massachusetts. If the street and number were given, it would +tempt me to a pilgrimage. Have I not journeyed to Concord and to +Plymouth? Perhaps an old inhabitant--an antique spinster or rheumatic +grocer--can still remember the pranks of the Wild Man's childhood. + +But in the _Paste-Brush_ the pages of advertisement are best. Slot +machines for chewing-gum are offered for sale--Merry-Widow swings, beach +babies (a kind of doll), genuine Tiffany rings that defy the expert, +second-hand saxophones, fountain pens at eight cents each and sofa +pillows with pictures of Turkish beauties. + +But let us suppose that you, my dear sir, are one of those seventy +thousand subscribers and are by profession a tattooer. On the day of +publication with what eagerness you scan its columns! Here is your +opportunity to pick up an improved outfit--"stencils and supplies +complete, with twelve chest designs and a picture of a tattooed lady in +colors, twelve by eighteen, for display. Send for price list." Or if you +have skill in charming snakes and your stock of vipers is running low, +write to the Snake King of Florida for his catalogue. "He treats you +right." Here is an advertisement of an alligator farm. Alligator-wrestlers, +it is said, make big money at popular resorts on the southern circuit. +You take off your shoes and stockings, when the crowd has gathered, and +wade into the slimy pool. It needs only a moderate skill to seize the +fierce creature by his tail and haul him to the shore. A deft movement +throws him on his back. Then you tickle him under the ear to calm him +and pass the hat. + +Here in the _Paste-Brush_ is an announcement of a ship-load of monkeys +from Brazil. Would you care to buy a walrus? A crocodile is easy money +on the Public Square in old-home week. Or perhaps you are a glass-blower +with your own outfit, a ventriloquist, a diving beauty, a lyric tenor or +a nail-eater. If so, here is an agent who will book you through the +West. The small cities and large towns of Kansas yearn for you. Or if +you, my dear madam, are of good figure, the Alamo Beauties, touring in +Mississippi, want your services. Long season. No back pay. + +Would you like to play a tuba in a ladies' orchestra? You are wanted in +Oklahoma. The Sunshine Girls--famous on western circuits--are looking to +augment their number. "Wanted: Woman for Eliza and Ophelia. Also a child +for Eva. Must double as a pony. State salary. Canada theatres." + +It is affirmed that there is money in box-ball, that hoop-la yields a +fortune, that "you mop up the tin" with a huckley-buck. It sounds easy. +I wonder what a huckley-buck is like. I wonder if I have ever seen one. +It must be common knowledge to the readers of the _Paste-Brush_, for the +term is not explained. Perhaps one puts a huckley-buck in a wagon and +drives from town to town. Doubtless it returns a fortune in a County +Fair. Is this not an opportunity for an underpaid school-teacher or slim +seamstress? No longer must she subsist upon a pittance. Here is rest for +her blue, old fingers. Let her write today for a catalogue. She should +choose a huckley-buck of gaudy color, with a Persian princess on the +side, to draw the crowd. Let her stop by the village pump and sound a +stirring blast upon her megaphone. + +Or perhaps you, my dear sir, have been chafing in an indoor job. You +have been hooped through a dreary winter upon a desk. If so, your gloomy +disposition can be mended by a hoop-la booth, whatever it is. "This +way, gentlemen! Try your luck! Positively no blanks. A valuable prize +for everybody." Your stooped shoulders will straighten. Your digestion +will come to order in a month. Or why not run a stand at the beach for +walking-sticks, with a view in the handle of a "dashing French actress +in a daring pose, or the latest picture of President and Mrs. Wilson at +the Peace Conference." + +Or curiosities may be purchased--"two-headed giants, mermaids, +sea-serpents, a devil-child and an Egyptian mummy. New lists ready." A +mummy would be a quiet and profitable companion for our seamstress in +the long vacation. It would need less attention than a sea-serpent. She +should announce the dusty creature as the darling daughter of the +Ptolemies. When the word has gone round, she may sit at ease before the +booth in scarlet overalls and count the dropping nickels. With what +vigor will she take to her thimble in the autumn! + +Out in Gilmer, Texas, there is a hog with six legs--"alive and healthy. +Five hundred dollars take it." Here is a merchant who will sell you +"snake, frog and monkey tights." After your church supper, on the stage +of the Sunday school, surely, in such a costume, my dear madam, you +could draw a crowd. Study the trombone and double your income. Can you +yodle? "It can be learned at home, evenings, in six easy lessons." + +A used popcorn engine is cut in half. A waffle machine will be shipped +to you on trial. Does no one wish to take the road with a five-legged +cow? Here is one for sale--an extraordinary animal that cleaned up sixty +dollars in one afternoon at a County Fair in Indiana. "Walk up, ladies +and gentlemen! The marvel of the age. Plenty of time before the big show +starts. A five-legged cow. Count 'em. Answers to the name of Guenevere. +Shown before all the crowned heads of Europe. Once owned by the Czar of +Russia. Only a dime. A tenth of a dollar. Ten cents. Show about to +start." + +Or perhaps you think it more profitable to buy a steam calliope--some +very good ones are offered second-hand in the _Paste-Brush_--and tour +your neighboring towns. Make a stand at the crossroads under the +soldiers' monument. Give a free concert. Then when the crowd is thick +about you, offer them a magic ointment. Rub an old man for his +rheumatism. Throw away his crutch, clap him on the back and pronounce +him cured. Or pull teeth for a dollar each. It takes but a moment for a +diagnosis. When once the fashion starts, the profitable bicuspids will +drop around you. + +And Funny Castles can be bought. Perhaps you do not know what they are. +They are usual in amusement parks. You and a favorite lady enter, hand +in hand. It is dark inside and if she is of an agreeable timidity she +leans to your support. Only if you are a churl will you deny your arm. +Then presently a fiery devil's head flashes beside you in the passage. +The flooring tilts and wobbles as you step. Here, surely, no lady will +wish to keep her independence. Presently a picture opens in the wall. It +is souls in hell, or the Queen of Sheba on a journey. Then a sharp draft +ascends through an opening in the floor. Your lady screams and minds her +skirts. A progress through a Funny Castle, it is said, ripens the +greenest friendship. Now take the lady outside, smooth her off and +regale her with a lovers' sundae. Funny Castles, with wind machines, a +Queen of Sheba almost new, and devil's head complete, can be purchased. +Remit twenty-five per cent with order. The balance on delivery. + +Perhaps I am too old for these high excitements. Funny Castles are +behind me. Ladies of the circus, alas! who ride in golden chariots are +no longer beautiful. Cleopatra in her tinsel has sunk to the common +level. Clowns with slap-sticks rouse in me only a moderate delight. + +At this moment, as I write, the clock strikes twelve. It is noon and +school is out. There is a slamming of desks and a rush for caps. The +boys scamper on the stairs. They surge through the gate. The acrobat on +the billboard greets their eyes--the clown, also the lady with the pink +legs. They pause. They gather in a circle. They have fallen victims to +her smile. They mark the great day in their memory. + +The wind is from the south. The daffodils flourish along the fences. The +street organ hangs heavily on its strap. There will be a parade in the +morning. The freaks will be on their platforms by one o'clock. The great +show starts at two. I shall buy tickets and take Nepos, my nephew. + +[Illustration] + + + + +In Praise of a Lawn-Mower. + + +I do not recall that anyone has written the praises of a lawn-mower. I +seem to sow in virgin soil. One could hardly expect a poet to lift up +his voice on such a homely theme. By instinct he prefers the more +rhythmic scythe. Nor, on the other hand, will mechanical folk pay a full +respect to a barren engine without cylinders and motive power. But to me +it is just intricate enough to engage the interest. I can trace the +relation of its wheels and knives, and see how the lesser spinning +starts the greater. In a printing press, on the contrary, I hear only +the general rattle. Before a gas-engine, also, I am dumb. Its sixteen +processes to an explosion baffle me. I could as easily digest a machine +for setting type. I nod blankly, as if a god explained the motion of the +stars. Even when I select a motor I take it merely on reputation and by +bouncing on the cushions to test its comfort. + +It has been a great many years since I was last intimate with a +lawn-mower. My acquaintance began in the days when a dirty face was the +badge of freedom. One early Saturday morning I was hard at work before +breakfast. Mother called down through the upstairs shutters, at the +first clicking of the knives, to ask if I wore my rubbers in the dew. +With the money earned by noon, I went to Conrad's shop. The season for +tops and marbles had gone by. But in the window there was a peerless +baseball with a rubber core, known as a _cock-of-the-walk_. By +indecision, even by starting for the door, I bought it a nickel off +because it was specked by flies. + +It did not occur to me last week, at first, that I could cut the grass. +I talked with an Irishman who keeps the lawn next door. He leaned on his +rake, took his pipe from his mouth and told me that his time was full. +If he had as many hands as a centipede--so he expressed himself--he +could not do all the work that was asked of him. The whole street +clamored for his service. Then I talked with an Italian on the other +side, who comes to work on a motor-cycle with his lawn-mower across his +shoulder. His time was worth a dollar an hour, and he could squeeze me +in after supper and before breakfast. But how can I consistently write +upstairs--I am puttering with a novel--with so expensive a din sounding +in my ears? My expected royalties shrink beside such swollen pay. So I +have become my own yard-man. + +Last week I had the lawn-mower sharpened, but it came home without +adjustment. It went down the lawn without clipping a blade. What a +struggle I had as a child getting the knives to touch along their entire +length! I remember it as yesterday. What an ugly path was left when they +cut on one side only! My bicycle chain, the front wheel that wobbled, +the ball-bearings in the gear, none of these things were so perplexing. +Last week I got out my screw-driver with somewhat of my old feeling of +impotence. I sat down on the grass with discouragement in contemplation. +One set of screws had to be loosened while another set was tightened, +and success lay in the delicacy of my advance. What was my amazement to +discover that on a second trial my mower cut to its entire width! Even +when I first wired a base-plug and found that the table lamp would +really light, I was not more astonished. + +This success with the lawn-mower has given me hope. I am not, as I am +accused, all thumbs. I may yet become a handy man around the house. Is +the swirl of furnace pipes inside my intellect? Perhaps I can fix the +leaky packing in the laundry tubs, and henceforth look on the plumber as +an equal brother. My dormant brain cells at last are wakened. But I must +curb myself. I must not be too useful. There is no rest for a handy man. +It is ignorance that permits a vacant holiday. At most I shall admit a +familiarity with base-plugs and picture-wire and rubber washers--perhaps +even with canvas awnings, which smack pleasantly of the sea--but I shall +commit myself no further. + +Once in a while I rather enjoy cleaning the garage--raking down the +cobwebs from the walls and windows with a stream from the hose--puddling +the dirt into the central drain. I am ruthless with old oil cans and +with the discarded clothing of the chauffeur we had last month. Why is +an old pair of pants stuffed so regularly in the tool drawer? There is a +barrel at the alley fence--but I shall spare the details. It was the +river Alpheus that Hercules turned through the Augean stables. They had +held three thousand oxen and had not been cleaned for thirty years. Dear +me! I know oxen. I rank this labor ahead of the killing of the Hydra, or +fetching the golden apples of the Hesperides. Our garage can be +sweetened with a hose. + +But I really like outside work. Last week I pulled up a quantity of dock +and dandelions that were strangling the grass. And I raked in seed. This +morning, when I went out for the daily paper, I saw a bit of tender +green. The Reds, as I noticed in the headline of the paper, were +advancing on Warsaw. France and England were consulting for the defense +of Poland, but I ignored these great events and stood transfixed in +admiration before this shimmer of new grass. + +Our yard, fore and aft, is about an afternoon's work. And now that I +have cut it once I have signed up for the summer. It requires just the +right amount of intelligence. I would not trust myself to pull weeds in +the garden. M---- has the necessary skill for this. I might pull up the +Canterbury bells which, out of season, I consider unsightly stalks. And +I do not enjoy clipping the grass along the walks. It is a kind of +barber's job. But I like the long straightaways, and I could wish that +our grass plot stretched for another hundred feet. + +And I like the sound of a lawn-mower. It is such a busy click and +whirr. It seems to work so willingly. Not even a sewing-machine has +quite so brisk a tempo. And when a lawn-mower strikes a twig, it stops +suddenly on its haunches with such impatience to be off again. "Bend +over, won't you," it seems to say, "and pull out that stick. These trees +are a pesky nuisance. They keep dropping branches all the while. Now +then! Are we ready? Whee! What's an apple? I can cut an apple all to +flinders. You whistle and I'll whirr. Let's run down that slope +together!" + + + + +On Dropping Off to Sleep. + + +I sleep too well--that is, I go to sleep too soon. I am told that I pass +a few minutes of troubled breathing--not vulgar snores, but a kind of +uneasy ripple on the shore of wakefulness--then I drift out with the +silent tide. Doubtless I merit no sympathy for my perfection--and yet-- + +Well, in the first place, lately we have had windy, moonlit nights and +as my bed sets at the edge of the sleeping porch and the rail cuts off +the earth, it is like a ride in an aëroplane to lie awake among the torn +and ragged clouds. I have cast off the moorings of the sluggish world. +Our garden with its flowering path, the coop for our neighbor's +chickens, the apple tree, all have sunk from sight. The prow of my plane +is pitched across the top of a waving poplar. Earth's harbor lights are +at the stern. The Pleiades mark the channel to the open sky. I must hang +out a lantern to fend me from the moon. + +I shall keep awake for fifteen minutes, I think. Perhaps I can recall +Keats's sonnet to the night: + + "When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, + Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance--" + +and those lines of Milton about the moon rising in clouded majesty, +unveiling her peerless light. + +Here a star peeps out. Presently its companions will show themselves +and I shall know the constellation. Are they playing like little +children at hide-and-seek? Do I catch Arcturus looking from its cover? +Shall I shout hi-spy to Alpha Lyra? A shooting star, that has crouched +behind a cloud, runs home to the goal untagged. Surely these glistening +worlds cannot be hard-fisted planets like our own, holding a close +schedule across the sky. They have looted the shining treasure of the +sunset. They sail the high fantastic seas like caravels blown from +India. In the twilight they have lifted vagrant anchors and they will +moor in strange havens at the dawn. + +Are not these ragged clouds the garment of the night? Like the beggar +maiden of an ancient tale she runs with flying raiment. She unmasks her +beauty when the world's asleep. And the wind, like an eager prince upon +his wooing, rides out of the stormy north. + +And then! Poof! Sleep draws its dark curtain across the glittering +pageant-- + +Presently I hear Annie, the cook, on the kitchen steps below, beating me +up to breakfast. She sounds her unwelcome reveille on a tin pan with an +iron spoon. Her first alarm I treat with indifference. It even weaves +itself pleasantly into my dreams. I have been to a circus lately, let us +say, and this racket seems to be the tom-tom of a side-show where a thin +gentleman swallows snakes. Nor does a second outburst stir me. She only +tries the metal and practices for the later din. At the third alarm I +rise, for now she nurses a mighty wrath. I must humor the angry creature +lest in her fury she push over a shelf of crockery. There is a cold +jump for slippers--a chilly passage. + +I passed a week lately at a country hotel where there were a number of +bad sleepers--men broken by the cares of business, but convalescent. +Each morning, as I dressed, I heard them on the veranda outside my +window, exchanging their complaints. "Well," said one, "I slept three +hours last night." "I wish I could," said a second. "I never do," said a +third. No matter how little sleep the first man allowed himself, the +second clipped off an hour. The third man told the bells he had +heard--one and two and three and four--both Baptist and Methodist--and +finished with his preceding competitor at least a half hour down. But +always there was an old man--an ancient man with flowing beard--who +waited until all were done, and concluded the discussion just at the +breakfast gong: _"I never slept a wink."_ This was the perfect score. +His was the golden cup. Whereupon the insomnious veranda hung its +defeated head with shame, and filed into the dining-room to be soothed +and comforted with griddle-cakes. + +This daily contest recalled to me the story of the two men drowned in +the Dayton and Johnstown floods who boasted to each other when they came +to heaven. Has the story gone the rounds? For a while they were the +biggest lions among all the angels, and harps hung untuned and neglected +in their presence. As often as they met in the windy portico of heaven, +one of these heroes, falling to reminiscence of the flood that drowned +him, lifted the swirling water of Johnstown to the second floor. The +other hero, not to be outdone, drenched the Dayton garrets. The first +was now compelled to submerge a chimney. Turn by turn they mounted in +competition to the top of familiar steeples. But always an old man sat +by--an ancient man with flowing beard--who said "Fudge!" in a tone of +great contempt. Must I continue? Surely you have guessed the end. It was +the old mariner himself. It was the survivor of Ararat. It was Noah. +Once, I myself, among these bad sleepers on the veranda, boasted that I +had heard the bells at two o'clock, but I was scorned as an unfledged +novice in their high convention. + +Sleeping too well seems to argue that there is nothing on your mind. +Your head, it is asserted by the jealous, is a vacancy that matches the +empty spaces of the night. It is as void as the untwinkling north. If +there has been a rummage, they affirm, of important matters all day +above your ears, it can hardly be checked at once by popping the tired +head down upon a pillow. These fizzing squibs of thought cannot be +smothered in a blanket. When one has planned a railroad or a revolution, +the mighty churning still progresses in the dark. A dubious franchise +must be gained. Villains must be pricked down for execution. Or bankers +have come up from Paraguay, and one meditates from hour to hour on the +sureness of the loan. Or perhaps an imperfect poem searches for a rhyme, +or the plot of a novel sticks. + +It is the shell, they say, which is fetched from the stormy sea that +roars all night. My head, alas, by the evidence, is a shell which is +brought from a stagnant shore. + +Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! Sleep that knits up the +ravell'd sleave of care! That is all very well, and pretty poetry, but I +am afraid, when everything is said, that I am a sleepy-head. I do not, +of course, have to pinch myself at a business meeting. At high noon I do +not hear the lotus song. I do not topple, full of dreams, off the +platform of a street-car. The sleepy poppy is not always at my nose. + +Nor do I yawn at dinner behind a napkin, or doze in the firelight when +there are guests about. My manners keep me from this boorishness. In an +extremity, if they sit too late, I stir the fire, or I put my head out +of doors for the wind to waken me. I show a sudden anxiety whether the +garage is locked. I pretend that the lawn-mower is left outside, or that +the awnings are loose and flapping. But I do not dash out the lights +when our guests are still upon the steps. I listen at the window until I +hear their motor clear the corner. Then I turn furiously to my buttons. +I kick off my shoes upon the staircase. + +Several of us were camping once in the woods north of Lake Superior. As +we had no guides we did all the work ourselves, and everyone was of +harder endurance than myself. Was it not Pippa who cried out "Morning's +at seven"? Seven! I look on her as being no better than a slug-a-bed. +She should have had her dishes washed and been on her way by six. Our +day began at five. Our tents had to be taken down, our blankets and +duffle packed. We were regularly on the water an hour before Pippa +stirred a foot. And then there were four or five hours of paddling, +perhaps in windy water. And then a new camp was made. Our day matched +the exertions of a traveling circus. In default of expert knowledge I +carried water, cut brouse for the beds and washed dishes. Little jobs, +of an unpleasant nature, were found for me as often as I paused. Others +did the showy, light-fingered work. I was housemaid and roustabout from +sunrise to weary sunset. I was never allowed to rest. Nor was I +permitted to flop the bacon, which I consider an easy, sedentary +occupation. I acquired, unjustly,--let us agree in this!--a reputation +for laziness, because one day I sat for several hours in a blueberry +patch, when work was going forward. + +And then one night, when all labor seemed done and there was an hour of +twilight, I was asked to read aloud. Everyone settled himself for a +feast of Shakespeare's sonnets. But it was my ill luck that I selected +the sonnet that begins, "Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed." A great +shout went up--a shout of derision. That night I read no more. I carried +up six or eight pails of water from the spring and followed the +sonneteer's example. + +There are a great many books that I would like to read of a winter's +evening if I could stay awake--all of the histories, certainly, of +Fiske. And Rhodes, perhaps. I might even read "The Four Horsemen," +"Trilby" and "The Education of Henry Adams," so as not to be alone. It +is snug by the fire, and the very wind taps on the window as if it asked +for invitation to share the hearth. I could compile a list, a five-foot +shelf, for these nights of tempest. There is a writer in a Boston paper +who tells us every week the books that he would like to read. His is a +prospect rather than a review, for it is based on his anticipation. But +does he ever read these books? Perhaps he, too, dozes. His book slips +off his knee and his chin drops to comfort on his front. Let me inform +him that a wood fire--if the logs are hardly dry--is a corrective. Its +debility, as water oozes at the end, requires attendance every five +minutes. Even Wardle's fat boy at Manor Farm could have lasted through +the evening if the poker had been forced into his hand so often. "I +read," says Tennyson, "before my eyelids dropt their shade." And wasn't +Alice sitting with her book when she fell asleep and down the +rabbit-hole? "And so to bed," writes Pepys. He, too, then, is one of us. + +I wonder if that phrase--he who runs may read--has not a deeper +significance than lies upon the surface. Perhaps the prophet--was it +Habakkuk who wrote the line?--it does not matter--perhaps the bearded +prophet had himself the sleepy habit, and kept moving briskly for remedy +around his study. I can see him in dressing-gown and slippers, with book +in hand--his whiskers veering in the wind--quickening his lively pace +around the kerosene lamp, steering among the chairs, stumbling across +the cat-- + +In ambition I am a night-hawk. I would like to sit late with old books +and reconstruct the forgotten world at midnight. These bells that I hear +now across the darkness are the mad bells of Saint Bartholomew. With +that distant whistle--a train on the B. & O.--Guy Fawkes gathers his +villains to light the fuse. Through my window from the night I hear the +sounds of far-off wars and kingdoms falling. + +And I would like, also, at least in theory, to sit with a merry company +of friends, and let the cannikin clink till dawn. + +I would like to walk the streets of our crowded city and marvel at the +windows--to speculate on the thousand dramas that weave their webs in +our common life. Here is mirth that shakes its sides when its neighbors +sleep. Here is a hungry student whose ambition builds him rosy castles. +Here is a light at a fevered pillow where hope burns dim. + +On some fairy night I would wish to wander in the woods, when there are +dancing shadows and a moon. Here Oberon holds state. Here Titania +sleeps. I would cross a silver upland. I would stand on a barren +hill-top, like the skipper of the world in its whirling voyage. + +But these high accomplishments are beyond me. Habakkuk and the fat boy, +and Alice and Pepys and I, and all the others, must be content. Even the +wet wood and the poker fail. The very wind grows sleepy at the window. +Our chins fall forward. Our books slip off our knees. + +And now, at last, our buoyant bed floats among the stars. I have cast +off the moorings of the sluggish world. Earth's harbor lights are at the +stern. The Pleiades mark the channel to the moon-- + +Poof! Sleep draws again its dark curtain across the glittering pageant. + + + + +Who Was Jeremy? + + +Who was Jeremy Bentham? I have run on his name recently two or three +times. I could, of course, find out. The Encyclopedia--volume _Aus to +Bis_--would enlighten me. Right now, downstairs in the bookcase--up near +the top where the shabby books are kept--among the old Baedekers--there +is a life of him by Leslie Stephen. No! That is a life of Hobbes. I +don't know anything about Hobbes either. It seems to me that he wrote +the "Leviathan," whatever that was. But there is a Bentham somewhere +around the house. But I have not read it. + +In a rough way I know who Bentham was. He lived perhaps a hundred years +ago and he had a theory of utility. Utility was to clean the infected +world. Even the worst of us were to rise out of the tub white and +perfect. It was Bentham who wished to revisit the world in a hundred +years to see how sweet and clean we had become. He was to utility what +Malthus was to population. Malthus! There is another hard one. It is the +kind of name that is cut round the top of a new City Hall to shame +citizens by their ignorance. + +I can go downstairs this minute and look up Bentham. Is it worth while? +But then I might be called to dinner in the middle of the article, or I +might be wanted to move the refrigerator. There is a musty smell, it +seems, in the drain pipe, and the stubborn casters are turned sidewise. +It hardly seems worth the chance and effort. + +There are a great many things that really do stir my curiosity, and even +those things I don't look up. Or tardily, after my ignorance has been +exposed. The other day the moon arose--as a topic--at the round table of +the club where I eat lunch. It had really never occurred to me that we +had never seen its other side, that we never could--except by a +catastrophe--unless it smashed into a planet and was thrown heels up. +How does it keep itself so balanced that one face is forever hid? Try to +roll an apple around a pumpkin and meanwhile spin the pumpkin. Try this +on your carpet. I take my hat off to the moon. + +I have been very ignorant of the moon. All of these years I have +regarded it as a kindly creature that showed itself now and then merely +on a whim. It was just jogging around of an evening, so I supposed, and +looked us up. It was an old neighbor who dropped in after dinner, as it +were, for a bit of gossip and an apple. But even the itinerant +knife-grinder--whose whirling wheel I can hear this minute below me in +the street--even the knife-grinder has a route. He knows at what season +we grow dull. What necessity, then, of ours beckons to the moon? Perhaps +it comes with a silver brush to paint the earth when it grows shabby +with the traffic of the day. Perhaps it shows itself to stir a lover who +halts coldly in his suit. The pink god, they say, shoots a dangerous +arrow when the moon is full. + +The extent of my general ignorance is amazing. And yet, I suppose, by +persistence and energy I could mend it. Old Doctor Dwight used to advise +those of us who sat in his classroom to read a hard book for half an +hour each day. How those half hours would mount up through the years! +What a prodigious background of history, of science, of literature, one +would gain as the years revolved! If I had followed his advice I would +today be bursting with knowledge of Jeremy Bentham; I would never have +been tripped upon the moon. + +How ignorant most of us are of the times in which we live! We see the +smoke and fires of revolution in Europe. We hear the cries of famine and +disease, but our perception is lost in the general smudge. How are the +Balkans parceled? How is the nest of nationalities along the Danube +disposed? This morning there is revolt in Londonderry. What parties are +opposite in the quarrel? Trouble brews in Chile. Is Tacni-Arica a +district or a mountain range? The Åland Islands breed war in the north. +Today there is a casualty list from Bagdad. The Bolsheviki advance on +Warsaw. Those of us who are cobblers tap our shoes unruffled, tailors +stitch, we bargain in the market--all of us go about on little errands +without excitement when the news is brought. + +And then there is mechanics. This is now so preeminently a mechanical +world that no one ought to be entirely ignorant of cylinders and cogs +and carburetors. And yet my own motor is as dark as Africa. I am as +ignorant of a carburetor as of the black stomach of a zebra. Once a +carpenter's bench was given me at Christmas, fitted up with all manner +of tricky tools. The bookshelves I built in my first high enthusiasm +have now gone down to the basement to hold the canned fruit, where they +lean with rickets against the wall. Even the box I made to hold the milk +bottles on the back steps has gone the way of flesh. Any chicken-coop of +mine would topple in the wind. Well-instructed hens would sit around on +fence-posts and cackle at my efforts with a saw. Certainly, if a company +of us were thrown on a desert island, it would not be I who proved the +Admirable Crichton. Not by my shrewdness could we build a hut. Robinson +Crusoe contrived a boat. If I tied a raft together it would be sure to +sink. + +Where are the Virgin Islands? What makes a teapot bubble? What forces +bring the rain and tempest? + +In cooking I go no farther than an egg. Birds, to me, are either +sparrows or robins. I know an elm and a maple, but hemlocks and pines +and firs mix me up. I am not to be trusted to pull the weeds. Up would +come the hollyhocks. Japanese prints and Chinese vases sit in a world +above me. + +I can thump myself in front without knowing whether I jar my stomach or +my liver. I have no notion where my food goes when it disappears. When +once I have tilted my pudding off its spoon my knowledge ceases. It is +as a child of Israel on journey in the wilderness. Does it pass through +my thorax? And where do my lungs branch off? + +I know nothing of etchings, and I sit in gloomy silence when friends +toss Whistler and Rembrandt across the table. I know who our mayor is, +but I scratch my head to name our senator. And why does the world +crumple up in hills and mountains? + +I could look up Jeremy Bentham and hereafter I would know all about him. +And I could look up the moon. And Hobbes. And Leslie Stephen, who wrote +a book about him. And a man named Maitland who wrote a life of Stephen. +Somebody must have written about Maitland. I could look him up, too. And +I could read about the Balkans and tell my neighbors whether they are +tertiary or triassic. I could pursue the thorax to its lair. Saws and +chicken-coops, no doubt, are an engaging study. I might take a tree-book +to the country, or seek an instructive job in a garage. + +But what is the use? Right in front of Jeremy Bentham, in _Aus to Bis_, +is George Bentham, an English botanist. To be thorough I would have to +read about him also. Then following along is Bentivoglio, and Benzene--a +long article on benzene. And Beowulf! No educated person should be quite +ignorant of him. Albrecht Bitzius was a Swiss novelist. Somehow he has +escaped me entirely. And Susanna Blamire, "the muse of Cumberland"! She +sounds engaging. Who is there so incurious that he would not give an +evening to Borneo? And the Bryophyta?--which I am glad to learn include +"the mosses and the liverworts." Dear me! it is quite discouraging. + +And then, when I am gaining information on Hobbes, the Hittites, right +in front, take my eye. Hilarius wrote "light verses of the goliardic +type"--whatever that means. And the hippopotamus! "the largest +representative of the non-ruminating artiodactyle ungulate mammals." I +must sit with the hippopotamus and worm his secret. + +And after I have learned to use the saw, I would have to take up the +plane. And then the auger. And Whistler. And Japanese prints. And a bird +book. + +It is very discouraging. + +I stand with Pope. Certainly, unless one is very thirsty and has a great +deal of vacant time, it is best to avoid the Pierian spring. + +Jeremy can go and hang himself. I am learning to play golf. + + + + +A Chapter for Children. + + +Once upon a time--for this is the way a story should begin--there lived +in a remote part of the world a family of children whose father was busy +all day making war against his enemies. And so, as their mother, also, +was busy (clubs, my dear, and parties), they were taken care of and had +their noses wiped--but in a most kindly way--by an old man who loved +them very much. + +Now this old man had been a jester in his youth. For these were the +children of a king and so, of course, they had a jester, just as you and +I, if we are rich, have a cook. He had been paid wages--I don't know how +many kywatskies--merely to stand in the dining-room and say funny +things, and nobody asked him to jump around for the salt or to hurry up +the waffles. And he didn't even brush up the crumbs afterward. + +I do not happen to know the children of any king--there is not a single +king living on our street--yet, except for their clothes, they are much +like other children. Of course they wear shinier clothes. It is not the +shininess that comes from sliding down the stair rail, but a royal +shininess, as though it were always eleven o'clock on Sunday morning and +the second bell of the Methodist church were ringing, with several +deacons on the steps. For if one's father is a king, ambassadors and +generals keep dropping in all the time, and queens, dressed up in +brocade so stiff you can hear them breathe. + +One day the children had been sliding down hill in the snow--on Flexible +Flyers, painted red--and their mittens and stockings were wet. So the +old man felt their feet--tickling their toes--and set them, bare-legged, +in a row, in front of the nursery fire. And he told them a story. + +"O children of the king!" he began, and with that he wiped their noses +all round, for it had been a cold day, when even the best-mannered +persons snuffle now and then. "O children of the king!" he began again, +and then he stopped to light a taper at the fire. For he was a wise old +man and he knew that when there is excitement in a tale, a light will +keep the bogies off. This old man could tell a story so that your eyes +opened wider and wider, as they do when Annie brings in ice-cream with +raspberry sauce. And once in a while he said Odd Zooks, and God-a-Mercy +when he forgot himself. + +"Once upon a time," he began, "there lived a king in a far-off country. +To get to that country, O children of a king, you would have to turn and +turn, and spell out every signpost. And then you climb up the sides of +seventeen mountains, and swim twenty-three streams precisely. Here you +wait till dusk. But just before the lamps are lighted, you get down on +all-fours--if you are a boy (girls, I believe, don't have +all-fours)--and crawl under the sofa. Keep straight on for an hour or so +with the coal-scuttle three points starboard, but be careful not to let +your knees touch the carpet, for that wears holes in them and spoils the +magic. Then get nurse to pull you out by the hind legs--and--_there you +are_. + +"Once upon a time, then, there lived a king with a ferocious moustache +and a great sword which rattled when he walked around the house. He made +scratches all over the piano legs, but no one felt like giving him a +paddy-whack. This king had a pretty daughter. + +"Now it is a sad fact that there was a war going on. It was between this +king who had the pretty daughter and another king who lived near by, on +an adjoining farm, so to speak. And the first king had sworn by his +halidome--and at this his court turned pale--that he would take his +enemy by his blasted nose. + +"Both of these kings lived in castles whose walls were thick and whose +towers were high. And around their tops were curious indentings that +looked as your teeth would look if every other one were pulled. These +castles had moats with lily pads and green water in them, which was not +at all healthful, except that persons in those days did not know about +it and were consequently just as well off. And there were jousting +fields and soup caldrons (with a barrel of animal crackers) and a tun of +lemonade (six glasses to a lemon)--everything to make life comfortable. + +"Here's a secret. The other king who lived near by was in love with the +first king's daughter. Here are two kings fighting each other, and one +of them in love with the other's daughter, but not saying a word about +it. + +"Now the second king--the one in love--was not very fierce, and his name +was King Muffin--which suggests pleasant thoughts--whereas the first +king with the beautiful daughter was called King Odd Zooks, Zooks the +Sixth, for he was the sixth of his powerful line. And my story is to +show how King Muffin got the better of King Zooks and married his +daughter. It was a clever piece of business, for the walls of the castle +were high, and the window of the Princess was way above the trees. King +Muffin didn't even know which her window was, for it did not have any +lace curtains and it looked no better than the cook's, except that the +cook sometimes on Monday tied her stockings to the curtain cord to dry. +And of course if King Muffin had come openly to the castle, the guards +would have cut him all to bits. + +"One day in June King Muffin was out on horseback. He had left his crown +at home and was wearing his third-best clothes, so you would have +thought that he was just an ordinary man. But he was a good horseman; +that is, he wasn't thinking every minute about falling off, but sat +loosely, as one might sit in a rocking-chair. + +"The country was beautiful and green, and in the sky there were puffy +clouds that looked the way a pop-over looks before it turns brown--a big +pop-over that would stuff even a hungry giant up to his ears. And there +was a wind that wiggled everything, and the noise of a brook among the +trees. Also, there were birds, but you must not ask me their names, for +I am not good at birds. + +"King Muffin, although he was a brave man, loved a pleasant day. So he +turned back his collar at the throat in order that the wind might tickle +his neck and he dropped his reins on his horse's back in a careless way +that wouldn't be possible on a street where there were trolley-cars. In +this fashion he rode on for several miles and sang to himself a great +many songs. Sometimes he knew the words and sometimes he said _tum tum +te tum tum_, but he kept to the tune. + +"King Muffin enjoyed his ride so much that before he knew it he was out +of his own kingdom and at least six parasangs in the kingdom of King +Zooks. _My dear, use your handkerchief!_ + +"And even then King Muffin would not have realized it, except that on +turning a corner he saw a young man lying under a tree in a suit that +was half green and half yellow. King Muffin knew him at once to be a +jester--but whose? King Zooks's jester, of course, his mortal enemy. For +jesters have to go off by themselves once in a while to think up new +jokes, and no other king lived within riding distance. Really, the +jester was thinking of rhymes to _zithern_, which is the name of the +curious musical instrument he carried, and is a little like a mandolin, +only harder to play. It cannot be learned in twelve easy lessons. And +the jester was making a sorry business of it, for it is a difficult +word to find rhymes to, as you would know if you tried. He was terribly +woeful. + +"King Muffin said 'Whoa' and stopped his horse. Then he said 'Good +morning, fellow,' in the kind of superior tone that kings use. + +"The jester got off the ground and, as he did not know that Muffin was a +king, he sneezed; for the ground was damp. It was a slow sneeze in +coming, for the ground was not very wet, and he stood waiting for it +with his mouth open and his eyes squinting. So King Muffin waited too, +and had a moment to think. And as kings think very fast, very many +thoughts came to him. So, by the time the sneeze had gone off like a +shower bath, and before the pipes filled up for another, some +interesting things had occurred to him. Well! things about the Princess +and how he might get a chance to speak with her. But he said: + +"'Ho, ho! Methinks King Zooks's jester has the snuffles.' + +"At this, Jeppo--for that was the jester's name--looked up with a wry +face, for he still kept a sneeze inside him which he couldn't dislodge. + +"'By my boots and spurs!' the King cried again, 'you are a woeful +jester.' + +"Jeppo _was_ woeful. For on this very night King Zooks was to give a +grand dinner--not a simple dinner such as you have at home with Annie +passing dishes and rattling the pie around the pantry--but a dinner for +a hundred persons, generals and ambassadors, all dressed in lace and +eating from gold plates. And of course everyone would look to Jeppo for +something funny--maybe a new song with twenty verses and a +_rol-de-rol-rol chorus_, which everyone could sing even if he didn't +know the words. And Jeppo didn't know a single new thing. He had tried +to write something, but had stuck while trying to think of a rhyme for +_zithern_. So of course he was woeful. And King Muffin knew it. + +"All this while King Muffin was thinking hard, although he didn't scowl +once, for some persons can think without scowling. He wished so much to +see the Princess, and yet he knew that if he climbed the tallest tree he +couldn't reach her window. And even if he found a ladder long enough, as +likely as not he would lean it up against the cook's window, not +noticing the stockings on the curtain cord. King Muffin should have +looked glum. But presently he smiled. + +"'Jeppo,' he said, 'what would you say if I offered to change places +with you? Here you are fretting about that song of yours and the dinner +only a few hours off. You will be flogged tomorrow, sure, for being so +dull tonight. Just change clothes with me and go off and enjoy yourself. +Sit in a tavern! Spend these kywatskies!' Here King Muffin rattled his +pocket. 'I'll take your place. I know a dozen songs, and they will +tickle your king until, goodness me! he will cry into his soup.' King +Muffin really didn't give King Zooks credit for ordinary manners, but +then he was his mortal enemy, and prej'iced. + +"Well, Jeppo _was_ terribly woeful and that word _zithern_ was +bothering him. There was _pithern_ and _dithern_ and _mithern_. He had +tried them all, but none of them seemed to mean anything. So he looked +at King Muffin, who sat very straight on his horse, for he wasn't at all +afraid of him, although he was a tall horse and had nostrils that got +bigger and littler all the time; and back legs that twitched. Meanwhile +King Muffin twirled a gold chain in his fingers. Then Jeppo looked at +King Muffin's clothes and saw that they were fashionable. Then he looked +at his hat and there was a yellow feather in it. And those kywatskies. +King Muffin, just to tease him, twirled his moustache, as kings will. + +"So the bargain was made. There was a thicket near, so dense that it +would have done for taking off your clothes when you go swimming. In +this thicket King Muffin and Jeppo exchanged clothes. Of course Jeppo +had trouble with the buttons for he had never dressed in such fine +clothes before, and many of a king's buttons are behind. + +"And now, when the exchange was made, Jeppo inquired where he would find +an expensive tavern with brass pull-handles on the lemonade vat, and he +rode off, licking his lips and jingling his kywatskies. But King Muffin, +dressed as a jester, vaulted on his horse and trotted in the direction +of King Zooks's castle, which had indentings around the top like a row +of teeth if every other one were pulled. + +"And after a little while it became night. It is my private opinion, my +dear, which I shall whisper in the middle of your ear--the outer flap +being merely ornamental and for 'spection purposes--that the sun is +afraid of the dark, because you never see him around after nightfall. +Bless you, he goes off to bed before twilight and tucks himself to the +chin before you or I would even think of lighting a candle. And, on my +word, he prefers to sleep in the basement. He goes down the back stairs +and cuddles behind the furnace. And he has the bad habit, mercy! of +reading in bed. A good half hour after he should be sound asleep, you +can see the reflection of his candle on the evening clouds." + +At this point the old man paused a bit, to see if the children were +still awake. Then he wiped their noses all around, not forgetting the +youngest with the fat legs, and began again. + +"During all this time King Zooks had been getting ready for the party, +trying on shiny coats, and getting his silk stockings so that the seams +at the back went straight up and didn't wind around, which is the way +they naturally do unless you are particular. And he put a clean +handkerchief into every pocket, in case he sneezed in a hurry--for King +Zooks was a lavish dresser. + +"His wife was dressing in another room, keeping three maids busy with +safety pins and powder-puffs, and getting all of the snarls out of her +hair. And, in still another room of the castle, his daughter was +dressing. Now his wife was a nice-looking woman, like nurse, except that +she wore stiff brocade and didn't jounce. But his daughter was +beautiful and didn't need a powder-puff. + +"When they were all dressed they met outside, just to ask questions of +one another about handkerchiefs and noses and behind the ears. The +Queen, also, wished to be very sure that there wasn't a hole in the heel +of her stocking, for she wore black stockings, which makes it worse. +King Zooks was fond of his wife and fond of his daughter, and when he +was with them he did not look so fierce. He kissed both of them, but +when he kissed his daughter--which was the better fun--he took hold of +her nose--but in a most kindly way--so that her face wouldn't slip. + +"Then they went down the marble stairs, with flunkies bowing up and +down. + +"But how worried King Zooks would have been if he had known that at that +very moment his enemy, King Muffin, was coming into the castle, +disguised as a jester. Nobody stopped King Muffin, for wandering jesters +were common in those days. + +"And now the party started with all its might. + +"King Zooks offered his arm to the wife of the Ambassador, and Queen +Zooks offered hers to the General of the army. There was a fight around +the Princess, but she said _eenie meenie minie moe, catch a nigger by +the toe_ and counted them all out but one. And so they went down another +marble stairway to the dining-room, where a band was blowing itself red +in the face--the trombonist, in particular, seeming to be in great +distress. + +"And where was King Muffin? + +"King Muffin came in by the postern--the back stoop, my dear--and he +washed his hands and ears at the kitchen sink and went right up to the +dining-room. And there he was standing behind the King's chair, where +King Zooks couldn't see him but the Princess could. You can see from +this what a crafty person King Muffin was. Queen Zooks, to be sure, +could see him, but she was an unsuspicious person, and was very hungry. +There were waffles for dinner, and when there were waffles she didn't +even talk very much. + +"King Muffin was very funny. He told jokes which were old at his own +castle, but were new to King Zooks. And King Zooks, thinking he was a +real jester, laughed until he cried--only his tears did not get into his +soup, for by that time the soup had been cleared away. A few of them, +however--just a splatter--did fall on his fish, but it didn't matter as +it was a salt fish anyway. But all the guests, inasmuch as they were +eating away from home, had to be more particular. And when the +_rol-de-rol-rol_ choruses came, how King Zooks sang, throwing back his +head and forgetting all about his ferocious moustache! + +"No one enjoyed the fun more than King Muffin. Whenever things quieted +down a bit he said something even funnier than the last. But during all +this time it had not occurred to King Zooks to inquire for Jeppo, or to +ask why a new fool stood behind his chair. He just laughed and nudged +the wife of the Ambassador with his elbow and ate his waffles and +enjoyed himself. + +"So the dinner grew merrier and merrier until at last everyone had had +enough to eat. They would have pushed back a little from the table to be +more comfortable in front, except for their manners. King Zooks was the +last to finish, for the dinner ended with ice-cream and he was fond of +it. He didn't have it ordinary days. In fact he was so eager to get the +last bit that he scraped his spoon round and round upon the dish until +Queen Zooks was ashamed of him. When, finally, he was all through, the +guests folded their napkins and pushed back their chairs until you never +heard such a squeak. A few of them--but these had never been out to +dinner before--had spilled crumbs in their laps and had to brush them +off. + +"And now there was a dance. + +"So King Zooks offered his arm to the wife of the Ambassador and Queen +Zooks offered hers to the General of the army, and they started up the +marble stairway to the ballroom. But what should King Muffin do but skip +up to the Princess while she was still smoothing out her skirts. (Yellow +organdie, my dear, and it musses when you sit on it.) Muffin made a low +bow and kissed her hand. Then he asked her for the first dance. It was +so preposterous that a jester should ask her to dance at all, that +everyone said it was the funniest thing he had done, and they went into +a gale about it on the marble stairway. Even Queen Zooks, who ordinarily +didn't laugh much at jokes, threw back her head and laughed quite +loud--but in a minute, when everybody else was done. And then to +everyone's surprise the Princess consented to dance with King Muffin, +although the General of the army stood by in a kind of empty fashion. +But everybody was so merry, and in particular King Zooks, that no one +minded. + +"King Muffin, when he danced with the Princess, looked at her very hard +and softly, and she looked back at him as if she didn't mind it a bit. +Evidently she knew him despite his disguise. And naturally she knew that +he was in love with her. + +"Now King Muffin hadn't had a thing to eat, for jesters are supposed to +eat at a little table afterwards. If they ate at the big table they +would forget and sing sometimes with their mouths full and you know how +that would sound. So he and the Princess went downstairs to the pantry, +where he ate seven cream puffs and three floating islands, one after the +other, never spilling a bit on his blouse. He called them 'floatin' +Irelands,' having learned it that way as a child, his nurse not +correcting him. Then he felt better and they returned to the ballroom, +where the dance was still going on with all its might. + +"King Muffin took the Princess out on the balcony, which was the place +where young gentlemen, even in those days, took ladies when they had +something particular to say. He shut the door carefully and looked all +around to make sure that there were no spies about, under the chairs, +inside the vases. He even wiggled the rug for fear that there might be +a trapdoor beneath. + +"Did the Princess love King Muffin? Of course she did. But she wasn't +going to let him know it all at once. Ladies never do things like that. +So she looked indifferent, as though she might yawn at any moment. +Despite that, King Muffin told her what was on his mind, and when he was +finished, he looked for an answer. But she didn't say anything, but just +sat quiet and pretended there was a button off her dress. So King Muffin +told it again, and moved up a bit. And this time her head nodded ever so +little. But he saw it. So he reached down in his side pocket, so far +that he had to straighten out his leg to get to the bottom. He brought +up a ring. Then he slipped it on her finger, the next to the longest one +on her left hand. After that he kissed her in a most affectionate way. + +"This was all very well, but of course King Zooks would never consent to +their marriage. And if he discovered that the new jester was King +Muffin, his guards would cut him all to slivers. For a minute they were +woeful. Then a bright idea came to King Muffin-- + +"Meanwhile the dance had been going on with all its might. First the +General of the army danced with Queen Zooks. He was a very manly dancer +and was quite stiff from the waist up, and she bounced around on +tip-toe. Then the Ambassador danced with her, but his sword kept getting +in her way. Then both of them, having done their duty, looked around +for the Princess. They went to the lemonade room, for that was the first +place naturally to look. Then they went to the cardroom, where the older +persons were playing casino, and were sitting very solemn, as if it were +not a party at all. + +"Then they went to King Zooks, who was jiggling on his toes, with his +back to the fire, full and happy. 'Where is your daughter, Majestical +Majesty?' they asked. But as King Zooks didn't know he joined the +search, and Queen Zooks, too. But she wasn't much good at it, for she +had a long train and she couldn't turn a corner sharp, although her +maids trotted after her and whisked it about as fast as possible. + +"But they couldn't find the Princess anywhere inside the castle. + +"After a while it occurred to King Zooks that the cook might know. She +had gone to bed--leaving her dishes until morning--so up they climbed. +She answered from under the covers, 'Whajuwant?' which shows that she +didn't talk English and was probably a Spanish cook or an Indian +princess captured very young. So she got up, all excited. My! how she +scuffed around, looking for her slippers, trying to find her clothes and +getting one or two things on wrong side out! She was so confused that +she thought it was morning and brushed her teeth. + +"By this time an hour had passed and King Zooks was fidgety. He told his +red-faced band to lean their trombones and other things up against the +wall, so that he could think. Then he stroked his chin, while the court +stood by and tried to think also. Finally the King sent a herald to +proclaim around the castle how fidgety he was and that his daughter must +be brought to him. But the Princess was not found. Meantime the band ate +ice-cream and cocoanut macaroons, and appeared to enjoy itself. + +"In a tall tower that stands high above the trees there was a great +clock, and, by and by, it began to strike the hour. It did not stop +until it had struck ten times. So you see it was growing late and the +King had the right to be getting fidgety. When the clock had done, those +guests who were not in the habit of sitting up so late, began to grow +sleepy; only, of course, they did not yawn out loud, but behind fans and +things. + +"Meanwhile King Muffin had gone downstairs to the stable. He brought out +his horse with the flaring nostrils and another horse also. He took them +around to the Princess, who sat waiting for him on a marble bench in the +shadow of a tree. + +"'Climb up, beautiful Princess,' he said. + +"She hopped into her saddle and he into his. They were off like the +wind. + +"They heard the clock strike ten and they saw the great tower rising +above the castle with the silver moon upon it, but they galloped on and +on. Through the forest they galloped, over bridges and streams. And the +moon climbed off the tower and kept with them--as it does with all good +folk--plunging through the clouds like a ship upon the ocean. And still +they galloped on. Presently they met Jeppo returning from the tavern +with the brass pull-handles. 'Yo, ho!' called out the King, and they +passed him in a flash. _Clackety-clack-clack, clackety-clack-clack, +clack-clack, clackety-clack!_ + +"And peasants, who usually slept right through the night, awoke at the +sound of their hoofs and although they were very sleepy, they ran and +looked out of their windows--being careful to put on slippers so as not +to get the snuffles. And King Muffin and the Princess galloped by with +the moonlight upon them, and the peasants wondered who they were. But as +they were very sleepy, presently they went back to bed without finding +out. One of them did, however, stumble against a chair, right on the +toe, and had to light a candle to see if it were worth mending. + +"But in the morning the peasants found a bauble near the lodge-gate, a +cap and bells on the ravine bridge, and on the long road to the border +of King Muffin's land they found a jester's coat. + +"And to this day, although many years have passed, their children and +their children's children, on the way from school, gather the lilies of +the valley which flourish in the woods and along the roads. And they +think that they are jesters' bells which were scattered in the flight." + +Whereupon the old man, having finished his story, wiped the noses of the +children, not forgetting the youngest one with the fat legs, and sent +them off to bed. + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Crowded Curb. + + +Recently I came on an urchin in the crowded city, pitching pennies by +himself, in the angle of an abutment. Three feet from his patched +seat--a gay pattern which he tilted upward now and then--there moved a +thick stream of shoppers. He was in solitary contest with himself, his +evening papers neglected in a heap, wrapped in his score, unconscious of +the throng that pressed against him. He was resting from labor, as a +greater merchant takes to golf for his refreshment. The curb was his +club. He had fetched his recreation down to business, to the vacancy +between editions. Presently he will scoop his earnings to his pocket and +will bawl out to his advantage our latest murder. + +How mad--how delightful our streets would be if all of us followed as +unreservedly, with so little self-consciousness or respect of small +convention, our innocent desires! + +Who of us even whistles in a crowd?--or in the spring goes with a skip +and leap? + +A lady of my acquaintance--who grows plump in her early forties--tells +me that she has always wanted to run after an ice-wagon and ride up +town, bouncing on the tail-board. It is doubtless an inheritance from a +childhood which was stifled and kept in starch. A singer, also, of +bellowing bass, has confided to me that he would like above all things +to roar his tunes down town on a crowded crossing. The trolley-cars, he +feels, the motors and all the shrill instruments of traffic, are no more +than a sufficient orchestra for his lusty upper register. An old lady, +too, in the daintiest of lace caps, with whom I lately sat at dinner, +confessed that whenever she has seen hop-scotch chalked in an eddy of +the crowded city, she has been tempted to gather up her skirts and join +the play. + +But none of these folk obey their instinct. Opinion chills them. They +plod the streets with gray exterior. Once, on Fifth Avenue, to be sure, +when it was barely twilight, I observed a man, suddenly, without +warning, perform a cart-wheel, heels over head. He was dressed in the +common fashion. Surely he was not an advertisement. He bore no placard +on his hat. Nor was it apparent that he practiced for a circus. Rather, +I think, he was resolved for once to let the stiff, censorious world go +by unheeded, and be himself alone. + +On a night of carnival how greedily the crowd assumes the pantaloon! A +day that was prim and solemn at the start now dresses in cap and bells. +How recklessly it stretches its charter for the broadest jest! Observe +those men in women's bonnets! With what delight they swing their merry +bladders at the crowd! They are hard on forty. All week they have bent +to their heavy desks, but tonight they take their pay of life. The years +are a sullen garment, but on a night of carnival they toss it off. Blood +that was cold and temperate at noon now feels the fire. Scratch a man +and you find a clown inside. It was at the celebration of the Armistice +that I followed a sober fellow for a mile, who beat incessantly with a +long iron spoon on an ash-can top. Almost solemnly he advanced among the +throng. Was it joy entirely for the ending of the war? Or rather was he +not yielding at last to an old desire to parade and be a band? The glad +occasion merely loosed him from convention. That lady friend of mine, in +the circumstance, would have bounced on ice-wagons up to midnight. + +For it is convention, rather than our years--it is the respect and fear +of our neighbors that restrains us on an ordinary occasion. If we +followed our innocent desires at the noon hour, without waiting for a +carnival, how mad our streets would seem! The bellowing bass would pitch +back his head and lament the fair Isolde. The old lady in lace cap would +tuck up her skirts for hop-scotch and score her goal at last. + +Is it not the French who set aside a special night for foolery, when +everyone appears in fancy costume? They should set the celebration +forward in the day, and let the blazing sun stare upon their mirth. +Merriment should not wait upon the owl. + +The Dickey Club at Harvard, I think, was fashioned with some such +purpose of release. Its initiation occurs always in the spring, when the +blood of an undergraduate is hottest against restraint. It is a vent +placed where it is needed most. Zealously the candidates perform their +pranks. They exceed the letter of their instruction. The streets of +Boston are a silly spectacle. Young men wear their trousers inside out +and their coats reversed. They greet strangers with preposterous speech. +I once came on a merry fellow eating a whole pie with great mouthfuls on +the Court House steps, explaining meantime to the crowd that he was the +youngest son of Little Jack Horner. And, of course, with such a hardened +gourmand for an ancestor, he was not embarrassed by his ridiculous +posture. + +But it is not youth which needs the stirring most. Nor need one +necessarily play an absurd antic to be natural. And therefore, here at +home, on our own Soldiers' Monument--on its steps and pediment that +mount above the street--I offer a few suggestions to the throng. + +Ladies and gentlemen! I invite you to a carnival. Here! Now! At noon! I +bid you to throw off your solemn pretense. And be yourself! That sober +manner is a cloak. Your dignity scarcely reaches to your skin. Does no +one desire to play leap-frog across those posts? Do none of you care to +skip and leap? What! Will no one accept my invitation? + +You, my dear sirs, I know you. You play chess together every afternoon +in your club. One of you carries at this moment a small board in his +waistcoat pocket. Why hurry to your club, gentlemen? Here on this step +is a place to play your game. Surely your concentration is proof against +the legs that swing around you. And you, my dear sir! I see that you +are a scholar by your bag of books. You chafe for your golden studies. +Come, sit alongside! Here is a shady spot for the pursuit of knowledge. +Did not Socrates ply his book in the public concourse? + +My dear young lady, it is evident that a desire has seized you to +practice your soprano voice. Why do you wait for your solitary piano to +pitch the tune? On these steps you can throw your trills up heaven-ward. + +An ice-wagon! With a tail-board! Is there no lady in her forties, prim +in youth, who will take her fling? Or does no gentleman in silk hat wish +a piece of ice to suck? + +Observe that good-natured father with his son! They have shopped for +toys. He carries a bundle beneath his arm. It is doubtless a mechanical +bear--a creature that roars and walks on the turning of a key. After +supper these two will squat together on the parlor carpet and wind it up +for a trial performance. But must such an honest pleasure sit for the +coming of the twilight? Break the string! Insert the key! Let the +fearful creature stride boldly among the shoppers. + +Here is an iron balustrade along the steps. A dozen of you desire, +secretly, to slide down its slippery length. + +My dear madam, it is plain that the heir is naughty. Rightfully you have +withdrawn his lollypop. And now he resists your advance, stiff-legged +and spunky. Your stern eye already has passed its sentence. You merely +wait to get him home. I offer you these steps in lieu of nursery or +woodshed. You have only to tip him up. Surely the flat of your hand +gains no cunning by delay. + +And you, my dear sir--you who twirl a silk moustache--you with the young +lady on your arm! If I am not mistaken you will woo your fair companion +on this summer evening beneath the moon. Must so good a deed await the +night? Shall a lover's arms hang idle all the day? On these steps, my +dear sir, a kiss, at least, may be given as a prelude. + +Hop-scotch! Where is my old friend of the lace cap? The game is already +chalked upon the stones. + +Is there no one in the passing throng who desires to dance? Are there no +toes that wriggle for release? My dear lady, the rhythmic swish of your +skirt betrays you. A tune for a merry waltz runs through your head. +Come! we'll find you a partner in the crowd. Those silk stockings of +yours must not be wasted in a mincing gait. + +Have lawyers, walking sourly on their business, any sweeter nature to +display to us? Our larger merchants seem covered with restraint and +thought of profit. That physician with his bag of pellets seems not to +know that laughter is a panacea. Has Labor no desire to play leap-frog +on its pick and go shouting home to supper? Housewives follow their +unfaltering noses from groceries to meats. Will neither gingham nor +brocade romp and cut a caper for us? + +Ladies and gentlemen! Why wait for a night of carnival? Does not the +blood flow red, also, at the noon hour? Must the moon point a silly +finger before you start your merriment? I offer you these steps. + +Is there no one who will whistle in the crowd? Will none of you, even in +the spring, go with a skip and leap upon your business? + +[Illustration] + + + + +A Corner for Echoes. + + +Sometimes in a quiet hour I see in the memory of my childhood a frame +house across a wide lawn from a pleasant street. There are no trees +about the yard, in itself a defect, yet in its circumstance, as the +house arises in my view, the barrenness denotes no more than a breadth +of sunlight across those endless days. + +There was, indeed, in contrast and by way of shadowy admonishment, a +church near by, whose sober bell, grieving lest our joy should romp too +long, recalled us to fearful introspection on Sunday evening, and it +moved me chiefly to the thought of eternity--eternity everlasting. +Reward or punishment mattered not. It was Time itself that plagued me, +Time that rolled like a wheel forever until the imagination reeled and +sickened. And on Thursday evening also--another bad intrusion on the +happy week--again the sexton tugged at the rope for prayer and the +dismal clapper answered from above. It is strange that a man in friendly +red suspenders, pipe in mouth as he pushed his lawn-mower through the +week, should spread such desolation. But presently, when our better +neighbors were stiffly gathered in and had composed their skirts, a +brisker hymn arose. Tenor and soprano assured one another vigorously +from pew to pew that they were Christian soldiers marching as to war. +When they were off at last for the fair Jerusalem, the fret of eternity +passed from me. And yet, for the most part, we played in sunlight all +the week, and our thoughts dwelt happily on wide horizons. + +There was another church, far off across the housetops, seen only from +an attic window, whose bells in contrast were of a pleasant jangle. +Exactly where this church stood I never knew. Its towers arose above a +neighbor's barn and acknowledged no base or local habitation. Indeed, +its glittering and unsubstantial spire offered a hint that it was but an +imaginary creature of the attic, a pageant that mustered only to the +view of him who looked out through these narrow, cobwebbed windows. For +here, as in a kind of magic, the twilight flourished at the noon and its +shadows practiced beforehand for the night. Through these windows +children saw the unfamiliar, distant marvels of the world--towers and +kingdoms unseen by older eyes that were grown dusty with common sights. + +Yet regularly, out of a noonday stillness--except for the cries of the +butcher boy upon the steps--a dozen clappers of the tower struck their +sudden din across the city. It appeared that at the very moment of the +noon, having lagged to the utmost second, the frantic clappers had +bolted up the belfry stairs to call the town to dinner. Or perhaps to an +older ear their discordant and heterodox tongue hinted that Roman +infallibility had here fallen into argument and that various and +contrary doctrine was laboring in warm dispute. Certainly the clappers +were brawling in the tower and had come to blows. But a half mile off it +was an agreeable racket and did not rouse up eternity to tease me. + +Across from our house, but at the rear, with only an alley entrance, +there was a building in which pies were baked--a horrid factory in our +very midst!--and insolent smoke curled off the chimney and flaunted our +imperfection. Respectable ladies, long resident, wearing black poke +bonnets and camel's-hair shawls, lifted their patrician eyebrows with +disapproval. Scorn sat on their gentle up-turned noses. They held their +skirts close, in passing, from contamination. These pies could not count +upon their patronage. They were contraband even in a pinch, with +unexpected guests arrived. It were better to buy of Cobey, the grocer on +the Circle. And the building did smell heavily of its commodity. But +despite detraction, as one came from school, when the wind was north, +an agreeable whiff of lard and cooking touched the nostrils as a happy +prologue to one's dinner. Sometimes a cart issued to the street, boarded +close, full of pies on shelves, and rattled cityward. + +The fire station was around the corner and down a hill. We marveled at +the polished engine, the harness that hung ready from the ceiling, the +poles down which the firemen slid from their rooms above. It was at the +fire station that we got the baseball score, inning by inning, and other +news, if it was worthy, from the outside world. But perhaps we dozed in +a hammock or were lost with Oliver Optic in a jungle when the fire-bell +rang. If spry, we caught a glimpse of the hook-and-ladder from the top +of the hill, or the horses galloping up the slope. But would none of our +neighbors ever burn? we thought. Must all candles be overturned far off? + +Near the school-house was the reservoir, a mound and pond covering all +the block. Round about the top there was a gravel path that commanded +the city--the belching chimneys on the river, the ships upon the lake, +and to the south a horizon of wooded hills. The world lay across that +tumbled ridge and there our thoughts went searching for adventure. +Perhaps these were the foothills of the Himalaya and from the top were +seen the towers of Babylon. Perhaps there was an ocean, with white sails +which were blown from the Spanish coast. On a summer afternoon clouds +drifted across the sky, like mountains on a journey--emigrants, they +seemed, from a loftier range, seeking a fresh plain on which to erect +their fortunes. + +But the chief use of this reservoir, except for its wholly subsidiary +supply of water, was its grassy slope. It was usual in the noon +recess--when we were cramped with learning--to slide down on a barrel +stave and be wrecked and spilled midway. In default of stave a geography +served as sled, for by noon the most sedentary geography itched for +action. Of what profit--so it complained--is a knowledge of the world if +one is cooped always with stupid primers in a desk? Of what account are +the boundaries of Hindostan, if one is housed all day beneath a lid with +slate and pencils? But the geography required an exact balance, with +feet lifted forward into space, and with fingers gripped behind. Our +present geographies, alas, are of smaller surface, and, unless students +have shrunk and shriveled, their more profitable use upon a hill is +past. Some children descended without stave or book, and their +preference was marked upon their shining seats. + +It was Hoppy who marred this sport. Hoppy was the keeper of the +reservoir, a one-legged Irishman with a crutch. His superfluous +trouser-leg was folded and pinned across, and it was a general quarry +for patches. When his elbow or his knees came through, here was a remedy +at hand. Here his wife clipped, also, for her crazy quilt. And all the +little Hoppies--for I fancy him to have been a family man--were +reinforced from this extra cloth. But when Hoppy's bad profile appeared +at the top of the hill we grabbed our staves and scurried off. The cry +of warning--"Peg-leg's a-comin'"--still haunts my memory. It was Hoppy's +reward to lead one of us smaller fry roughly by the ear. Or he gripped +us by the wrist and snapped his stinging finger at our nose. Then he +pitched us through the fence where a wooden slat was gone. + +Hoppy's crutch was none of your elaborate affairs, curved and glossy. +Instead, it was only a stout, unvarnished stick, with a padded +cross-piece at the top. But the varlet could run, leaping forward upon +us with long, uneven strides. And I have wondered whether Stevenson, by +any chance, while he was still pondering the plot of "Treasure Island," +may not have visited our city and, seeing Hoppy on our heels, have +contrived John Silver out of him. He must have built him anew above the +waist, shearing him at his suspender buttons, scrapping his common upper +parts; but the wooden stump and breeches were a precious salvage. His +crutch, at the least, became John Silver's very timber. + +The Circle was down the street. In the center of this sunny park there +arose an artificial mountain, with a waterfall that trickled off the +rocks pleasantly on hot days. Ruins and blasted towers, battlements and +cement grottoes, were still the fashion. In those days masons built +stony belvederes and laid pipes which burst forth into mountain pools a +good ten feet above the sidewalk. The cliff upon our Circle, with its +path winding upward among the fern, its tiny castle on the peak and its +tinkle of little water, sprang from this romantic period. From the +terrace on top one could spit over the balustrade on the unsuspecting +folk who walked below. Later the town had a mechanical ship that sailed +around the pond. As often as this ship neared the cliffs the mechanical +captain on the bridge lifted his glasses with a startled jerk and gave +orders for the changing of the course. + +Tinkey's shop was on the Circle. One side of Tinkey's window was a +bakery with jelly-cakes and angel-food. This, as I recall, was my +earliest theology. Heaven, certainly, was worth the effort. The other +window unbent to peppermint sticks and grab-bags to catch our dirtier +pennies. But this meaner produce was a concession to the trade, and the +Tinkey fingers, from father down to youngest daughter, touched it with +scorn. Mrs. Tinkey, in particular, who, we thought, was above her place, +lifted a grab-bag at arm's length, and her nostrils quivered as if she +held a dead mouse by the tail. + +But in the essence Tinkey was a caterer and his handiwork was shown in +the persons of a frosted bride and groom who waited before a sugar altar +for the word that would make them man and wife. Her nose in time was +bruised--a careless lifting of the glass by the youngest Miss +Tinkey--but he, like a faithful suitor, stood to his youthful pledge. + +Beyond the shop was a room with blazing red wall paper and a fiery +carpet. In this hot furnace, out-rivaling the boasts of Abednego, the +neighborhood perspired pleasantly on August nights, and ate ice-cream. +If we arose to the price of a Tinkey layer-cake thick with chocolate, +the night stood out in splendor above its fellows. + +Around the corner was Conrad's bookstore. Conrad was a dumpy fellow with +unending good humor and a fat, soft hand. He sometimes called lady +customers, _My dear_, but it was only in his eagerness to press a sale. +I do not recall that he was a scholar. If you asked to be shown the +newest books, he might offer you the "Vicar of Wakefield" as a work just +off the press, and tell you that Goldsmith was a man to watch. A young +woman assistant read The Duchess between customers. In her fancy she +eloped daily with a duke, but actually she kept company with a grocer's +clerk. They ate sodas together at Tinkey's. How could he know, poor +fellow, when their fingers met beneath the table, that he was but a +substitute in her high romance? At the very moment, in her thoughts, she +was off with the duke beneath the moon. Conrad had also an errand boy +with a dirty face, who spent the day on a packing case at the rear of +the shop, where he ate an endless succession of apples. An orchard went +through him in the season. + +Conrad's shop was only moderate in books, but it spread itself in fancy +goods--crackers for the Fourth--marbles and tops in their season--and +for Saint Valentine's Day a range of sentiment that distanced his +competitors. A lover, though he sighed like furnace, found here mottoes +for his passion. Also there were "comics"--base insulting valentines of +suitable greeting from man to man. These were three for a nickel just as +they came off the pile, but two for a nickel with selection. + +At Christmas, Conrad displayed china inkstands. There was one of these +which, although often near a sale, still stuck to the shelves year after +year. The beauty of its device dwelt in a little negro who perched at +the rear on a rustic fence that held the penholders. But suddenly, when +choice was wavering in his favor, off he would pitch into the inkwell. +At this mischance Conrad would regularly be astonished, and he would +sell instead a china camel whose back was hollowed out for ink. Then he +laved the negro for the twentieth time and set him back upon the fence, +where he sat like an interrupted suicide with his dark eye again upon +the pool. + +Nor must I forget a line of Catholic saints. There was one jolly bit of +crockery--Saint Patrick, I believe--that had lost an arm. This defect +should have been considered a further mark of piety--a martyrdom +unrecorded by the church--a special flagellation--but although the price +in successive years sunk to thirty-nine and at last to the wholly +ridiculous sum of twenty-three cents--less than one third the price of +his unbroken but really inferior mates (Saint Aloysius and Saint +Anthony)--yet he lingered on. + +Nowhere was there a larger assortment of odd and unmatched letter paper. +No box was full and many were soiled. If pink envelopes were needed, +Conrad, unabashed, laid out a blue, or with his fat thumb he fumbled two +boxes into one to complete the count. Initialed paper once had been the +fashion--G for Gladys--and there was still a remnant of several letters +toward the end of the alphabet. If one of these chanced to fit a +customer, with what zest Conrad blew upon the box and slapped it! But +until Xenophon and Xerxes shall come to buy, these final letters must +rest unsold upon his shelves. + +Conrad was a dear good fellow (Bless me! he is still alive--just as fat +and bow-legged, with the same soft hand, just as friendly!) and when he +retired at last from business the street lost half its mirth and humor. + +Near Conrad's shop and the Circle was our house. By it a horse-car +jangled, one way only, cityward, at intervals of twelve minutes. In +winter there was straw on the floor. In front was a fare-box with +sliding shelves down which the nickels rattled, or, if one's memory +lagged, the thin driver rapped his whip-handle on the glass. He sat on a +high stool which was padded to eke out nature. + +Once before, as I have read, there was a corner for echoes. The +buildings were set so that the quiet folk who dwelt near by could hear +the sound of coming steps--steps far off, then nearer until they tramped +beneath the windows. Then, as they listened, the sounds faded. And it +seemed to him who chronicled the place that he heard the persons of his +drama coming--little steps that would grow to manhood, steps that +faltered already toward their final curtain. But there is no plot to +thicken around our corner. Or rather, there are a hundred plots. And +when I listen in fancy to the echoes, I hear the general tapping of our +neighbors--beloved feet that have gone into darkness for a while. + +I hear the footsteps of an old man. When he trod our street he was of +gloomy temper. The world was awry for him. He was sunk in despair at +politics, yet I recall that he relished an apple. As often as he stopped +to see us, he told us that the country had gone to the demnition +bow-wows, and he snapped at his apple as if it had been a Democrat. His +little dog ran a full block ahead of him on their evening stroll, and +always trotted into our gateway. He sat on the lowest step with his eyes +down the street. "Master," he seemed to say, "here we all are, waiting +for you." + +John Smith cut the grass on the Circle. He was a friend of children, +and, for his nod and greeting, I drove down street my span of tin horses +on a wheel. Hand in hand we climbed his rocky mountain to see where the +waterfall spurted from a pipe. Below, the neighbors' bonnets, with +baskets, went to shop at Cobey's. I still hear the click of his +lawn-mower of a summer afternoon. + +Darky Dan beat our carpets. He was a merry fellow and he sang upon the +street. Wild melodies they were, with head thrown back and crazy +laughter. He was a harmless, good-natured fellow, but nurse-maids +huddled us close until his song had turned the corner. + +I recall a crippled child--maybe of half wit only--who dragged a broken +foot. To our shame he seemed a comic creature and we pelted him with +snowballs and ran from his piteous anger. + +A match-boy with red hair came by on winter nights and was warmed beside +the fire. My father questioned him--as one merchant to another--about +his business, and mother kept him in mittens. In payment for bread and +jam he loosed his muffler and played the mouth-organ. In turn we blew +upon the vents, but as music it was naught. Gone is that melody. The +house is dark. + +There was an old lady lived near by in almost feudal state. Her steps +were the broadest on the street, her walnut doors were carved in the +deepest pattern, her fence was the highest. Her furniture, the year +around, was covered in linen cloths, and the great chairs with their +claw feet resembled the horses in panoply that draw the chariot of the +Nubian Queen in the circus parade. With this old lady there lived an old +cook, an old second-maid, an old laundress and an old coachman. The +second-maid thrust a platter at you as you sat at table and nudged you +in the ribs--if you were a child--"Eat it," she said, "it's good!" The +coachman nodded on his box, the laundress in her tubs, but the cook was +spry despite her years. In the yard there was a fountain--all yards had +fountains then--and I used to wonder whether this were the font of +Ponce de León that restored the aged to their youth. Here, surely, was +the very house to test the cure. And when the ancient laundress came by +I speculated whether, after a sudden splash, she would emerge a dazzling +princess. + +With this old lady there dwelt a niece, or a daughter, or a younger +sister--relationship was vague--and this niece owned a little black dog. +But the old lady was dull of sight and in the dark passages of her house +she waved her arm and kept saying, "Whisk, Nigger! Whisk, Nigger!" for +she had stepped once on the creature's tail. Every year she gave a +children's party, and we youngsters looked for magic in a mirror and +went to Jerusalem around her solemn chairs. She had bought toys and +trinkets from Europe for all of us. + +Then there was an old neighbor, a justice of the peace, who, being +devoid of much knowledge of the law, put his cases to my grandfather. +When he had been advised, he stroked his beard and said it was an +opinion to which he had come himself. He went down the steps mumbling +the judgment to keep it in his memory. + +It was my grandfather's custom in the late afternoon of summer, when the +sun had slanted, to pull a chair off the veranda and sit sprinkling the +lawn with his crutch beside him. Toward supper Mr. Hodge, a building +contractor and our neighbor, went by. His wagon usually rattled with +some bit of salvage--perhaps an iron bath-tub plucked from a building +before he wrecked it, or a kitchen sink. His yard was piled with the +fruitage of his profession. Mr. Hodge was of sociable turn and he cried +_whoa_ to his jogging horse. + +Now ensued a half-hour's gossip. It was the comedy of the occasion that +the horse, after having made several attempts to start and been stopped +by a jerking of the reins, took to craftiness. He put forward a hoof, +quite carelessly it seemed. If there was no protest, in time he tried a +diagonal hoof behind. It was then but a shifting of the weight to swing +forward a step. "Whoa!" yelled Mr. Hodge. "Yes, yes," the old horse +seemed to answer, "certainly, of course, yes, yes! But can't a fellow +shift his legs?" In this way the sly brute inched toward supper. My +grandfather enjoyed this comedy, and once, if I am not mistaken, I +caught him exchanging a wink with the horse. Certainly the beast was +glancing round to find a partner for his jest. A conversation, begun at +the standpipe, progressed to the telegraph pole, and at last came +opposite the kitchen. As my grandfather did not move his chair, Mr. +Hodge lifted his voice until the neighborhood knew the price of brick +and the unworthiness of plumbers. Mr. Hodge was a Republican and he +spoke in favor of the tariff. To clinch an argument he had a usual +formula. "It's neither here nor there," and he brought his fist against +the dashboard, _"it's right here."_ But finally the hungry horse +prevailed, Mr. Hodge slapped the reins in consent and they rattled home +to supper. + +Around this corner, also, there are echoes of children's feet--racing +feet upon the grass--feet that lag in the morning on the way to school +and run back at four o'clock--feet that leap the hitching posts or avoid +the sidewalk cracks. Girls' feet rustle in the fallen leaves, and they +think their skirts are silk. And I hear dimly the cries of hide-and-seek +and pull-away and the merriment of blindman's buff. One lad rises in my +memory who won our marbles. Another excelled us all when he threw his +top. His father was a grocer and we envied him his easy access to the +candy counter. + +And particularly I remember a little girl with yellow curls and blue +eyes. She was the Sleeping Beauty in a Christmas play. I had known her +before in daytime gingham and I had judged her to be as other +girls--creatures that tag along and spoil the fun. But now, as she +rested in laces for the picture, she dazzled my imagination; for I was +the silken Prince to awaken her. For a week I wished to run to sea, sink +a pirate ship, and be worthy of her love. But then a sewer was dug along +the street and I was a miner instead--recusant to love--digging in the +yellow sand for the center of the earth. + +But chiefly it is the echo of older steps I hear--steps whose sound is +long since stilled--feet that have crossed the horizon and have gone on +journey for a while. And when I listen I hear echoes that are fading +into silence. + +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Hints to Pilgrims, by Charles Stephen Brooks + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HINTS TO PILGRIMS *** + +***** This file should be named 37105-8.txt or 37105-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/1/0/37105/ + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images available at The Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Hints to Pilgrims + +Author: Charles Stephen Brooks + +Illustrator: Florence Minard + +Release Date: August 16, 2011 [EBook #37105] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HINTS TO PILGRIMS *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images available at The Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + +<hr /> + +<h1>Hints to Pilgrims</h1> + +<p><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a></p> + +<p><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a></p> + +<p class="c">Other Books of Essays by the Same Author:<br /> +<br /> +"Journeys to Bagdad"<br /> +<i>Fifth printing</i>.<br /> +<br /> +"There's Pippins and Cheese to Come"<br /> +<i>Third printing</i>.<br /> +<br /> +"Chimney-Pot Papers"<br /> +<i>Second printing</i>.<br /> +<br /> +Also a novel, published by The Century Co.,<br /> +New York City,<br /> +"Luca Sarto"<br /> +<i>Second printing</i>.<br /> +</p> + +<p><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a></p> + +<p><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a></p> + +<p><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a></p> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illpg_title-a.png"> +<img src="images/illpg_title-a_sml.png" width="284" height="229" alt="Front page, Hints to Pilgrims +by Charles S. Brooks +with Pictures +by +Florence Minard" title="Front page, Hints to Pilgrims +by +Charles S. Brooks +with Pictures by +Florence Minard" /></a> +</p><p class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illpg_title-b.png"> +<img src="images/illpg_title-b_sml.png" width="86" height="79" alt="Front page, colophon" title="" /></a> +</p><p class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illpg_title-c.png"> +<img src="images/illpg_title-c_sml.png" width="285" height="104" alt="Front page, New Haven: Yale University Press +London:Humphrey Milford +Oxford University Press +MDCCCCXXI" title="Front page, New Haven: Yale University Press +London:Humphrey Milford +Oxford University Press +MDCCCCXXI" /></a> +</p> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<p><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a></p> + +<p class="c">Copyright, 1921, by<br /> +Yale University Press.<br /> +———<br /> +Publisher's Note:</p> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align="left">The Yale University Press makes grateful<br /> +acknowledgment to the Editors of <i>The<br /> +Century Magazine</i>, <i>The Yale Review</i>, <i>The<br /> +Atlantic Monthly</i> and <i>The Literary Review</i><br /> +for permission to include in the present<br /> +volume essays of which they were the<br /> +original publishers.</td></tr> +</table> + +<p><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a></p> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<p class="c">To Edward B. Greene,<br /> +as witness of our long friendship and my high regard.</p> + +<p><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a></p> + +<p><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="Contents" id="Contents"></a>Contents.</h3> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="2" summary=""> +<tr><td align="right">I.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#Hints_to_Pilgrims">Hints To Pilgrims</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_011">11</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">II.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#I_Plan_a_Vacation">I Plan A Vacation +</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_027">27</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">III.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#At_a_Toy-Shop_Window">At A Toy-shop Window</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_042">42</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">IV.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#Sic_Transit">Sic Transit—</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_055">55</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">V.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#The_Posture_of_Authors">The Posture Of Authors</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_059">59</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VI.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#After-Dinner_Pleasantries">After-dinner Pleasantries</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_077">77</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VII.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#Little_Candles">Little Candles</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_086">86</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VIII.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#A_Visit_to_a_Poet">A Visit To A Poet</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_092">92</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">IX.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#Autumn_Days">Autumn Days</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_103">103</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">X.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#On_Finding_a_Plot">On Finding A Plot</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_107">107</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XI.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#Circus_Days">Circus Days</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_122">122</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XII.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#In_Praise_of_a_Lawn-Mower">In Praise Of A Lawn-mower</a> + + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_133">133</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XIII.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#On_Dropping_Off_to_Sleep">On Dropping Off To Sleep</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_138">138</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XIV.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#Who_Was_Jeremy">Who Was Jeremy?</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_147">147</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XV.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#A_Chapter_for_Children">A Chapter For Children</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_153">153</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XVI.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#The_Crowded_Curb">The Crowded Curb</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_171">171</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XVII.</td><td align="left"> + +<a href="#A_Corner_for_Echoes">A Corner For Echoes</a> + +</td><td align="right"><a href="#page_178">178</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<p><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a></p> + +<p><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a></p> + +<hr /> + +<h3><a name="Hints_to_Pilgrims" id="Hints_to_Pilgrims"></a>Hints to Pilgrims.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><b>HEN</b> a man's thoughts in older time were set on pilgrimage, his +neighbors came forward with suggestions. One of them saw that his boots +were freshly tapped. Another was careful that his hose were darned with +honest wool—an oldish aunt, no doubt, with beeswax and thimble and +glasses forward on her nose. A third sly creature fetched in an +embroidered wallet to hold an extra shift, and hinted in return for a +true nail from the holy cross. If he were a bachelor, a tender garter +was offered him by a lonely maiden of the village, and was acknowledged +beneath the moon. But the older folk who had made the pilgrimage took +the settle and fell to argument on the merit of the inns. They scrawled +maps for his guidance on the hearth, and told him the sights that must +not be missed. Here he must veer off for a holy well. Here he must +beware a treacherous bog. Here he must ascend a steeple for the view. +They cautioned him to keep upon the highway. Was it not Christian, they +urged, who was lost in By-path Meadow? Again they talked of thieves and +warned him to lay a chair against the door. Then a honey syllabub was +drunk in clinking cups, and they made a night of it.</p> + +<p>Or perhaps our pilgrim belonged to a guild which—by an agreeable +precedent—voted that its members<a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a> walk with him to the city's gate and +present from each a half-penny to support him on the journey. The greasy +pockets yield their treasure. He rattles on both sides with generous +copper. Here, also, is a salve for man and beast—a receipt for a +fever-draught. We may fancy now the pilgrim's mule plowing up the lazy +dust at the turn of the road as he waves his last farewell. His thoughts +already have leaped the valley to the misty country beyond the hills.</p> + +<p>And now above his dusty road the sun climbs the exultant noon. It whips +its flaming chariot to the west. On the rim of twilight, like a traveler +who departs, it throws a golden offering to the world.</p> + +<p>But there are pilgrims in these later days, also,—strangers to our own +fair city, script in wallet and staff in hand,—who come to place their +heavy tribute on our shrine. And to them I offer these few suggestions.</p> + +<p>The double stars of importance—as in Baedeker—mark our restaurants and +theatres. Dear pilgrim, put money in thy purse! Persuade your guild to +advance you to a penny! They mark the bridges, the shipping, the sharp +canyons of the lower city, the parks—limousines where silk and lace +play nurse to lap dogs—Bufo on an airing, the precious spitz upon a +scarlet cushion. They mark the parade of wealth, the shops and glitter +of Fifth Avenue on a winter afternoon. "If this is Fifth Avenue,"—as I +heard a dazzled stranger comment lately on a bus-top,—"my God! what +must First Avenue be like!"<a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a></p> + +<p>And then there are the electric signs—the mammoth kitten rolling its +ball of silk, ginger-ale that forever issues from a bottle, a fiery +motor with a flame of dust, the Wrigley triplets correcting their +sluggish livers by exercise alongside the Astor roof. Surely letters +despatched home to Kalamazoo deal excitedly with these flashing +portents. And of the railroad stations and the Woolworth Tower with its +gothic pinnacles questing into heaven, what pilgrim words are adequate! +Here, certainly, Kalamazoo is baffled and must halt and bite its pen.</p> + +<p>Nor can the hotels be described—toppling structures that run up to +thirty stories—at night a clatter in the basement and a clatter on the +roof—sons of Belial and rich folk from Akron who are spending the +profit on a few thousand hot-water bottles and inner tubes—what mad +pursuit! what pipes and timbrels! what wild ecstasy! Do we set a noisy +bard upon our towers in the hope that our merriment will sound to Mars? +Do we persuade them that jazz is the music of the spheres? But at +morning in these hotels are thirty stories of snoring bipeds—exhausted +trousers across the bed-post, frocks that have been rumpled in the +hubbub—tier on tier of bipeds, with sleepy curtains drawn against the +light. Boniface, in the olden time, sunning himself beneath his bush and +swinging dragon, watching the dust for travelers, how would he be amazed +at the advancement of the inn! Dear pilgrim, you must sag and clink for +entrance to the<a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a> temples of our joyous gods. Put money in thy purse and +wire ahead!</p> + +<p>On these streets there is a roar of traffic that Babylon never heard. +Nineveh in its golden age could have packed itself with all its splendid +luggage in a single building. Athens could have mustered in a street. +Our block-parties that are now the fashion—neighborhood affairs in +fancy costumes, with a hot trombone, and banners stretched from house to +house—produce as great an uproar as ever arose upon the Acropolis. And +lately, when our troops returned from overseas and marched beneath our +plaster arches, Rome itself could not have matched the largeness of our +triumph. Here, also, men have climbed up to walls and battlements—but +to what far dizzier heights!—to towers and windows, and to +chimney-tops, to see great Pompey pass the streets.</p> + +<p>And by what contrast shall we measure our tall buildings? Otus and +Ephialtes, who contracted once to pile Pelion on top of Ossa, were +evidently builders who touched only the larger jobs. They did not stoop +to a cottage or a bungalow, but figured entirely on such things as arks +and the towers of Jericho. When old Cheops sickened, it is said, and +thought of death, they offered a bid upon his pyramid. Noah, if he was +indeed their customer, as seems likely, must have fretted them as their +work went forward. Whenever a cloud appeared in the rainy east he nagged +them for better speed. He prowled around on Sunday mornings with his +cubit measure to detect any shortness in<a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a> the beam. Or he looked for +knot-holes in the gopher wood. But Otus and Ephialtes could not, with +all their sweating workmen, have fetched enough stones for even the +foundations of one of our loftier structures.</p> + +<p>The Tower of Babel, if set opposite Wall Street, would squat as low as +Trinity: for its top, when confusion broke off the work, had advanced +scarcely more than seven stories from the pavement. My own windows, +dwarfed by my surroundings, look down from as great a height. Indeed, I +fancy that if the famous tower were my neighbor to the rear—on Ninth +Street, just off the L—its whiskered masons on the upmost platform +could have scraped acquaintance with our cook. They could have gossiped +at the noon hour from gutter to sink, and eaten the crullers that the +kind creature tossed across. Our whistling grocery-man would have found +a rival. And yet the good folk of the older Testament, ignorant of our +accomplishment to come, were in amazement at the tower, and strangers +came in from Gilead and Beersheba. Trippers, as it were, upon a +holiday—staff in hand and pomegranates in a papyrus bag—locusts and +wild honey, or manna to sustain them in the wilderness on their +return—trippers, I repeat, cocked back their heads, and they counted +the rows of windows to the top and went off to their far land marveling.</p> + +<p>The Bankers Trust Building culminates in a pyramid. Where this narrows +to a point there issues a streamer of smoke. I am told that inside this +pyramid,<a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a> at a dizzy height above the street, there is a storage room +for gold. Is it too fanciful to think that inside, upon this unsunned +heap of metal, there is concealed an altar of Mammon with priests to +feed the fire, and that this smoke, rising in the lazy air, is sweet in +the nostrils of the greedy god?</p> + +<p>There is what seems to be a chapel on the roof of the Bush Terminal. +Gothic decoration marks our buildings—the pointed arch, mullions and +gargoyles. There are few nowadays to listen to the preaching of the +church, but its symbol is at least a pretty ornament on our commercial +towers.</p> + +<p>Nor in the general muster of our sights must I forget the magic view +from across the river, in the end of a winter afternoon, when the lower +city is still lighted. The clustered windows shine as if a larger +constellation of stars had met in thick convention. But it is to the eye +of one who travels in the evening mist from Staten Island that towers of +finest gossamer arise. They are built to furnish a fantastic dream. The +architect of the summer clouds has tried here his finer hand.</p> + +<p>It was only lately when our ferry-boat came around the point of +Governor's Island, that I noticed how sharply the chasm of Broadway cuts +the city. It was the twilight of a winter's day. A rack of sullen clouds +lay across the sky as if they met for mischief, and the water was black +with wind. In the threatening obscurity the whole island seemed a +mightier House of Usher, intricate of many buildings, cleft by Broadway<a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a> +in its middle, and ready to fall prostrate into the dark waters of the +tarn. But until the gathering tempest rises and an evil moon peers +through the crevice, as in the story, we must judge the city to be safe.</p> + +<p>Northward are nests of streets, thick with children. One might think +that the old woman who lived in a shoe dwelt hard by, with all of her +married sisters roundabout. Children scurry under foot, oblivious of +contact. They shoot their marbles between our feet, and we are the +moving hazard of their score. They chalk their games upon the pavement. +Baseball is played, long and thin, between the gutters. Peddlers' carts +line the curb—carrots, shoes and small hardware—and there is shrill +chaffering all the day. Here are dim restaurants, with truant smells for +their advertisement. In one of these I was served unleavened bread. Folk +from Damascus would have felt at home, and yet the shadow of the +Woolworth Tower was across the roof. The loaf was rolled thin, like a +chair-pad that a monstrous fat man habitually sits upon. Indeed, I +looked sharply at my ample waiter on the chance that it was he who had +taken his ease upon my bread. If Kalamazoo would tire for a night of the +Beauty Chorus and the Wrigley triplets, and would walk these streets of +foreign population, how amazing would be its letters home!</p> + +<p>Our Greenwich Village, also, has its sights. Time was when we were +really a village beyond the city. Even more remotely there were farms +upon us and comfortable burghers jogged up from town to find<a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a> the peace +of country. There was once a swamp where Washington Square now is, and, +quite lately, masons in demolishing a foundation struck into a conduit +of running water that still drains our pleasant park. When Broadway was +a muddy post-road, stretching for a weary week to Albany, ducks quacked +about us and were shot with blunderbuss. Yes, and they were doubtless +roasted, with apple-sauce upon the side. And then a hundred years went +by, and the breathless city jumped to the north and left us a village in +its midst.</p> + +<p>It really is a village. The grocer gives you credit without question. +Further north, where fashion shops, he would inspect you up and down +with a cruel eye and ask a reference. He would linger on any patch or +shiny spot to trip your credit. But here he wets his pencil and writes +down the order without question. His friendly cat rubs against your +bundles on the counter. The shoemaker inquires how your tapped soles are +wearing. The bootblack, without lifting his eyes, knows you by the knots +in your shoe-strings. I fear he beats his wife, for he has a great red +nose which even prohibition has failed to cool. The little woman at the +corner offers you the <i>Times</i> before you speak. The cigar man tosses you +a package of Camels as you enter. Even the four-corners beyond +Berea—unknown, remote, quite off the general travel—could hardly be +more familiar with the preference of its oldest citizen. We need only a +pump, and a pig and chickens in the street.<a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a></p> + +<p>Our gossip is smaller than is found in cities. If we had yards and +gardens we would talk across the fence on Monday like any village, with +clothes-pins in our mouths, and pass our ailments down the street.</p> + +<p>But we are crowded close, wall to wall. I see my neighbor cooking across +the street. Each morning she jolts her dust-mop out of the window. I see +shadows on a curtain as a family sits before the fire. A novelist is +down below. By the frenzy of his fingers on the typewriter it must be a +tale of great excitement. He never pauses or looks at the ceiling for a +plot. At night he reads his pages to his patient wife, when they +together have cleared away the dishes. In another window a girl lies +abed each morning. Exactly at 7.45, after a few minutes of sleepy +stretching, I see her slim legs come from the coverlet. Once she caught +my eye. She stuck out her tongue. Your stockings, my dear, hang across +the radiator.</p> + +<p>We have odd characters, too, known to everybody, just as small towns +have, who, in country circumstance, would whittle on the bench outside +the village store. The father of a famous poet, but himself unknown +except hereabouts, has his chair in the corner of a certain restaurant, +and he offers wisdom and reminiscence to a coterie. He is our Johnson at +the Mitre. Old M——, who lives in the Alley in what was once a +hayloft—now a studio,—is known from Fourth to Twelfth Street for his +Indian curry and his knowledge of the older poets. It is his pleasant +custom to drop in on his friends from time to time and cook their<a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a> +dinner. He tosses you an ancient sonnet as he stirs the pot, or he beats +time with his iron spoon to a melody of the Pathétique. He knows +Shakespeare to a comma, and discourses so agreeably that the Madison +Square clock fairly races up to midnight. Every morning, it is said—but +I doubt the truth of this, for a gossiping lady told me—every morning +until the general drouth set in, he issued from the Alley for a toddy to +sustain his seventy years. Sometimes, she says, old M—— went without +tie or collar on these quick excursions, yet with the manners of the +Empire and a sweeping bow, if he met any lady of his acquaintance.</p> + +<p>A famous lecturer in a fur collar sweeps by me often, with his eyes on +the poetic stars. As he takes the air this sunny morning he thinks of +new paradoxes to startle the ladies at his matinée. How they love to be +shocked by his wicked speech! He is such a daring, handsome fellow—so +like a god of ancient Greece! And of course most of us know T——, who +gives a yearly dinner at an Assyrian restaurant—sixty cents a plate, +with a near-beer extra from a saloon across the way. Any guest may bring +a friend, but he must give ample warning in order that the table may be +stretched.</p> + +<p>The chief poet of our village wears a corduroy suit and goes without his +hat, even in winter. If a comedy of his happens to be playing at a +little theatre, he himself rings a bell in his favorite restaurant and +makes the announcement in true Elizabethan fashion.<a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a> "Know ye, one and +all, there is a conceited comedy this night—" His hair is always +tousled. But, as its confusion continues from March into the quieter +months, the disarrangement springs not so much from the outer tempest as +from the poetic storms inside.</p> + +<p>Then we have a kind of Peter Pan grown to shiny middle life, who makes +ukuleles for a living. On any night of special celebration he is +prevailed upon to mount a table and sing one of his own songs to this +accompaniment. These songs tell what a merry, wicked crew we are. He +sings of the artists' balls that ape the Bohemia of Paris, of our +genius, our unrestraint, our scorn of all convention. What is morality +but a suit to be discarded when it is old? What is life, he sings, but a +mad jester with tinkling bells? Youth is brief, and when dead we're +buried deep. So let's romp and drink and kiss. It is a pagan song that +has lasted through the centuries. If it happens that any folk are down +from the uptown hotels, Peter Pan consents to sell a ukulele between his +encores. Here, my dear pilgrims, is an entertainment to be squeezed +between Ziegfeld's and the Winter Garden.</p> + +<p>You are welcome at all of our restaurants—our Samovars, the Pig and +Whistle, the Three Steps Down (a crowded room, where you spill your soup +as you carry it to a table, but a cheap, honest place in which to eat), +the Green Witch, the Simple Simon. The food is good at all of these +places. Grope your way into a basement—wherever one of our fantastic +signs hangs out—or climb broken stairs into a dusty<a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a> garret—over a +contractor's storage of old lumber and bath-tubs—over the litter of the +roofs—and you will find artistic folk with flowing ties, spreading +their elbows at bare tables with unkept, dripping candles.</p> + +<p>Here is youth that is blown hither from distant villages—youth that was +misunderstood at home—youth that looks from its poor valley to the +heights and follows a flame across the darkness—youth whose eyes are a +window on the stars. Here also, alas, are slim white moths about a +candle. And here wrinkled children play at life and art.</p> + +<p>Here are radicals who plot the reformation of the world. They hope it +may come by peaceful means, but if necessary will welcome revolution and +machine-guns. They demand free speech, but put to silence any utterance +less red than their own.</p> + +<p>Here are seething sonneteers, playwrights bulging with rejected +manuscript, young women with bobbed hair and with cigarettes lolling +limply at their mouths. For a cigarette, I have observed, that hangs +loosely from the teeth shows an artistic temperament, just as in +business circles a cigar that is tilted up until it warms the nose marks +a sharp commercial nature.</p> + +<p>But business counts for little with us. Recently, to make a purchase, I +ventured of an evening into one of our many small shops of fancy wares. +Judge my embarrassment to see that the salesman was entertaining a young +lady on his knee. I was too far inside to retreat. Presently the +salesman shifted the lady to his other knee and, brushing a lock of her +hair off his<a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a> nose, asked me what I wanted. But I was unwilling to +disturb his hospitality. I begged him not to lay down his pleasant +burden, but rather to neglect my presence. He thanked me for my +courtesy, and made his guest comfortable once more while I fumbled along +the shelves. By good luck the price was marked upon my purchase. I laid +down the exact change and tip-toed out.</p> + +<p>The peddlers of our village, our street musicians, our apple men, belong +to us. They may wander now and then to the outside world for a silver +tribute, yet they smile at us on their return as at their truest +friends. Ice creaks up the street in a little cart and trickles at the +cracks. Rags and bottles go by with a familiar, jangling bell. Scissors +grinders have a bell, also, with a flat, tinny sound, like a cow that +forever jerks its head with flies. But it was only the other day that +two fellows went by selling brooms. These were interlopers from a +noisier district, and they raised up such a clamor that one would have +thought that the Armistice had been signed again. The clatter was so +unusual—our own merchants are of quieter voice—that a dozen of us +thrust our heads from our windows. Perhaps another German government had +fallen. The novelist below me put out his shaggy beard. The girl with +the slim legs was craned out of the sill with excitement. My pretty +neighbor below, who is immaculate when I meet her on the stairs, was in +her mob-cap.</p> + +<p>My dear pilgrim from the West, with your ample<a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a> house and woodshed, your +yard with its croquet set and hammock between the wash-poles, you have +no notion how we are crowded on the island. Laundry tubs are concealed +beneath kitchen tables. Boxes for clothes and linen are ambushed under +our beds. Any burglar hiding there would have to snuggle among the moth +balls. Sitting-room tables are swept of books for dinner. Bookcases are +desks. Desks are beds. Beds are couches. Couches are—bless you! all the +furniture is at masquerade. Kitchen chairs turn upside down and become +step-ladders. If anything does not serve at least two uses it is a +slacker. Beds tumble out of closets. Fire escapes are nurseries. A patch +of roof is a pleasant garden. A bathroom becomes a kitchen, with a lid +upon the tub for groceries, and the milk cooling below with the cold +faucet drawn.</p> + +<p>A room's use changes with the clock. That girl who lives opposite, when +she is dressed in the morning, puts a Bagdad stripe across her couch. +She punches a row of colored pillows against the wall. Her bedroom is +now ready for callers. It was only the other day that I read of a new +invention by which a single room becomes four rooms simply by pressing a +button. This is the manner of the magic. In a corner, let us say, of a +rectangular room there is set into the floor a turntable ten feet +across. On this are built four compartments, shaped like pieces of pie. +In one of these is placed a bath-tub and stand, in another a folding-bed +and wardrobe, in a third is a kitchen range and cupboard, and in the +fourth a bookcase and<a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a> piano. Must I explain the mystery? On rising you +fold away your bed and spin the circle for your tub. And then in turn +your stove appears. At last, when you have whirled your dishes to +retirement, the piano comes in sight. It is as easy as spinning the +caster for the oil and vinegar. A whirling Susan on the supper table is +not more nimble. With this device it is estimated that the population of +our snug island can be quadruplicated, and that landlords can double +their rents with untroubled conscience. Or, by swinging a fifth piece of +pie out of the window, a sleeping-porch could be added. When the morning +alarm goes off you have only to spin the disk and dress in comfort +beside the radiator. Or you could—but possibilities are countless.</p> + +<p>Tom Paine died on Grove Street. O. Henry lived on Irving Place and ate +at Allaire's on Third Avenue. The Aquarium was once a fort on an island +in the river. Later Lafayette was welcomed there. And Jenny Lind sang +there. John Masefield swept out a saloon, it's said, on Sixth Avenue +near the Jefferson Market, and, for all I know, his very broom may be +still standing behind the door. The Bowery was once a post-road up +toward Boston. In the stream that flowed down Maiden Lane, Dutch girls +did the family washing. In William Street, not long ago, they were +tearing down the house in which Alexander Hamilton lived. These are +facts at random.</p> + +<p>But Captain Kidd lived at 119 Pearl Street. Dear me, I had thought that +he was a creature of a nursery<a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a> book—one of the pirates whom Sinbad +fought. And here on Pearl Street, in our own city, he was arrested and +taken to hang in chains in London. A restaurant now stands at 119. A +bucket of oyster shells is at the door, and, inside, a clatter of hungry +spoons.</p> + +<p>But the crowd thickens on these narrow streets. Work is done for the day +and tired folk hurry home. Crowds flow into the subway entrances. The +streets are flushed, as it were, with people, and the flood drains to +the rushing sewers. Now the lights go out one by one. The great +buildings, that glistened but a moment since at every window, are now +dark cliffs above us in the wintry mist.</p> + +<p>It is time, dear pilgrim, to seek your hotel or favorite cabaret.</p> + +<p>The Wrigley triplets once more correct by exercise their sluggish +livers. The kitten rolls its ball of fiery silk. Times Square flashes +with entertainment. It stretches its glittering web across the night.</p> + +<p>Dear pilgrim, a last important word! Put money in thy purse!<a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="I_Plan_a_Vacation" id="I_Plan_a_Vacation"></a>I Plan a Vacation.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> is my hope, when the snow is off the ground and the ocean has been +tamed by breezes from the south, to cross to England. Already I fancy +myself seated in the pleasant office of the steamship agent, listening +to his gossip of rates and sailings, bending over his colored charts, +weighing the merit of cabins. Here is one amidships in a location of +greatest ease upon the stomach. Here is one with a forward port that +will catch the sharp and wholesome wind from the Atlantic. I trace the +giant funnels from deck to deck. My finger follows delightedly the +confusing passages. I smell the rubber on the landings and the salty +rugs. From on top I hear the wind in the cordage. I view the moon, and I +see the mast swinging among the stars.</p> + +<p>Then, also, at the agent's, for my pleasure, there is a picture of a +ship cut down the middle, showing its inner furnishing and the hum of +life on its many decks. I study its flights of steps, its strange tubes +and vents and boilers. Munchausen's horse, when its rearward end was +snapped off by the falling gate (the faithful animal, you may recall, +galloped for a mile upon its forward legs alone before the misadventure +was discovered)—Munchausen's horse, I insist,—the unbroken, forward +half,—did not display so frankly its confusing pipes and coils. Then +there is another<a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a> ship which, by a monstrous effort of the printer, is +laid in Broadway, where its stacks out-top Trinity. I pace its mighty +length on the street before my house, and my eye climbs our tallest tree +for a just comparison.</p> + +<p>It is my hope to find a man of like ambition and endurance as myself and +to walk through England. He must be able, if necessary, to keep to the +road for twenty-five miles a day, or, if the inn runs before us in the +dark, to stretch to thirty. But he should be a creature, also, who is +content to doze in meditation beneath a hedge, heedless whether the sun, +in faster boots, puts into lodging first. Careless of the hour, he may +remark in my sleepy ear "how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines."</p> + +<p>He must be able to jest when his feet are tired. His drooping grunt must +be spiced with humor. When stiffness cracks him in the morning, he can +the better play the clown. He will not grumble at his bed or poke too +shrewdly at his food. Neither will he talk of graves and rheumatism when +a rainstorm finds us unprepared. If he snuffle at the nose, he must +snuffle cheerfully and with hope. Wit, with its unexpected turns, is to +be desired; but a pleasant and even humor is a better comrade on a dusty +road. It endures blisters and an empty stomach. A pack rests more +lightly on its weary shoulders. If he sing, he should know a round of +tunes and not wear a single melody to tatters. The merriest lilt grows +dull and lame when it travels all the day. But although I wish my +companion to be of a cheerful temper, he need not pipe or<a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a> dance until +the mists have left the hills. Does not the shining sun itself rise +slowly to its noonday glory? A companion must give me leave to enjoy in +silence my sullen breakfast.</p> + +<p>A talent for sketching shall be welcome. Let him produce his pencils and +his tablet at a pointed arch or mullioned window, or catch us in absurd +posture as we travel. If one tumbles in a ditch, it is but decency to +hold the pose until the picture's made.</p> + +<p>But, chiefly, a companion should be quick with a smile and nod, apt for +conversation along the road. Neither beard nor ringlet must snub his +agreeable advance. Such a fellow stirs up a mixed acquaintance between +town and town, to point the shortest way—a bit of modest gingham mixing +a pudding at a pantry window, age hobbling to the gate on its friendly +crutch, to show how a better path climbs across the hills. Or in a +taproom he buys a round of ale and becomes a crony of the place. He +enlists a dozen friends to sniff outdoors at bedtime, with conflicting +prophecy of a shifting wind and the chance of rain.</p> + +<p>A companion should be alert for small adventure. He need not, therefore, +to prove himself, run to grapple with an angry dog. Rather, let him +soothe the snarling creature! Let him hold the beast in parley while I +go on to safety with unsoiled dignity! Only when arbitration and soft +terms fail shall he offer a haunch of his own fair flesh. Generously he +must boost me up a tree, before he seeks safety for himself.<a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a></p> + +<p>But many a trivial mishap, if followed with a willing heart, leads to +comedy and is a jest thereafter. I know a man who, merely by following +an inquisitive nose through a doorway marked "No Admittance," became +comrade to a company of traveling actors. The play was <i>Uncle Tom's +Cabin</i>, and they were at rehearsal. Presently, at a changing of the +scene, my friend boasted to Little Eva, as they sat together on a pile +of waves, that he performed upon the tuba. It seems that she had +previously mounted into heaven in the final picture without any +welcoming trumpet of the angels. That night, by her persuasion, my +friend sat in the upper wings and dispensed flutings of great joy as she +ascended to her rest.</p> + +<p>Three other men of my acquaintance were caught once, between towns, on a +walking trip in the Adirondacks, and fell by chance into a kind of +sanitarium for convalescent consumptives. At first it seemed a gloomy +prospect. But, learning that there was a movie in a near-by village, +they secured two jitneys and gave a party for the inmates. In the church +parlor, when the show was done, they ate ice-cream and layer-cake. Two +of the men were fat, but the third, a slight and handsome fellow—I +write on suspicion only—so won a pretty patient at the feast, that, on +the homeward ride—they were rattling in the tonneau—she graciously +permitted him to steady her at the bumps and sudden turns.</p> + +<p>Nor was this the end. As it still lacked an hour of midnight the general +sanitarium declared a Roman<a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a> holiday. The slight fellow, on a challenge, +did a hand-stand, with his feet waving against the wall, while his knife +and keys and money dropped from his pockets. The pretty patient read +aloud some verses of her own upon the spring. She brought down her +water-colors, and laying a charcoal portrait off the piano, she ranged +her lovely wares upon the top. The fattest of my friends, also, eager to +do his part, stretched himself, heels and head, between two chairs. But, +when another chair was tossed on his unsupported middle, he fell with a +boom upon the carpet. Then the old doctor brought out wine and Bohemian +glasses with long stems and, as the clock struck twelve, the company +pledged one another's health, with hopes for a reunion. They lighted +their candles on the landing, and so to bed.</p> + +<p>I know a man, also, who once met a sword-swallower at a county fair. A +volunteer was needed for his trick—someone to hold the scarlet cushion +with its dangerous knives—and zealous friends pushed him from his seat +and toward the stage. Afterwards he met the Caucasian Beauties and, +despite his timidity, they dined together with great merriment.</p> + +<p>Then there is a kind of humorous philosophy to be desired on an +excursion. It smokes a contented pipe to the tune of every rivulet. It +rests a peaceful stomach on the rail of every bridge, and it observes +the floating leaves, like golden caravels upon the stream. It interprets +a trivial event. It is both serious and absurd. It sits on a fence to +moralize on<a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a> the life of cows and flings in Plato on the soul. It plays +catch and toss with life and death and the world beyond. And it sees +significance in common things. A farmer's cart is a tumbril of the +Revolution. A crowing rooster is Chanticleer. It is the very cock that +proclaimed to Hamlet that the dawn was nigh. When a cloud rises up, such +a philosopher discourses of the flood. He counts up the forty rainy days +and names the present rascals to be drowned—profiteers in food, +plumbers and all laundrymen.</p> + +<p>A stable lantern, swinging in the dark, rouses up a race of giants—</p> + +<p>I think it was some such fantastic quality of thought that Horace +Walpole had in mind when he commended the Three Princes of Serendip. +Their Highnesses, it seems, "were always making discoveries, by accident +and sagacity, of things which they were not in quest of: for instance," +he writes, "one of them discovered that a mule blind of the right eye +had traveled the same road lately, because the grass was eaten on the +left side." At first, I confess, this employment seems a waste of time. +Sherlock Holmes did better when he pronounced, on finding a neglected +whisp of beard, that Doctor Watson's shaving mirror had been shifted to +an opposite window. But doubtless the Princes put their deduction to +higher use, and met the countryside and village with shrewd and vivid +observation.</p> + +<p>Don Quixote had this same quality, but with more than a touch of +madness. Did he not build up the<a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a> Lady Tolosa out of a common creature +at an inn? He sought knighthood at the hands of its stupid keeper and +watched his armor all night by the foolish moon. He tilted against a +windmill. I cannot wholeheartedly commend the Don, but, for an +afternoon, certainly, I would prefer his company between town and town +to that of any man who carries his clanking factory on his back.</p> + +<p>But, also, I wish a companion of my travels to be for the first time in +England, in order that I may have a fresh audience for my superior +knowledge. In the cathedral towns I wish to wave an instructive finger +in crypt and aisle. Here is a bit of early glass. Here is a wall that +was plastered against the plague when the Black Prince was still alive. +I shall gossip of scholars in cord and gown, working at their rubric in +sunny cloisters. Or if I choose to talk of kings and forgotten battles, +I wish a companion ignorant but eager for my boasting.</p> + +<p>It was only last night that several of us discussed vacations. Wyoming +was the favorite—a ranch, with a month on horseback in the mountains, +hemlock brouse for a bed, morning at five and wood to chop. But a horse +is to me a troubled creature. He stands to too great a height. His eye +glows with exultant deviltry as he turns and views my imperfection. His +front teeth seem made for scraping along my arm. I dread any fly or bee +lest it sting him to emotion. I am point to point in agreement with the +psalmist: "An horse is a vain thing for safety." If I must ride,<a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a> I +demand a tired horse, who has cropped his wild oats and has come to a +slippered state. Are we not told that the horse in the crustaceous +age—I select a large word at random—was built no bigger than a dog? +Let this snug and peerless ancestor be saddled and I shall buy a ticket +for the West.</p> + +<p>But I do not at this time desire to beard the wilderness. There is a +camp of Indians near the ranch. I can smell them these thousand miles +away. Their beads and greasy blankets hold no charm. Smoky bacon, +indeed, I like. I can lie pleasurably at the flap of the tent with +sleepy eyes upon the stars. I can even plunge in a chilly pool at dawn. +But the Indians and horses that infest Wyoming do not arouse my present +interest.</p> + +<p>I am for England, therefore—for its winding roads, its villages that +nest along the streams, its peaked bridges with salmon jumping at the +weir, its thatched cottages and flowering hedges.</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry"> +<tr><td align="left">"The chaffinch sings on the orchard bough</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> In England—now!"</td></tr> +</table> + +<p>I wish to see reapers at work in Surrey fields, to stride over the windy +top of Devon, to cross Wiltshire when wind and rain and mist have +brought the Druids back to Stonehenge. At a crossroad Stratford is ten +miles off. Raglan's ancient towers peep from a wooded hill. Tintern or +Glastonbury can be gained by night. Are not these names sweet upon the +tongue? And I wish a black-timbered inn in which to<a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a> end the day—with +polished brasses in the tap and the smell of the musty centuries upon +the stairs.</p> + +<p>At the window of our room the Cathedral spire rises above the roofs. +There is no trolley-car or creaking of any wheel, and on the pavement we +hear only the fall of feet in endless pattern. Day weaves a hurrying +mesh, but this is the quiet fabric of the night.</p> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illpg_035.png"> +<img src="images/illpg_035_sml.png" width="455" height="454" alt="" title="" /></a> +</p> + +<p>I wish to walk from London to Inverness, to climb<a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a> the ghostly ramparts +of Macbeth's castle, to hear the shrill cry of Duncan's murder in the +night, to watch for witches on the stormy moor. I shall sit on the bench +where Johnson sat with Boswell on his journey to the Hebrides. I shall +see the wizard of the North, lame of foot, walking in the shade of +ruined Dryburgh. With drunken Tam, I shall behold in Alloway Kirk +warlocks in a dance. From the gloomy house of Shaws and its broken tower +David Balfour runs in flight across the heather. Culloden echoes with +the defeat of an outlaw prince. The stairs of Holyrood drip with +Rizzio's blood. But also, I wish to follow the Devon lanes, to rest in +villages on the coast at the fall of day when fishermen wind their nets, +to dream of Arthur and his court on the rocks beyond Tintagel. Merlin +lies in Wales with his dusty garments pulled about him, and his magic +sleeps. But there is wind tonight in the noisy caverns of the sea, and +Spanish pirates dripping with the slime of a watery grave, bury their +treasure when the fog lies thick.</p> + +<p>Thousands of years have peopled these English villages. Their pavements +echo with the tread of kings and poets. Here is a sunny bower for lovers +when the world was young. Bishops of the Roman church—Saint Thomas +himself in his robes pontifical has walked through these broken +cloisters. Here is the altar where he knelt at prayer when his assassins +came. From that tower Mary of Scotland looked vainly for assistance to +gallop from the north.<a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a></p> + +<p>Here stretches the Pilgrims' Way across the downs of Surrey—worn and +scratched by pious feet. From the west they came to Canterbury. The wind +stirs the far-off traffic, and the mist covers the hills as with an +ancient memory.</p> + +<p>How many thirsty elbows have rubbed this table in the forgotten years! +How many feasts have come steaming from the kitchen when the London +coach was in! That pewter cup, maybe, offered its eager pledge when the +news of Agincourt was blown from France. Up that stairway Tom Jones +reeled with sparkling canary at his belt. These cobbles clacked in the +Pretender's flight. Here is the chair where Falstaff sat when he cried +out that the sack was spoiled with villainous lime. That signboard +creaked in the tempest that shattered the Armada.</p> + +<p>My fancy mingles in the past. It hears in the inn-yard the chattering +pilgrims starting on their journey. Here is the Pardoner jesting with +the merry Wife of Bath, with his finger on his lips to keep their +scandal private. It sees Dick Turpin at the crossroads with loaded +pistols in his boots. There is mist tonight on Bagshot Heath, and men in +Kendal green are out. And fancy rebuilds a ruined castle, and lights the +hospitable fires beneath its mighty caldrons. It hangs tapestry on its +empty walls and, like a sounding trumpet, it summons up a gaudy company +in ruff and velvet to tread the forgotten measures of the past.</p> + +<p>Let Wyoming go and hang itself in its muddy riding-boots and khaki +shirt! Let its tall horses leap<a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a> upward and click their heels upon the +moon! I am for England.</p> + +<p>It is my preference to land at Plymouth, and our anchor—if the captain +is compliant—will be dropped at night, in order that the Devon hills, +as the thrifty stars are dimmed, may appear first through the mists of +dawn. If my memory serves, there is a country church with +stone-embattled tower on the summit above the town, and in the early +twilight all the roads that climb the hills lead away to promised +kingdoms. Drake, I assert, still bowls nightly on the quay at Plymouth, +with pins that rattle in the windy season, but the game is done when the +light appears.</p> + +<p>We clatter up to London. Paddington station or Waterloo, I care not. But +for arrival a rainy night is best, when the pavements glisten and the +mad taxis are rushing to the theatres. And then, for a week, by way of +practice and to test our boots, we shall trudge the streets of +London—the Strand and the Embankment. And certainly we shall explore +the Temple and find the sites of Blackfriars and the Globe. Here, beyond +this present brewery, was the bear-pit. Tarlton's jests still sound upon +the bank. A wherry, once, on this busy river, conveyed Sir Roger up to +Vauxhall. Perhaps, here, on the homeward trip, he was rejected by the +widow. The dear fellow, it is recorded, out of sentiment merely, kept +his clothes unchanged in the fashion of this season of his +disappointment. Here, also, was the old bridge across the Fleet. Here +was Drury Lane where Garrick acted. Tender<a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a> hearts, they say, in pit and +stall, fluttered to his Romeo, and sighed their souls across the +candles. On this muddy curb link-boys waited when the fog was thick. +Here the footmen bawled for chairs.</p> + +<p>But there are bookshops still in Charing Cross Road. And, for frivolous +moments, haberdashery is offered in Bond Street and vaudeville in +Leicester Square.</p> + +<p>And then on a supreme morning we pack our rucksacks.</p> + +<p>It was a grievous oversight that Christian failed to tell us what +clothing he carried in his pack. We know it was a heavy burden, for it +dragged him in the mire. But did he carry slippers to ease his feet at +night? And what did the Pardoner put inside his wallet? Surely the Wife +of Bath was supplied with a powder-puff and a fresh taffeta to wear at +the journey's end. I could, indeed, spare Christian one or two of his +encounters for knowledge of his wardrobe. These homely details are of +interest. The mad Knight of La Mancha, we are told, mortgaged his house +and laid out a pretty sum on extra shirts. Stevenson, also, tells us the +exact gear that he loaded on his donkey, but what did Marco Polo carry? +And Munchausen and the Wandering Jew? I have skimmed their pages vainly +for a hint.</p> + +<p>For myself, I shall take an extra suit of underwear and another flannel +shirt, a pair of stockings, a rubber cape of lightest weight that falls +below the knees, slippers, a shaving-kit and brushes. I shall<a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a> wash my +linen at night and hang it from my window, where it shall wave like an +admiral's flag to show that I sleep upon the premises. I shall replace +it as it wears. And I shall take a book, not to read but to have ready +on the chance. I once carried the Book of Psalms, but it was Nick Carter +I read, which I bought in a tavern parlor, fifteen pages missing, from a +fat lady who served me beer.</p> + +<p>We run to the window for a twentieth time. It has rained all night, but +the man in the lift was hopeful when we came up from breakfast. We +believe him; as if he sat on a tower with a spy-glass on the clouds. We +cherish his tip as if it came from Æolus himself, holding the winds in +leash.</p> + +<p>And now a streak of yellowish sky—London's substitute for blue—shows +in the west.</p> + +<p>We pay our bill. We scatter the usual silver. Several senators in +uniform bow us down the steps. We hale a bus in Trafalgar Square. We +climb to the top—to the front seat with full prospect. The Haymarket. +Sandwich men with weary step announce a vaudeville. We snap our fingers +at so stale an entertainment. There are flower-girls in Piccadilly +Circus. Regent Street. We pass the Marble Arch, near which cut-throats +were once hanged on the three-legged mare of Tyburn. Hammersmith. +Brentford. The bus stops. It is the end of the route. We have ridden out +our sixpence. We climb down. We adjust our packs and shoe-strings. The +road to the western country beckons.<a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a></p> + +<p>My dear sir, perhaps you yourself have planned for a landaulet this +summer and an English trip. You have laid out two swift weeks to make +the breathless round. You journey from London to Bristol in a day. +Another day, and you will climb out, stiff of leg, among the northern +lakes. If then, as you loll among the cushions, lapped in luxury, pink +and soft—if then, you see two men with sticks in hand and packs on +shoulder, know them for ourselves. We are singing on the road to +Windsor—to Salisbury, to Stonehenge, to the hills of Dorset, to +Lyme-Regis, to Exeter and the Devon moors.</p> + +<p>It was a shepherd who came with a song to the mountain-top. "The sun +shone, the bees swept past me singing; and I too sang, shouted, World, +world, I am coming!"<a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a></p> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illpg_042.png"> +<img src="images/illpg_042_sml.png" width="456" height="267" alt="" title="" /></a> +</p> + +<h3 class="nspc"><a name="At_a_Toy-Shop_Window" id="At_a_Toy-Shop_Window"></a>At a Toy-Shop Window.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>N</b> this Christmas season, when snowflakes fill the air and twilight is +the pleasant thief of day, I sometimes pause at the window of a toy-shop +to see what manner of toys are offered to the children. It is only five +o'clock and yet the sky is dark. The night has come to town to do its +shopping before the stores are shut. The wind has Christmas errands.</p> + +<p>And there is a throng of other shoppers. Fathers of families drip with +packages and puff after street cars. Fat ladies—Now then, all +together!—are hoisted up. Old ladies are caught in revolving doors. And +the relatives of Santa Claus—surely no nearer than nephews (anæmic +fellows in faded red coats and cotton beards)—pound their kettles for +an offering toward a Christmas dinner for the poor.<a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a></p> + +<p>But, also, little children flatten their noses on the window of the +toy-shop. They point their thumbs through their woolly mittens in a +sharp rivalry of choice. Their unspent nickels itch for large +investment. Extravagant dimes bounce around their pockets. But their +ears are cold, and they jiggle on one leg against a frosty toe.</p> + +<p>Here in the toy-shop is a tin motor-car. Here is a railroad train, with +tracks and curves and switches, a pasteboard mountain and a tunnel. Here +is a steamboat. With a turning of a key it starts for Honolulu behind +the sofa. The stormy Straits of Madagascar lie along the narrow hall. +Here in the window, also, are beams and girders for a tower. Not since +the days of Babel has such a vast supply been gathered. And there are +battleships and swift destroyers and guns and armoured tanks. The +nursery becomes a dangerous ocean, with submarines beneath the stairs: +or it is the plain of Flanders and the great war echoes across the +hearth. Château-Thierry is a pattern in the rug and the andirons are the +towers of threatened Paris.</p> + +<p>But on this Christmas night, as I stand before the toy-shop in the +whirling storm, the wind brings me the laughter of far-off children. +Time draws back its sober curtain. The snow of thirty winters is piled +in my darkened memory, but I hear shrill voices across the night.</p> + +<p>Once upon a time—in the days when noses and tables were almost on a +level, and manhood had wavered from kilts to pants buttoning at the +side—<a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>once there was a great chest which was lodged in a closet behind +a sitting-room. It was from this closet that the shadows came at night, +although at noon there was plainly a row of hooks with comfortable +winter garments. And there were drawers and shelves to the ceiling where +linen was kept, and a cupboard for cough-syrup and oily lotions for +chapped hands. A fragrant paste, also, was spread on the tip of the +little finger, which, when wiggled inside the nostril and inhaled, was +good for wet feet and snuffles. Twice a year these bottles were smelled +all round and half of them discarded. It was the ragman who bought them, +a penny to the bottle. He coveted chiefly, however, lead and iron, and +he thrilled to old piping as another man thrills to Brahms. He was a sly +fellow and, unless Annie looked sharp, he put his knee against the +scale.</p> + +<p>But at the rear of the closet, beyond the lamplight, there was a chest +where playing-blocks were kept. There were a dozen broken sets of +various shapes and sizes—the deposit and remnant of many years.</p> + +<p>These blocks had once been covered with letters and pictures. They had +conspired to teach us. C had stood for cat. D announced a dog. Learning +had put on, as it were, a sugar coat for pleasant swallowing. The arid +heights teased us to mount by an easy slope. But we scraped away the +letters and the pictures. Should a holiday, we thought, be ruined by +insidious instruction? Must a teacher's wagging finger always come among +us? It was sufficient that<a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a> five blocks end to end made a railway car, +with finger-blocks for platforms; that three blocks were an engine, with +a block on top to be a smokestack. We had no toy mountain and pasteboard +tunnel, as in the soft fashion of the present, but we jacked the rug +with blocks up hill and down, and pushed our clanking trains through the +hollow underneath. It was an added touch to build a castle on the +summit. A spool on a finger-block was the Duke himself on horseback, +hunting across his sloping acres.</p> + +<p>There was, also, in the chest, a remnant of iron coal-cars with real +wheels. Their use was too apparent. A best invention was to turn +playthings from an obvious design. So we placed one of the coal-cars +under the half of a folding checkerboard and by adding masts and turrets +and spools for guns we built a battleship. This could be sailed all +round the room, on smooth seas where the floor was bare, but it pitched +and tossed upon a carpet. If it came to port battered by the storm, +should it be condemned like a ship that is broken on a sunny river? Its +plates and rivets had been tested in a tempest. It had skirted the +headlands at the staircase and passed the windy Horn.</p> + +<p>Or perhaps we built a fort upon the beach before the fire. It was a +pretty warfare between ship and fort, with marbles used shot and shot in +turn. A lucky marble toppled the checkerboard off its balance and +wrecked the ship. The sailors, after scrambling in the water, put to +shore on flat blocks from the boat deck and were held as prisoners until +supper, in the<a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a> dungeons of the fort. It was in the sitting-room that we +played these games, under the family's feet. They moved above our sport +like a race of tolerant giants; but when callers came, we were brushed +to the rear of the house.</p> + +<p>Spools were men. Thread was their short and subsidiary use. Their larger +life was given to our armies. We had several hundred of them threaded on +long strings on the closet-hooks. But if a great campaign was +planned—if the Plains of Abraham were to be stormed or Cornwallis +captured—our recruiting sergeants rummaged in the drawers of the +sewing-machine for any spool that had escaped the draft. Or we peeked +into mother's work-box, and if a spool was almost empty, we suddenly +became anxious about our buttons. Sometimes, when a great spool was +needed for a general, mother wound the thread upon a piece of cardboard. +General Grant had carried black silk. Napoleon had been used on +trouser-patches. And my grandmother and a half-dozen aunts and elder +cousins did their bit and plied their needles for the war. In this +regard grandfather was a slacker, but he directed the battle from the +sofa with his crutch.</p> + +<p>Toothpicks were guns. Every soldier had a gun. If he was hit by a marble +in the battle and the toothpick remained in place, he was only wounded; +but he was dead if the toothpick fell out. Of each two men wounded, by +Hague Convention, one recovered for the next engagement.</p> + +<p>Of course we had other toys. Lead soldiers in<a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a> cocked hats came down the +chimney and were marshaled in the Christmas dawn. A whole Continental +Army lay in paper sheets, to be cut out with scissors. A steam engine +with a coil of springs and key furnished several rainy holidays. A red +wheel-barrow supplied a short fury of enjoyment. There were sleds and +skates, and a printing press on which we printed the milkman's tickets. +The memory still lingers that five cents, in those cheap days, bought a +pint of cream. There was, also, a castle with a princess at a window. +Was there no prince to climb her trellis and bear her off beneath the +moon? It had happened so in Astolat. The princes of the gorgeous East +had wooed, also, in such a fashion. Or perhaps this was the very castle +that the wicked Kazrac lifted across the Chinese mountains in the night, +cheating Aladdin of his bride. It was a rather clever idea, as things +seem now in this time of general shortage, to steal a lady, house and +all, not forgetting the cook and laundress. But one day a little girl +with dark hair smiled at me from next door and gave me a Christmas cake, +and in my dreams thereafter she became the princess in my castle.</p> + +<p>We had stone blocks with arches and round columns that were too delicate +for the hazard of siege and battle. Once, when a playmate had scarlet +fever, we lent them to him for his convalescence. Afterwards, against +contagion, we left them for a month under a bush in the side yard. Every +afternoon we wet them with a garden hose. Did not Noah's flood purify +the<a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a> world? It would be a stout microbe, we thought, that could survive +the deluge. At last we lifted out the blocks at arm's length. We smelled +them for any lurking fever. They were damp to the nose and smelled like +the cement under the back porch. But the contagion had vanished like +Noah's wicked neighbors.</p> + +<p>But store toys always broke. Wheels came off. Springs were snapped. Even +the princess faded at her castle window.</p> + +<p>Sometimes a toy, when it was broken, arrived at a larger usefulness. +Although I would not willingly forget my velocipede in its first gay +youth, my memory of sharpest pleasure reverts to its later days, when +one of its rear wheels was gone. It had been jammed in an accident +against the piano. It has escaped me whether the piano survived the +jolt; but the velocipede was in ruins. When the wheel came off the +brewery wagon before our house and the kegs rolled here and there, the +wreckage was hardly so complete. Three spokes were broken and the hub +was cracked. At first, it had seemed that the day of my velocipede was +done. We laid it on its side and tied the hub with rags. It looked like +a jaw with tooth-ache. Then we thought of the old baby-carriage in the +storeroom. Perhaps a transfusion of wheels was possible. We conveyed +upstairs a hammer and a saw. It was a wobbling and impossible +experiment. But at the top of the house there was a kind of race-track +around the four posts of the attic. With three<a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a> wheels complete, we had +been forced to ride with caution at the turns or be pitched against the +sloping rafters. We now discovered that a missing wheel gave the +necessary tilt for speed. I do not recall that the pedals worked. We +legged it on both sides. Ten times around was a race; and the audience +sat on the ladder to the roof and held a watch with a second-hand for +records.</p> + +<p>Ours was a roof that was flat in the center. On winter days, when snow +would pack, we pelted the friendly milkman. Ours, also, was a cellar +that was lost in darkened mazes. A blind area off the laundry, where the +pantry had been built above, seemed to be the opening of a cavern. And +we shuddered at the sights that must meet the candle of the furnaceman +when he closed the draught at bedtime.</p> + +<p>Abandoned furniture had uses beyond a first intention. A folding-bed of +ours closed to about the shape of a piano. When the springs and mattress +were removed it was a house with a window at the end where a wooden flap +let down. Here sat the Prisoner of Chillon, with a clothes-line on his +ankle. A pile of old furniture in the attic, covered with a cloth, +became at twilight a range of mountains with a gloomy valley at the +back. I still believe—for so does fancy wanton with my thoughts—that +Aladdin's cave opens beneath those walnut bed-posts, that the cavern of +jewels needs but a dusty search on hands and knees. The old house, alas, +has come to foreign use. Does no one now climb the attic steps? Has time +worn down<a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a> the awful Caucasus? No longer is there children's laughter on +the stairs. The echo of their feet sleeps at last in the common day.</p> + +<p>Nor must furniture, of necessity, be discarded. We dived from the +footboard of our bed into a surf of pillows. We climbed its headboard +like a mast, and looked for pirates on the sea. A sewing-table with legs +folded flat was a sled upon the stairs. Must I do more than hint that +two bed-slats make a pair of stilts, and that one may tilt like King +Arthur with the wash-poles? Or who shall fix a narrow use for the +laundry tubs, or put a limit on the coal-hole? And step-ladders! There +are persons who consider a step-ladder as a menial. This is an injustice +to a giddy creature that needs but a holiday to show its metal. On +Thursday afternoons, when the cook was out, you would never know it for +the same thin creature that goes on work-days with a pail and cleans the +windows. It is a tower, a shining lighthouse, a crowded grandstand, a +circus, a ladder to the moon.</p> + +<p>But perhaps, my dear young sir, you are so lucky as to possess a smaller +and inferior brother who frets with ridicule. He is a toy to be desired +above a red velocipede. I offer you a hint. Print upon a paper in bold, +plain letters—sucking the lead for extra blackness—that he is afraid +of the dark, that he likes the girls, that he is a butter-fingers at +baseball and teacher's pet and otherwise contemptible. Paste the paper +inside the glass of the bookcase, so that the insult shows. Then lock +the door and hide the key.<a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a> Let him gaze at this placard of his weakness +during a rainy afternoon. But I caution you to secure the keys of all +similar glass doors—of the china closet, of the other bookcase, of the +knick-knack cabinet. Let him stew in his iniquity without chance of +retaliation.</p> + +<p>But perhaps, in general, your brother is inclined to imitate you and be +a tardy pattern of your genius. He apes your fashion in suspenders, the +tilt of your cap, your method in shinny. If you crouch in a barrel in +hide-and-seek, he crowds in too. You wag your head from side to side on +your bicycle in the manner of Zimmerman, the champion. Your brother wags +his, too. You spit in your catcher's mit, like Kelly, the +ten-thousand-dollar baseball beauty. Your brother spits in his mit, too. +These things are unbearable. If you call him "sloppy" when his face is +dirty, he merely passes you back the insult unchanged. If you call him +"sloppy-two-times," still he has no invention. You are justified now to +call him "nigger" and to cuff him to his place.</p> + +<p>Tagging is his worst offense—tagging along behind when you are engaged +on serious business. "Now then, sonny," you say, "run home. Get nurse to +blow your nose." Or you bribe him with a penny to mind his business.</p> + +<p>I must say a few words about paper-hangers, although they cannot be +considered as toys or play—things by any rule of logic. There is +something rather jolly about having a room papered. The removal of the +pictures shows how the old paper looked before<a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a> it faded. The furniture +is pushed into an agreeable confusion in the hall. A rocker seems +starting for the kitchen. The great couch goes out the window. A chair +has climbed upon a table to look about. It needs but an alpenstock to +clamber on the bookcase. The carpet marks the places where the piano +legs came down.</p> + +<p>And the paper-hanger is a rather jolly person. He sings and whistles in +the empty room. He keeps to a tune, day after day, until you know it. He +slaps his brush as if he liked his work. It is a sticky, splashing, +sloshing slap. Not even a plasterer deals in more interesting material. +And he settles down on you with ladders and planks as if a circus had +moved in. After hours, when he is gone, you climb on his planking and +cross Niagara, as it were, with a cane for balance. To this day I think +of paper-hangers as a kindly race of men, who sing in echoing rooms and +eat pie and pickles for their lunch. Except for their Adam's apples—got +with gazing at the ceiling—surely not the wicked apple of the Garden—I +would wish to be a paper-hanger.</p> + +<p>Plumbers were a darker breed, who chewed tobacco fetched up from their +hip-pockets. They were enemies of the cook by instinct, and they spat in +dark corners. We once found a cake of their tobacco when they were gone. +We carried it to the safety of the furnace-room and bit into it in turn. +It was of a sweetish flavor of licorice that was not unpleasant. But the +sin was too enormous for our comfort.<a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a></p> + +<p>But in November, when days were turning cold and hands were chapped, our +parents' thoughts ran to the kindling-pile, to stock it for the winter. +Now the kindling-pile was the best quarry for our toys, because it was +bought from a washboard factory around the corner. Not every child has +the good fortune to live near a washboard factory. Necessary as +washboards are, a factory of modest output can supply a county, with +even a little dribble for export into neighbor counties. Many unlucky +children, therefore, live a good ten miles off, and can never know the +fascinating discard of its lathes—the little squares and cubes, the +volutes and rhythmic flourishes which are cast off in manufacture and +are sold as kindling. They think a washboard is a dull and common thing. +To them it smacks of Monday. It smells of yellow soap and suds. It +wears, so to speak, a checkered blouse and carries clothes-pins in its +mouth. It has perspiration on its nose. They do not know, in their +pitiable ignorance, the towers and bridges that can be made from the +scourings of a washboard factory.</p> + +<p>Our washboard factory was a great wooden structure that had been built +for a roller-skating rink. Father and mother, as youngsters in the time +of their courtship, had cut fancy eights upon the floor. And still, in +these later days, if you listened outside a window, you heard a whirling +roar, as if perhaps the skaters had returned and again swept the corners +madly. But it was really the sound of machinery that you heard, +fashioning toys and blocks for us. At<a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a> noonday, comely red-faced girls +ate their lunches on the window-sills, ready for conversation and +acquaintance.</p> + +<p>And now, for several days, a rumor has been running around the house +that a wagon of kindling is expected. Each afternoon, on our return from +school, we run to the cellar. Even on baking-day the whiff of cookies +holds us only for a minute. We wait only to stuff our pockets. And at +last the great day comes. The fresh wood is piled to the ceiling. It is +a high mound and chaos, without form but certainly not void. For there +are long pieces for bridges, flat pieces for theatre scenery, tall +pieces for towers and grooves for marbles. It is a vast quarry for our +pleasant use. You will please leave us in the twilight, sustained by +doughnuts, burrowing in the pile, throwing out sticks to replenish our +chest of blocks.</p> + +<p>And therefore on this Christmas night, as I stand before the toy-shop in +the whirling storm, the wind brings me the laughter of these far-off +children. The snow of thirty winters is piled in my darkened memory, but +I hear shrill voices across the night.<a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="Sic_Transit" id="Sic_Transit"></a>Sic Transit—</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>DO</b> not recall a feeling of greater triumph than on last Saturday when +I walked off the eighteenth green of the Country Club with my opponent +four down. I have the card before me now with its pleasant row of fives +and sixes, and a four, <i>and a three</i>. Usually my card has mounted here +and there to an eight or nine, or I have blown up altogether in a +sandpit. Like Byron—but, oh, how differently!—I have wandered in the +pathless wood. Like Ruth I have stood in tears amid the alien corn.</p> + +<p>In those old days—only a week ago, but dim already (so soon does time +wash the memory white)—in those old days, if I were asked to make up a +foursome, some green inferior fellow, a novice who used his sister's +clubs, was paired against me; or I was insulted with two strokes a hole, +with three on the long hole past the woods. But now I shall ascend to +faster company. It was my elbow. I now square it and cock it forward a +bit. And I am cured. Keep your head down, Fritzie Boy, I say. Mind your +elbow—I say it aloud—and I have no trouble.</p> + +<p>There is a creek across the course. Like a thread in the woof it cuts +the web of nearly every green. It is a black strand that puts trouble in +the pattern, an evil thread from Clotho's ancient loom. Up at the sixth +hole this creek is merely a dirty rivulet and I can<a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a> get out of the +damned thing—one must write, they say, as one talks and not go on +stilts—I can get out with a niblick by splashing myself a bit. But even +here, in its tender youth, as it were, the rivulet makes all the +mischief that it can. Gargantua with his nurses was not so great a +rogue. It crawls back and forth three times before the tee with a kind +of jeering tongue stuck out. It seems foredoomed from the cradle to a +villainous course. Farther down, at the seventeenth and second holes, +which are near together, it cuts a deeper chasm. The bank is shale and +steep. As I drive I feel like a black sinner on the nearer shore of +Styx, gazing upon the sunny fields of Paradise beyond. I put my caddy at +the top of the slope, where he sits with his apathetic eye upon the +sullen, predestined pool.</p> + +<p>But since last Saturday all is different. I sailed across on every +drive, on every approach. The depths beckoned but I heeded not. And, +when I walked across the bridge, I snapped my fingers in contempt, as at +a dog that snarls safely on a leash.</p> + +<p>I play best with a niblick. It is not entirely that I use it most. (Any +day you can hear me bawling to my caddy to fetch it behind a bunker or +beyond a fence.) Rather, the surface of the blade turns up at a +reassuring, hopeful angle. Its shining eye seems cast at heaven in a +prayer. I have had spells, also, of fondness for my mashie. It is fluted +for a back-spin. Except for the click and flight of a prosperous drive I +know nothing of prettier symmetry than an accurate<a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a> approach. But my +brassie I consider a reckless creature. It has bad direction. It treads +not in the narrow path. I have driven. Good! For once I am clear of the +woods. That white speck on the fairway is my ball. But shall my ambition +o'erleap itself? Shall I select my brassie and tempt twice the gods of +chance? No! I'll use my mashie. I'll creep up to the hole on hands and +knees and be safe from trap and ditch.</p> + +<p>Has anyone spent more time than I among the blackberry bushes along the +railroad tracks on the eleventh? It is no grossness of appetite. My +niblick grows hot with its exertions.</p> + +<p>Once our course was not beset with sandpits. In those bright days woods +and gulley were enough. Once clear of the initial obstruction I could +roll up unimpeded to the green. I practiced a bouncing stroke with my +putter that offered security at twenty yards. But now these approaches +are guarded by traps. The greens are balanced on little mountains with +sharp ditches all about. I hoist up from one to fall into another. "What +a word, my son, has passed the barrier of your teeth!" said Athene once +to Odysseus. Is the game so ancient? Were there sandpits, also, on the +hills of stony Ithaca? Or in Ortygia, sea-girt? Was the dear wanderer +off his game and fallen to profanity? The white-armed nymph Calypso must +have stuffed her ears.</p> + +<p>But now my troubles are behind me. I have cured my elbow of its fault. I +keep my head down. My<a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a> very clubs have taken on a different look since +Saturday. I used to remark their nicks against the stones. A bit of +green upon the heel of my driver showed how it was that I went sidewise +to the woods. In those days I carried the bag spitefully to the shower. +Could I leave it, I pondered, as a foundling in an empty locker? Or +should I strangle it? But now all is changed. My clubs are servants to +my will, kindly, obedient creatures that wait upon my nod. Even my +brassie knows me for its master. And the country seems fairer. The +valleys smile at me. The creek is friendly to my drive. The tall hills +skip and clap their hands at my approach. My game needs only thought and +care. My fives will become fours, my sixes slip down to fives. And here +and there I shall have a three.</p> + +<p>Except for a row of books my mantelpiece is bare. Who knows? Some day I +may sweep off a musty row of history and set up a silver cup.</p> + +<p>Later—Saturday again. I have just been around in 123. Horrible! I was +in the woods and in the blackberry bushes, and in the creek seven times. +My envious brassie! My well-belovèd mashie! Oh, vile conspiracy! +Ambition's debt is paid. 123! Now—now it's my shoulder.<a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a></p> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illpg_059.png"> +<img src="images/illpg_059_sml.png" width="465" height="280" alt="" title="" /></a> +</p> + +<h3 class="nspc"><a name="The_Posture_of_Authors" id="The_Posture_of_Authors"></a>The Posture of Authors.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><b>HERE</b> is something rather pleasantly suggestive in the fashion employed +by many of the older writers of inscribing their books from their +chambers or lodging. It gives them at once locality and circumstance. It +brings them to our common earth and understanding. Thomas Fuller, for +example, having finished his Church History of Britain, addressed his +reader in a preface from his chambers in Sion College. "May God alone +have the glory," he writes, "and the ingenuous reader the benefit, of my +endeavors! which is the hearty desire of Thy servant in Jesus Christ, +Thomas Fuller."</p> + +<p>One pictures a room in the Tudor style, with oak wainscot, tall +mullioned windows and leaded glass, a deep fireplace and black beams +above. Outside,<a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a> perhaps, is the green quadrangle of the college, +cloistered within ancient buildings, with gay wall—flowers against the +sober stones. Bells answer from tower to belfry in agreeable dispute +upon the hour. They were cast in a quieter time and refuse to bicker on +a paltry minute. The sunlight is soft and yellow with old age. Such a +dedication from such a place might turn the most careless reader into +scholarship. In the seat of its leaded windows even the quirk of a Latin +sentence might find a meaning. Here would be a room in which to meditate +on the worthies of old England, or to read a chronicle of forgotten +kings, queens, and protesting lovers who have faded into night.</p> + +<p>Here we see Thomas Fuller dip his quill and make a start. "I have +sometimes solitarily pleased myself," he begins, and he gazes into the +dark shadows of the room, seeing, as it were, the pleasant spectres of +the past. Bishops of Britain, long dead, in stole and mitre, forgetful +of their solemn office, dance in the firelight on his walls. Popes move +in dim review across his studies and shake a ghostly finger at his +heresy. The past is not a prude. To her lover she reveals her beauty. +And the scholar's lamp is her marriage torch.</p> + +<p>Nor need it entirely cool our interest to learn that Sion College did +not slope thus in country fashion to the peaceful waters of the Cam, +with its fringe of trees and sunny meadow; did not possess even a gothic +tower and cloister. It was built on the site of<a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a> an ancient priory, +Elsing Spital, with almshouses attached, a Jesuit library and a college +for the clergy. It was right in London, down near the Roman wall, in the +heart of the tangled traffic, and street cries kept breaking +in—muffins, perhaps, and hot spiced gingerbread and broken glass. I +hope, at least, that the good gentleman's rooms were up above, somewhat +out of the clatter, where muffins had lost their shrillness. +Gingerbread, when distance has reduced it to a pleasant tune, is not +inclined to rouse a scholar from his meditation. And even broken glass +is blunted on a journey to a garret. I hope that the old gentleman +climbed three flights or more and that a range of chimney-pots was his +outlook and speculation.</p> + +<p>It seems as if a rather richer flavor were given to a book by knowing +the circumstance of its composition. Not only would we know the +complexion of a man, whether he "be a black or a fair man," as Addison +suggests, "of a mild or choleric disposition, married or a bachelor," +but also in what posture he works and what objects meet his eye when he +squares his elbows and dips his pen. We are concerned whether sunlight +falls upon his papers or whether he writes in shadow. Also, if an +author's desk stands at a window, we are curious whether it looks on a +street, or on a garden, or whether it squints blindly against a wall. A +view across distant hills surely sweetens the imagination, whereas the +clatter of the city gives a shrewder twist to fancy.</p> + +<p>And household matters are of proper concern. We<a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a> would like to be +informed whether an author works in the swirl of the common +sitting-room. If he writes within earshot of the kitchen, we should know +it. There has been debate whether a steam radiator chills a poet as +against an open fire, and whether a plot keeps up its giddy pace upon a +sweeping day. Histories have balked before a household interruption. +Novels have been checked by the rattle of a careless broom. A smoky +chimney has choked the sturdiest invention.</p> + +<p>If a plot goes slack perhaps it is a bursted pipe. An incessant grocer's +boy, unanswered on the back porch, has often foiled the wicked Earl in +his attempts against the beautiful Pomona. Little did you think, my dear +madam, as you read your latest novel, that on the very instant when the +heroine, Mrs. Elmira Jones, deserted her babies to follow her conscience +and become a movie actress—that on that very instant when she slammed +the street door, the plumber (the author's plumber) came in to test the +radiator. Mrs. Jones nearly took her death on the steps as she waited +for the plot to deal with her. Even a Marquis, now and then, one of the +older sort in wig and ruffles, has been left—when the author's ashes +have needed attention—on his knees before the Lady Emily, begging her +to name the happy day.</p> + +<p>Was it not Coleridge's cow that calved while he was writing "Kubla +Khan"? In burst the housemaid with the joyful news. And that man from +Porlock—mentioned in his letters—who came on business? Did he<a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a> not +despoil the morning of its poetry? Did Wordsworth's pigs—surely he +owned pigs—never get into his neighbor's garden and need quick +attention? Martin Luther threw his inkpot, supposedly, at the devil. Is +it not more likely that it was at Annie, who came to dust? Thackeray is +said to have written largely at his club, the Garrick or the Athenæum. +There was a general stir of feet and voices, but it was foreign and did +not plague him. A tinkle of glasses in the distance, he confessed, was +soothing, like a waterfall.</p> + +<p>Steele makes no complaint against his wife Prue, but he seems to have +written chiefly in taverns. In the very first paper of the <i>Tatler</i> he +gratifies our natural curiosity by naming the several coffee-houses +where he intends to compose his thoughts. "Foreign and domestic news," +he says, "you will have from Saint James's Coffee-House." Learning will +proceed from the Grecian. But "all accounts of gallantry, pleasure and +entertainment shall be under the article of White's Chocolate-House." In +the month of September, 1705, he continues, a gentleman "was washing his +teeth at a tavern window in Pall Mall, when a fine equipage passed by, +and in it, a young lady who looked up at him; away goes the coach—" +Away goes the beauty, with an alluring smile—rather an ambiguous smile, +I'm afraid—across her silken shoulder. But for the continuation of this +pleasant scandal (you may be sure that the pretty fellow was quite +distracted<a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a> from his teeth) one must turn up the yellow pages of the +<i>Tatler</i>.</p> + +<p>We may suppose that Steele called for pens and paper and a sandbox, and +took a table in one of White's forward windows. He wished no garden view +or brick wall against the window. We may even go so far as to assume +that something in the way of punch, or canary, or negus <i>luke</i>, <i>my +dear</i>, was handy at his elbow. His paragraphs are punctuated by the gay +procession of the street. Here goes a great dandy in red heels, with +lace at his beard and wrists. Here is a scarlet captain who has served +with Marlborough and has taken a whole regiment of Frenchmen by the +nose. Here is the Lady Belinda in her chariot, who is the pledge of all +the wits and poets. That little pink ear of hers has been rhymed in a +hundred sonnets—ear and tear and fear and near and dear. The King has +been toasted from her slipper. The pretty creature has been sitting at +ombre for most of the night, but now at four of the afternoon she takes +the morning air with her lap dog. That great hat and feather will slay +another dozen hearts between shop and shop. She is attended by a female +dragon, but contrives by accident to show an inch or so of charming +stocking at the curb. Steele, at his window, I'm afraid, forgets for the +moment his darling Prue and his promise to be home.</p> + +<p>There is something rather pleasant in knowing where these old authors, +who are now almost forgotten, wrote their books. Richardson wrote +"Clarissa"<a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a> at Parson's Green. That ought not to interest us very much, +for nobody reads "Clarissa" now. But we can picture the fat little +printer reading his daily batch of tender letters from young ladies, +begging him to reform the wicked Lovelace and turn the novel to a happy +end. For it was issued in parts and so, of course, there was no +opportunity for young ladies, however impatient, to thumb the back pages +for the plot.</p> + +<p>Richardson wrote "Pamela" at a house called the Grange, then in the open +country just out of London. There was a garden at the back, and a +grotto—one of the grottoes that had been the fashion for prosperous +literary gentlemen since Pope had built himself one at Twickenham. Here, +it is said, Richardson used to read his story, day by day, as it was +freshly composed, to a circle of his lady admirers. Hugh Thompson has +drawn the picture in delightful silhouette. The ladies listen in +suspense—perhaps the wicked Master is just taking Pamela on his +knee—their hands are raised in protest. La! The Monster! Their noses +are pitched up to a high excitement. One old lady hangs her head and +blushes at the outrage. Or does she cock her ear to hear the better?</p> + +<p>Richardson had a kind of rocking-horse in his study and he took his +exercise so between chapters. We may imagine him galloping furiously on +the hearth—rug, then, quite refreshed, after four or five dishes of +tea, hiding his villain once more under Pamela's bed. Did it never occur +to that young lady to lift the<a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a> valance? Half a dozen times at least he +has come popping out after she has loosed her stays, once even when she +has got her stockings off. Perhaps this is the dangerous moment when the +old lady in the silhouette hung her head and blushed. If Pamela had gone +rummaging vigorously with a poker beneath her bed she could have cooled +her lover.</p> + +<p>Goldsmith wrote his books, for the most part, in lodgings. We find him +starving with the beggars in Axe Lane, advancing to Green Arbour +Court—sending down to the cook-shop for a tart to make his +supper—living in the Temple, as his fortunes mended. Was it not at his +window in the Temple that he wrote part of his "Animated Nature"? His +first chapter—four pages—is called a sketch of the universe. In four +pages he cleared the beginning up to Adam. Could anything be simpler or +easier? The clever fellow, no doubt, could have made the +universe—actually made it out of chaos—stars and moon and fishes in +the sea—in less than the allotted six days and not needed a rest upon +the seventh. He could have gone, instead, in plum-colored coat—"in full +fig"—to Vauxhall for a frolic. Goldsmith had nothing in particular +outside of his window to look at but the stone flagging, a pump and a +solitary tree. Of the whole green earth this was the only living thing. +For a brief season a bird or two lodged there, and you may be sure that +Goldsmith put the remnant of his crumbs upon the window casement. +Perhaps it was here that he sent down to the cook-shop for a<a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a> tart, and +he and the birds made a common banquet across the glass.</p> + +<p>Poets, depending on their circumstance, are supposed to write either in +garrets or in gardens. Browning, it is true, lived at Casa Guidi, which +was "yellow with sunshine from morning to evening," and here and there a +prosperous Byron has a Persian carpet and mahogany desk. But, for the +most part, we put our poets in garrets, as a cheap place that has the +additional advantage of being nearest to the moon. From these high +windows sonnets are thrown, on a windy night. Rhymes and fancies are +roused by gazing on the stars. The rumble of the lower city is potent to +start a metaphor. "These fringes of lamplight," it is written, +"struggling up through smoke and thousandfold exhalation, some fathoms +into the ancient reign of Night, what thinks Boötes of them, as he leads +his Hunting-dogs over the Zenith in their leash of sidereal fire? That +stifled hum of Midnight, when Traffic has lain down to rest...."</p> + +<p>Here, under a sloping roof, the poet sits, blowing at his fingers. +Hogarth has drawn him—the <i>Distressed Poet</i>—cold and lean and shabby. +That famous picture might have been copied from the life of any of a +hundred creatures of "The Dunciad," and, with a change of costume, it +might serve our time as well. The poor fellow sits at a broken table in +the dormer. About him lie his scattered sheets. His wife mends his +breeches. Outside the door stands a woman with the unpaid milk-score. +There is not a<a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a> penny in the place—and for food only half a loaf and +something brewing in a kettle. You may remember that when Johnson was a +young poet, just come to London, he lived with Mr. Cave in St. John's +Gate. When there were visitors he ate his supper behind a screen because +he was too shabby to show himself. I wonder what definition he gave the +poet in his dictionary. If he wrote in his own experience, he put him +down as a poor devil who was always hungry. But Chatterton actually died +of starvation in a garret, and those other hundred poets of his time and +ours got down to the bone and took to coughing. Perhaps we shall change +our minds about that sonnet which we tossed lightly to the moon. The +wind thrusts a cold finger through chink and rag. The stars travel on +such lonely journeys. The jest loses its relish. Perhaps those merry +verses to the Christmas—the sleigh bells and the roasted goose—perhaps +those verses turn bitter when written on an empty stomach.</p> + +<p>But do poets ever write in gardens? Swift, who was by way of being a +poet, built himself a garden-seat at Moor Park when he served Sir +William Temple, but I don't know that he wrote poetry there. Rather, it +was a place for reading. Pope in his prosperous days wrote at +Twickenham, with the sound of his artificial waterfall in his ears, and +he walked to take the air in his grotto along the Thames. But do poets +really wander beneath the moon to think their verses? Do they compose +"on summer eve by haunted stream"? I doubt whether Gray conceived his +Elegy<a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a> in an actual graveyard. I smell oil. One need not see the thing +described upon the very moment. Shelley wrote of mountains—the awful +range of Caucasus—but his eye at the time looked on sunny Italy. Ibsen +wrote of the north when living in the south. When Bunyan wrote of the +Delectable Mountains he was snug inside a jail. Shakespeare, doubtless, +saw the giddy cliffs of Dover, the Rialto, the Scottish heath, from the +vantage of a London lodging.</p> + +<p>Where did Andrew Marvell stand or sit or walk when he wrote about +gardens? Wordsworth is said to have strolled up and down a gravel path +with his eyes on the ground. I wonder whether the gardener ever broke +in—if he had a gardener—to complain about the drouth or how the +dandelions were getting the better of him. Or perhaps the lawn-mower +squeaked—if he had a lawn-mower—and threw him off. But wasn't it +Wordsworth who woke up four times in one night and called to his wife +for pens and paper lest an idea escape him? Surely he didn't take to the +garden at that time of night in his pajamas with an inkpot. But did +Wordsworth have a wife? How one forgets! Coleridge told Hazlitt that he +liked to compose "walking over uneven ground, or breaking through the +straggling branches of a copse-wood." But then, you recall that a calf +broke into "Kubla Khan." On that particular day, at least, he was snug +in his study.</p> + +<p>No, I think that poets may like to sit in gardens and smoke their pipes +and poke idly with their sticks, but when it comes actually to composing +they would<a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a> rather go inside. For even a little breeze scatters their +papers. No poet wishes to spend his precious morning chasing a frisky +sonnet across the lawn. Even a heavy epic, if lifted by a sudden squall, +challenges the swiftest foot. He puts his stick on one pile and his pipe +on another and he holds down loose sheets with his thumb. But it is +awkward business, and it checks the mind in its loftier flight.</p> + +<p>Nor do poets care to suck their pencils too long where someone may see +them—perhaps Annie at the window rolling her pie-crust. And they can't +kick off their shoes outdoors in the hot agony of composition. And also, +which caps the argument, a garden is undeniably a sleepy place. The bees +drone to a sleepy tune. The breeze practices a lullaby. Even the +sunlight is in the common conspiracy. At the very moment when the poet +is considering Little Miss Muffet and how she sat on a tuffet—doubtless +in a garden, for there were spiders—even at the very moment when she +sits unsuspectingly at her curds and whey, down goes the poet's head and +he is fast asleep. Sleepiness is the plague of authors. You may remember +that when Christian—who, doubtless, was an author in his odd +moments—came to the garden and the Arbour on the Hill Difficulty, "he +pulled his Roll out of his bosom and read therein to his comfort.... +Thus pleasing himself awhile, he at last fell into a slumber." I have no +doubt—other theories to the contrary—that "Kubla Khan" broke off +suddenly because Coleridge dropped off to sleep. A cup of black coffee<a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a> +might have extended the poem to another stanza. Mince pie would have +stretched it to a volume. Is not Shakespeare allowed his forty winks? +Has it not been written that even the worthy Homer nods?</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry"> +<tr><td align="left">"A pleasing land of drowsyhed it was:</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> For ever flushing round a summer sky."</td></tr> +</table> + +<p>No, if one has a bit of writing to put out of the way, it is best to +stay indoors. Choose an uncomfortable, straight-backed chair. Toss the +sheets into a careless litter. And if someone will pay the milk-score +and keep the window mended, a garret is not a bad place in which to +write.</p> + +<p>Novelists—unless they have need of history—can write anywhere, I +suppose, at home or on a journey. In the burst of their hot imagination +a knee is a desk. I have no doubt that Mr. Hugh Walpole, touring in this +country, contrives to write a bit even in a Pullman. The ingenious Mr. +Oppenheim surely dashes off a plot on the margin of the menu-card +between meat and salad. We know that "Pickwick Papers" was written +partly in hackney coaches while Dickens was jolting about the town.</p> + +<p>An essayist, on the other hand, needs a desk and a library near at hand. +Because an essay is a kind of back-stove cookery. A novel needs a hot +fire, so to speak. A dozen chapters bubble in their turn above the +reddest coals, while an essay simmers over a little<a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a> flame. Pieces of +this and that, an odd carrot, as it were, a left potato, a pithy bone, +discarded trifles, are tossed in from time to time to enrich the +composition. Raw paragraphs, when they have stewed all night, at last +become tender to the fork. An essay, therefore, cannot be written +hurriedly on the knee. Essayists, as a rule, chew their pencils. Their +desks are large and are always in disorder. There is a stack of books on +the clock shelf. Others are pushed under the bed. Matches, pencils and +bits of paper mark a hundred references. When an essayist goes out from +his lodging he wears the kind of overcoat that holds a book in every +pocket. His sagging pockets proclaim him. He is a bulging person, so +stuffed, even in his dress, with the ideas of others that his own +leanness is concealed. An essayist keeps a notebook, and he thumbs it +for forgotten thoughts. Nobody is safe from him, for he steals from +everyone he meets.</p> + +<p>An essayist is not a mighty traveler. He does not run to grapple with a +roaring lion. He desires neither typhoon nor tempest. He is content in +his harbor to listen to the storm upon the rocks, if now and then, by a +lucky chance, he can shelter someone from the wreck. His hands are not +red with revolt against the world. He has glanced upon the thoughts of +many men; and as opposite philosophies point upon the truth, he is +modest with his own and tolerant toward the opinion of others. He looks +at the stars and, knowing in what a dim immensity we travel, he writes +of little things beyond dispute. There are enough to weep upon the<a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a> +shadows, he, like a dial, marks the light. The small clatter of the city +beneath his window, the cry of peddlers, children chalking their games +upon the pavement, laundry dancing on the roofs and smoke in the +winter's wind—these are the things he weaves into the fabric of his +thoughts. Or sheep upon the hillside—if his window is so lucky—or a +sunny meadow, is a profitable speculation. And so, while the novelist is +struggling up a dizzy mountain, straining through the tempest to see the +kingdoms of the world, behold the essayist snug at home, content with +little sights. He is a kind of poet—a poet whose wings are clipped. He +flaps to no great heights and sees neither the devil, the seven oceans +nor the twelve apostles. He paints old thoughts in shiny varnish and, as +he is able, he mends small habits here and there. And therefore, as +essayists stay at home, they are precise—almost amorous—in the posture +and outlook of their writing. Leigh Hunt wished a great library next his +study. "But for the study itself," he writes, "give me a small snug +place, almost entirely walled with books. There should be only one +window in it looking upon trees." How the precious fellow scorns the +mountains and the ocean! He has no love, it seems, for typhoons and +roaring lions. "I entrench myself in my books," he continues, "equally +against sorrow and the weather. If the wind comes through a passage, I +look about to see how I can fence it off by a better disposition of my +movables." And by movables he means his books. These were his screen +against cold and trouble. But<a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a> Leigh Hunt had been in prison for his +political beliefs. He had grappled with his lion. So perhaps, after all, +my argument fails.</p> + +<p>Mr. Edmund Gosse had a different method to the same purpose. He "was so +anxious to fly all outward noise" that he desired a library apart from +the house. Maybe he had had some experience with Annie and her +clattering broomstick. "In my sleep," he writes, "'Where dreams are +multitude' I sometimes fancy that one day I shall have a library in a +garden. The phrase seems to contain the whole felicity of man.... It +sounds like having a castle in Spain, or a sheep-walk in Arcadia."</p> + +<p>Montaigne's study was a tower, walled all about with books. At his table +in the midst he was the general focus of their wisdom. Hazlitt wrote +much at an inn at Winterslow, with Salisbury Plain around the corner of +his view. Now and then, let us hope, when the London coach was due, he +received in his nostrils a savory smell from the kitchen stove. I taste +pepper, sometimes, and sharp sauces in his writing. Stevenson, except +for ill-health and a love of the South Seas (here was the novelist +showing himself), would have preferred a windy perch over—looking +Edinburgh.</p> + +<p>It does seem as if a rather richer flavor were given to a book by +knowing the circumstance of its composition. Consequently, readers, as +they grow older, turn more and more to biography. It is chiefly not the +biographies that deal with great crises and events, but<a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a> rather the +biographies that are concerned with small circumstance and agreeable +gossip, that attract them most. The life of Gladstone, with its hard +facts of British policy, is all very well; but Mr. Lucas's life of Lamb +is better. Who would willingly neglect the record of a Thursday night at +Inner Temple Lane? In these pages Talfourd, Procter, Hazlitt and Hunt +have written their memories of these gatherings. It was to his partner +at whist, as he was dealing, that Lamb once said, "If dirt was trumps, +what hands you would hold!" Nights of wit and friendly banter! Who would +not crowd his ears with gossip of that mirthful company?—George Dyer, +who forgot his boots until half way home (the dear fellow grew forgetful +as the smoking jug went round)—Charles Lamb feeling the stranger's +bumps. Let the Empire totter! Let Napoleon fall! Africa shall be +parceled as it may. Here will we sit until the cups are empty.</p> + +<p>Lately, in a bookshop at the foot of Cornhill, I fell in with an old +scholar who told me that it was his practice to recommend four books, +which, taken end on end, furnished the general history of English +letters from the Restoration to a time within our own memory. These +books were "Pepys' Diary," "Boswell's Johnson," the "Diary and Letters +of Madame d'Arblay" and the "Diary of Crabb Robinson."</p> + +<p>Beginning almost with the days of Cromwell here is a chain of pleasant +gossip across the space of more than two hundred years. Perhaps, at the +first, there were old fellows still alive who could remember<a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a> +Shakespeare—who still sat in chimney corners and babbled through their +toothless gums of Blackfriars and the Globe. And at the end we find a +reference to President Lincoln and the freeing of the slaves.</p> + +<p>Here are a hundred authors—perhaps a thousand—tucking up their cuffs, +looking out from their familiar windows, scribbling their large or +trivial masterpieces.<a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a></p> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illpg_077.png"> +<img src="images/illpg_077_sml.png" width="441" height="265" alt="" title="" /></a> +</p> + +<h3 class="nspc"><a name="After-Dinner_Pleasantries" id="After-Dinner_Pleasantries"></a>After-Dinner Pleasantries.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><b>HERE</b> is a shop below Fourteenth Street, somewhat remote from fashion, +that sells nothing but tricks for amateur and parlor use. It is a region +of cobblers, tailors and small grocers. Upstairs, locksmiths and +buttonhole cutters look through dusty windows on the L, which, under +some dim influence of the moon, tosses past the buildings here its human +tide, up and down, night and morning. The Trick Shop flatters itself on +its signboard that it carries the largest line of its peculiar trickery +on the western hemisphere—hinting modestly that Baluchistan, perhaps, +or Mesopotamia (where magic might be supposed to flourish) may have an +equal stock. The shop does not proclaim its greatness to the casual +glance. Its enormity of fraud offers no hint to the<a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a> unsuspecting curb. +There must be caverns and cellars at the rear—a wealth of baffling sham +un-rumored to the street, shelves sagging with agreeable deception, huge +bales of sleight-of-hand and musty barrels of old magic.</p> + +<p>But to the street the shop reveals no more than a small show-window, of +a kind in which licorice-sticks and all-day-suckers might feel at home. +It is a window at which children might stop on their way from school and +meditate their choice, fumbling in their pockets for their wealth.</p> + +<p>I have stood at this window for ten minutes together. There are cards +for fortune tellers and manuals of astrology, decks with five aces and +marked backs, and trick hats and boxes with false bottoms. There are +iron cigars to be offered to a friend, and bleeding fingers, and a +device that makes a noise like blowing the nose, "only much louder." +Books of magic are displayed, and conjurers' outfits—shell games and +disappearing rabbits. There is a line of dribble-glasses—a humorous +contrivance with little holes under the brim for spilling water down the +front of an unwary guest. This, it is asserted, breaks the social ice +and makes a timid stranger feel at home. And there are puzzle pictures, +beards for villains and comic masks—Satan himself, and other painted +faces for Hallowe'en.</p> + +<p>Some persons, of course, can perform their parlor tricks without this +machinery and appliance. I know a gifted fellow who can put on the +expression of an<a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a> idiot. Or he wrinkles his face into the semblance of +eighty years, shakes with palsy and asks his tired wife if she will love +him when he's old. Again he puts a coffee cup under the shoulder of his +coat and plays the humpback. On a special occasion he mounts a table—or +two kitchen chairs become his stage—and recites Richard and the winter +of his discontent. He needs only a pillow to smother Desdemona. And then +he opens an imaginary bottle—the popping of the cork, the fizzing, the +gurgle when it pours. Sometimes he is a squealing pig caught under a +fence, and sometimes two steamboats signaling with their whistles in a +fog.</p> + +<p>I know a young woman—of the newer sort—who appears to swallow a +lighted cigarette, with smoke coming from her ears. This was once a +man's trick, but the progress of the weaker sex has shifted it. On +request, she is a nervous lady with a fear of monkeys, taking five +children to the circus. She is Camille on her deathbed. I know a man, +too, who can give the Rebel yell and stick a needle, full length, into +his leg. The pulpy part above his knee seems to make an excellent +pincushion. And then there is the old locomotive starting on a slippery +grade (for beginners in entertainment), the hand-organ man and his +infested monkey (a duet), the chicken that is chased around the +barnyard, Hamlet with the broken pallet (this is side-splitting in any +company) and Moriarty on the telephone. I suppose our best vaudeville +performers<a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a> were once amateurs themselves around the parlor lamp.</p> + +<p>And there is Jones, too, who plays the piano. Jones, when he is asked, +sits at the keyboard and fingers little runs and chords. He seems to be +thinking which of a hundred pieces he will play. "What will you have?" +he asks. And a fat man wants "William Tell," and a lady with a powdered +nose asks for "Bubbles." But Jones ignores both and says, "Here's a +little thing of Schumann. It's a charming bit." On the other hand, when +Brown is asked to sing, it is generally too soon after dinner. Brown, +evidently, takes his food through his windpipe, and it is, so to speak, +a one-way street. He can hardly permit the ascending "Siegfried" to +squeeze past the cheese and crackers that still block the crowded +passage.</p> + +<p>There is not a college dinner without the mockery of an eccentric +professor. A wag will catch the pointing of his finger, his favorite +phrase. Is there a lawyers' dinner without its imitation of Harry +Lauder? Isn't there always someone who wants to sing "It's Nice to Get +Up in the Mornin'," and trot up and down with twinkling legs? Plumbers +on their lodge nights, I am told, have their very own Charlie Chaplin. +And I suppose that the soda clerks' union—the dear creatures with their +gum—has its local Mary Pickford, ready with a scene from <i>Pollyanna</i>. +What jolly dinners dentists must have, telling one another in dialect +how old Mrs. Finnigan had her molars out!<a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a> Forceps and burrs are their +unwearied jest across the years. When they are together and the doors +are closed, how they must frolic with our weakness!</p> + +<p>And undertakers! Even they, I am informed, throw off their solemn +countenance when they gather in convention. Their carnation and mournful +smile are gone—that sober gesture that waves the chilly relations to +the sitting-room. But I wonder whether their dismal shop doesn't cling +always just a bit to their mirth and songs. That poor duffer in the poem +who asked to be laid low, wrapped in his tarpaulin jacket—surely, +undertakers never sing of him. They must look at him with disfavor for +his cheap proposal. He should have roused for a moment at the end, with +a request for black broadcloth and silver handles.</p> + +<p>I once sat with an undertaker at a tragedy. He was of a lively sympathy +in the earlier parts and seemed hopeful that the hero would come through +alive. But in the fifth act, when the clanking army was defeated in the +wings and Brutus had fallen on his sword, then, unmistakably his +thoughts turned to the peculiar viewpoint of his profession. In fancy he +sat already in the back parlor with the grieving Mrs. Brutus, arranging +for the music.</p> + +<p>To undertakers, Cæsar is always dead and turned to clay. Falstaff is +just a fat old gentleman who drank too much sack, a' babbled of green +fields and then needed professional attention. Perhaps at the very pitch +of their meetings when the merry glasses have been three times filled, +they pledge one another in<a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a> what they are pleased to call the embalmers' +fluid. This jest grows rosier with the years. For these many centuries +at their banquets they have sung that it was a cough that carried him +off, that it was a coffin—Now then, gentlemen! All together for the +chorus!—that it was a coffin they carried him off in.</p> + +<p>I dined lately with a man who could look like a weasel. When this was +applauded, he made a face like the Dude of <i>Palmer Cox's Brownies</i>. Even +Susan, the waitress, who knows her place and takes a jest soberly, broke +down at the pantry door. We could hear her dishes rattling in +convulsions in the sink. And then our host played the insect with his +fingers on the tablecloth, smelling a spot of careless gravy from the +roast with his long thin middle finger. He caught the habit that insects +have of waving their forward legs.</p> + +<p>I still recall an uncle who could wiggle his ears. He did it every +Christmas and Thanksgiving Day. It was as much a part of the regular +program as the turkey and the cranberries. It was a feature of his +engaging foolery to pretend that the wiggle was produced by rubbing the +stomach, and a circle of us youngsters sat around him, rubbing our +expectant stomachs, waiting for the miracle. A cousin brought a guitar +and played the "Spanish Fandango" while we sat around the fire, sleepy +after dinner. And there was a maiden aunt with thin blue fingers, who +played waltzes while we danced, and she nodded and slept to the drowsy +sound of her own music.<a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a></p> + +<p>Of my own after-dinner pleasantries I am modest. I have only one trick. +Two. I can recite the fur-bearing animals of North America—the bison, +the bear, the wolf, the seal, and sixteen others—and I can go +downstairs behind the couch for the cider. This last requires little +skill. As the books of magic say, it is an easy and baffling trick. With +every step you crook your legs a little more, until finally you are on +your knees, hunched together, and your head has disappeared from view. +You reverse the business coming up, with tray and glasses.</p> + +<p>But these are my only tricks. There is a Brahms waltz that I once had +hopes of, but it has a hard run on the second page. I can never get my +thumb under in time to make connections. My best voice, too, covers only +five notes. You cannot do much for the neighbors with that cramped kind +of range. "A Tailor There Sat on His Window Ledge" is one of the few +tunes that fall inside my poverty. He calls to his wife, you may +remember, to bring him his old cross-bow, and there is a great Zum! Zum! +up and down in the bass until ready, before the chorus starts. On a +foggy morning I have quite a formidable voice for those Zums. But +after-dinner pleasantries are only good at night and then my bass is +thin. "A Sailor's Life, Yo, Ho!" is a very good tune but it goes up to +D, and I can sing it only when I am reckless of circumstance, or when I +am taking ashes from the furnace. I know a lady who sings only at her +sewing-machine. She finds a stirring accompaniment<a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a> in the whirling of +the wheel. Others sing best in tiled bathrooms. Sitting in warm and +soapy water their voices swell to Caruso's. Laundresses, I have noticed, +are in lustiest voice at their tubs, where their arms keep a vigorous +rhythm on the scrubbing-board. But I choose ashes. I am little short of +a Valkyr, despite my sex, when I rattle the furnace grate.</p> + +<p>With hymns I can make quite a showing in church if the bass part keeps +to a couple of notes. I pound along melodiously on some convenient low +note and slide up now and then, by a happy instinct, when the tune seems +to require it. The dear little lady, who sits in front of me, turns what +I am pleased to think is an appreciative ear, and now and then, for my +support, she throws in a pretty treble. But I have no tolerance with a +bass part that undertakes a flourish and climbs up behind the tenor. +This is mere egotism and a desire to shine. "Art thou there, true-penny? +You hear this fellow in the cellarage?" That is the proper bass.</p> + +<p>Dear me! Now that I recall it, we have guests—guests tonight for +dinner. Will I be asked to sing? Am I in voice? I tum-a-lum a little, up +and down, for experiment. The roar of the subway drowns this from my +neighbors, but by holding my hand over my mouth I can hear it. Is my low +F in order? No—undeniably, it is not. Thin. And squeaky. The Zums would +never do. And that fast run in Brahms? Can I slip through it? Or will my +thumb, as usual, catch and stall? Have my guests seen me go +down-<a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>-stairs behind the couch for the cider? Have they heard the +fur-bearing animals—the bison, the bear, the wolf, the seal, the +beaver, the otter, the fox and raccoon?</p> + +<p>Perhaps—perhaps it will be better to stop at the Trick Shop and buy a +dribble-glass and a long black beard to amuse my guests.<a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a></p> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illpg_086.png"> +<img src="images/illpg_086_sml.png" width="439" height="265" alt="" title="" /></a> +</p> + +<h3 class="nspc"><a name="Little_Candles" id="Little_Candles"></a>Little Candles.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">H</span><b>IGH</b> conceit of one's self and a sureness of one's opinion are based so +insecurely in experience that one is perplexed how their slight +structure stands. One marvels why these emphatic builders trust again +their glittering towers. Surely anyone who looks into himself and sees +its void or malformation ought by rights to shrink from adulation of +self, and his own opinion should appear to him merely as one candle +among a thousand.</p> + +<p>And yet this conceit of self outlasts innumerable failures, and any new +pinnacle that is set up, neglecting the broken rubble on the ground and +all the wreckage at the base, boasts again of its sure communion with +the stars. A man, let us say, has gone headlong from one formula of +belief into another. In each, for a time, he burns with a hot +conviction. Then his faith cools. His god no longer nods. But just when +you<a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a> think that failure must have brought him modesty, again he amazes +you with the golden prospect of a new adventure. He has climbed in his +life a hundred hillocks, thinking each to be a mountain. He has +journeyed on many paths, but always has fallen in a bog. Conceit is a +thin bubble in the wind, it is an empty froth and breath, yet, hammered +into ship-plates, it defies the U-boat.</p> + +<p>On every sidewalk, also, we see some fine fellow, dressed and curled to +his satisfaction, parading in the sun. An accident of wealth or birth +has marked him from the crowd. He has decked his outer walls in gaudy +color, but is bare within. He is a cypher, but golden circumstance, like +a figure in the million column, gives him substance. Yet the void cries +out on all matters in dispute with firm conviction.</p> + +<p>But this cypher need not dress in purple. He is shabby, let us say, and +pinched with poverty. Whose fault? Who knows? But does misfortune in +itself give wisdom? He is poor. Therefore he decides that the world is +sick with pestilence, and accordingly he proclaims himself a doctor. Or +perhaps he sits at ease in middle circumstance. He judges that his is an +open mind because he lets a harsh opinion blow upon his ignorance until +it flames with hatred. He sets up to be a thinker, and he is resolved to +shatter the foundations of a thousand years.</p> + +<p>The outer darkness stretches to such a giddy distance! And these +thousand candles of belief, flickering in the night, are so insufficient +even in their aggregate!<a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a> Shall a candle wink at flaming Jupiter as an +equal? By what persuasion is one's own tiny wick, shielded in the +fingers from misadventure, the greatest light?</p> + +<p>Who is there who has read more than a single chapter in the book of +life? Most of us have faltered through scarcely a dozen paragraphs, yet +we scribble our sure opinion in the margin. We hear a trifling pebble +fall in a muddy pool, and we think that we have listened to the pounding +of the sea. We hold up our little candle and we consider that its light +dispels the general night.</p> + +<p>But it has happened once in a while that someone really strikes a larger +light and offers it to many travelers for their safety. He holds his +candle above his head for the general comfort. And to it there rush the +multitude of those whose candles have been gutted. They relight their +wicks, and go their way with a song and cry, to announce their +brotherhood. If they see a stranger off the path, they call to him to +join their band. And they draw him from the mire.</p> + +<p>And sometimes this company respects the other candles that survive the +wind. They confess with good temper that their glare, also, is +sufficient; that there is, indeed, more than one path across the night. +But sometimes in their intensity—in their sureness of exclusive +salvation—they fall to bickering. One band of converts elbows another. +There is a mutual lifting of the nose in scorn, an amused contempt, or +they come to blows and all candles are extinguished. And sometimes,<a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a> +with candles out, they travel onward, still telling one another of their +band how the darkness flees before them.</p> + +<p>We live in a world of storm, of hatred, of blind conceit, of shrill and +intolerant opinion. The past is worshiped. The past is scorned. Some +wish only to kiss the great toe of old convention. Others shout that we +must run bandaged in the dark, if we would prove our faith in God and +man. It is the best of times, and the worst of times. It is the dawn. We +grope toward midnight. Our fathers were saints in judgment. Our fathers +were fools and rogues. Let's hold minutely to the past! Any change is +sacrilege. Let's rip it up! Let's destroy it altogether!</p> + +<p>We'll kill him and stamp on him: He's a Montague. We'll draw and quarter +him: He's a Capulet. He's a radical: He must be hanged. A conservative: +His head shall decorate our pike.</p> + +<p>A plague on both your houses!</p> + +<p>Panaceas are hawked among us, each with a magic to cure our ills. +Universal suffrage is a leap to perfection. Tax reform will bring the +golden age. With capital and interest smashed, we shall live in heaven. +The soviet, the recall from office, the six-hour day, the demands of +labor, mark the better path. The greater clamor of the crowd is the +guide to wisdom. Men with black beards and ladies with cigarettes say +that machine-guns and fire and death are pills that are potent for our +good. We live in a welter of quarrel and disagreement. One pictures a +mighty shelf with<a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a> bottles, and doctors running to and fro. The poor +world is on its back, opening its mouth to every spoon. By the hubbub in +the pantry—the yells and scuffling at the sink—we know that drastic +and contrary cures are striving for the mastery.</p> + +<p>There was a time when beacons burned on the hills to be our guidance. +The flames were fed and moulded by the experience of the centuries. Men +might differ on the path—might even scramble up a dozen different +slopes—but the hill-top was beyond dispute.</p> + +<p>But now the great fires smoulder. The Constitution, it is said,—pecked +at since the first,—must now be carted off and sold as junk. Art has +torn down its older standards. The colors of Titian are in the dust. +Poets no longer bend the knee to Shakespeare.</p> + +<p>Conceit is a pilot who scorns the harbor lights—</p> + +<p>Modesty was once a virtue. Patience, diligence, thrift, humility, +charity—who pays now a tribute to them? Charity is only a sop, it +seems, that is thrown in fright to the swift wolves of revolution. +Humility is now a weakness. Diligence is despised. Thrift is the advice +of cowards. Who now cares for the lessons that experience and tested +fact once taught? Ignorance sits now in the highest seat and gives its +orders, and the clamor of the crowd is its high authority.</p> + +<p>And what has become of modesty? A maid once was prodigal if she unmasked +her beauty to the moon. Morality? Let's all laugh together. It's a +quaint old word.<a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a></p> + +<p>Tolerance is the last study in the school of wisdom. Lord! Lord! Tonight +let my prayer be that I may know that my own opinion is but a candle in +the wind!<a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="A_Visit_to_a_Poet" id="A_Visit_to_a_Poet"></a>A Visit to a Poet.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span><b>OT</b> long ago I accepted the invitation of a young poet to visit him at +his lodging. As my life has fallen chiefly among merchants, lawyers and +other practical folk, I went with much curiosity.</p> + +<p>My poet, I must confess, is not entirely famous. His verses have +appeared in several of the less known papers, and a judicious printer +has even offered to gather them into a modest sheaf. There are, however, +certain vile details of expense that hold up the project. The printer, +although he confesses their merit, feels that the poet should bear the +cost.</p> + +<p>His verses are of the newer sort. When read aloud they sound pleasantly +in the ear, but I sometimes miss the meaning. I once pronounced an +intimate soul-study to be a jolly description of a rainy night. This was +my stupidity. I could see a soul quite plainly when it was pointed out. +It was like looking at the moon. You get what you look for—a man or a +woman or a kind of map of Asia. In poetry of this sort I need a hint or +two to start me right. But when my nose has been rubbed, so to speak, +against the anise-bag, I am a very hound upon the scent.</p> + +<p>The street where my friend lives is just north of Greenwich Village, and +it still shows a remnant of more aristocratic days. Behind its shabby +fronts are<a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a> long drawing-rooms with tarnished glass chandeliers and +frescoed ceilings and gaunt windows with inside blinds. Plaster cornices +still gather the dust of years. There are heavy stairways with black +walnut rails. Marble Lincolns still liberate the slaves in niches of the +hallway. Bronze Ladies of the Lake await their tardy lovers. Diana runs +with her hunting dogs upon the newel post. In these houses lived the +heroines of sixty years ago, who shopped for crinoline and spent their +mornings at Stewart's to match a Godey pattern. They drove of an +afternoon with gay silk parasols to the Crystal Palace on Forty-second +Street. In short, they were our despised Victorians. With our +advancement we have made the world so much better since.</p> + +<p>I pressed an electric button. Then, as the door clicked, I sprang +against it. These patent catches throw me into a momentary panic. I feel +like one of the foolish virgins with untrimmed lamp, just about to be +caught outside—but perhaps I confuse the legend. Inside, there was a +bare hallway, with a series of stairways rising in the gloom—round and +round, like the frightful staircase of the Opium Eater. At the top of +the stairs a black disk hung over the rail—probably a head.</p> + +<p>"Hello," I said.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's you. Come up!" And the poet came down to meet me, with +slippers slapping at the heels.</p> + +<p>There was a villainous smell on the stairs. "Something burning?" I +asked.<a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a></p> + +<p>At first the poet didn't smell it. "Oh, <i>that</i> smell!" he said at last. +"That's the embalmer."</p> + +<p>"The embalmer?"</p> + +<p>We were opposite a heavy door on the second floor. He pointed his thumb +at it. "There's an embalmer's school inside."</p> + +<p>"Dear me!" I said. "Has he any—anything to practice on?"</p> + +<p>The poet pushed the door open a crack. It was very dark inside. It +smelled like Ptolemy in his later days. Or perhaps I detected Polonius, +found at last beneath the stairs.</p> + +<p>"Bless me!" I asked, "What does he teach in his school?"</p> + +<p>"Embalming, and all that sort of thing."</p> + +<p>"It never occurred to me," I confessed, "that undertakers had to learn. +I thought it came naturally. Ducks to water, you know. They look as if +they could pick up a thing like embalming by instinct. I don't suppose +you knew old Mr. Smith."</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"He wore a white carnation on business afternoons."</p> + +<p>We rounded a turn of the black walnut stair.</p> + +<p>"There!" exclaimed the poet. "That is the office of the <i>Shriek</i>."</p> + +<p>I know the <i>Shriek</i>. It is one of the periodicals of the newer art that +does not descend to the popular taste. It will not compromise its +ideals. It prints pictures of men and women with hideous, distorted<a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a> +bodies. It is solving sex. Once in a while the police know what it is +talking about, and then they rather stupidly keep it out of the mails +for a month or so.</p> + +<p>Now I had intended for some time to subscribe to the <i>Shriek</i>, because I +wished to see my friend's verses as they appeared. In this way I could +learn what the newer art was doing, and could brush out of my head the +cobwebs of convention. Keats and Shelley have been thrown into the +discard. We have come a long journey from the older poets.</p> + +<p>"I would like to subscribe," I said.</p> + +<p>The poet, of course, was pleased. He rapped at a door marked "Editor."</p> + +<p>A young woman's head in a mob-cap came into view. She wore a green and +purple smock, and a cigarette hung loosely from her mouth. She looked at +me at first as if I were an old-fashioned poem or a bundle of modest +drawings, but cheered when I told my errand. There was a cup of steaming +soup on an alcohol burner, and half a loaf of bread. On a string across +the window handkerchiefs and stockings were hung to dry. A desk was +littered with papers.</p> + +<p>I paid my money and was enrolled. I was given a current number of the +<i>Shriek</i>, and was told not to miss a poem by Sillivitch.</p> + +<p>"Sillivitch?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Sillivitch," the lady answered. "Our greatest poet—maybe the greatest +of all time. Writes only for the <i>Shriek</i>. Wonderful! Realistic!"<a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a></p> + +<p>"Snug little office," I said to the poet, when we were on the stairs. +"She lives in there, too?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," he said. "Smart girl, that. Never compromises. Wants reality +and all that sort of thing. You must read Sillivitch. Amazing! Doesn't +seem to mean anything at first. But then you get it in a flash."</p> + +<p>We had now come to the top of the building.</p> + +<p>"There isn't much smell up here," I said.</p> + +<p>"You don't mind the smell. You come to like it," he replied. "It's +bracing."</p> + +<p>At the top of the stairs, a hallway led to rooms both front and back. +The ceiling of these rooms, low even in the middle, sloped to windows of +half height in dormers. The poet waved his hand. "I have been living in +the front room," he said, "but I am adding this room behind for a +study."</p> + +<p>We entered the study. A man was mopping up the floor. Evidently the room +had not been lived in for years, for the dirt was caked to a half inch. +A general wreckage of furniture—a chair, a table with marble top, a +carved sideboard with walnut dingles, a wooden bed with massive +headboard, a mattress and a broken pitcher—had been swept to the middle +of the room. There was also a pile of old embalmer's journals, and a +great carton that seemed to contain tubes of tooth-paste.</p> + +<p>"You see," said the poet, "I have been living in the other room. This +used to be a storage—years ago,<a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a> for the family that once lived here, +and more recently for the embalmer."</p> + +<p>"Storage!" I exclaimed. "You don't suppose that they kept any—?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Well," I said, "it's a snug little place."</p> + +<p>I bent over and picked up one of the embalmer's journals. On the cover +there was a picture of a little boy in a night-gown, saying his prayer +to his mother. The prayer was printed underneath. "And, mama," it read, +"have God make me a good boy, and when I grow up let me help papa in his +business, and never use anything but <i>Twirpp's Old Reliable Embalming +Fluid</i>, the kind that papa has always used, and grandpa before him."</p> + +<p>Now, Charles Lamb, I recall, once confessed that he was moved to +enthusiasm by an undertaker's advertisement. "Methinks," he writes, "I +could be willing to die, in death to be so attended. The two rows all +round close-drove best black japanned nails,—how feelingly do they +invite, and almost irresistibly persuade us to come and be fastened +down." But the journal did not stir me to this high emotion.</p> + +<p>I crossed the room and stooped to look out of the dormer window—into a +shallow yard where an abandoned tin bath-tub and other unprized +valuables were kept. A shabby tree acknowledged that it had lost its +way, but didn't know what to do about it. It had its elbow on the fence +and seemed to be in thought. A wash-stand lay on its side, as if it +snapped its fingers<a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a> forever at soap and towels. Beyond was a tall +building, with long tables and rows of girls working.</p> + +<p>One of the girls desisted for a moment from her feathers with which she +was making hats, and stuck out her tongue at me in a coquettish way. I +returned her salute. She laughed and tossed her head and went back to +her feathers.</p> + +<p>The young man who had been mopping up the floor went out for fresh +water.</p> + +<p>"Who is that fellow?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"He works downstairs."</p> + +<p>"For the <i>Shriek?</i>"</p> + +<p>"For the embalmer. He's an apprentice."</p> + +<p>"I would like to meet him."</p> + +<p>Presently I did meet him.</p> + +<p>"What have you there?" I asked. He was folding up a great canvas bag of +curious pattern.</p> + +<p>"It's when you are shipped away—to Texas or somewhere. This is a little +one. You'd need—" he appraised me from head to foot—"you'd need a +number ten."</p> + +<p>He desisted from detail. He shifted to the story of his life. Since he +had been a child he had wished to be an undertaker.</p> + +<p>Now I had myself once known an undertaker, and I had known his son. The +son went to Munich to study for Grand Opera. I crossed on the steamer +with him. He sang in the ship's concert, "Oh, That We Two Were Maying." +It was pitched for high tenor, so he sang it an octave low, and was +quite<a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a> gloomy about it. In the last verse he expressed a desire to lie +at rest beneath the churchyard sod. The boat was rolling and I went out +to get the air. And then I did not see him for several years. We met at +a funeral. He wore a long black coat and a white carnation. He smiled at +me with a gentle, mournful smile and waved me to a seat. He was Tristan +no longer. Valhalla no more echoed to his voice. He had succeeded to his +father's business.</p> + +<p>Here the poet interposed. "The Countess came to see me yesterday."</p> + +<p>"Mercy," I said, "what countess?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't you know her work? She's a poet and she writes for the people +downstairs. She's the Countess Sillivitch."</p> + +<p>"Sillivitch!" I answered, "of course I know her. She is the greatest +poet, maybe, of all time."</p> + +<p>"No doubt about it," said the poet excitedly, "and there's a poem of +hers in this number. She writes in italics when she wants you to yell +it. And when she puts it in capitals, my God! you could hear her to the +elevated. It's ripping stuff."</p> + +<p>"Dear me," I said, "I should like to read it. Awfully. It must be +funny."</p> + +<p>"It isn't funny at all," the poet answered. "It isn't meant to be funny. +Did you read her 'Burning Kiss'?"</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry," I answered.</p> + +<p>The poet sighed. "It's wonderfully realistic.<a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a> There's nothing +old-fashioned about that poem. The Countess wears painted stockings."</p> + +<p>"Bless me!" I cried.</p> + +<p>"Stalks with flowers. She comes from Bulgaria, or Esthonia, or +somewhere. Has a husband in a castle. Incompatible. He stifles her. +Common. In business. Beer spigots. She is artistic. Wants to soar. And +tragic. You remember my study of a soul?"</p> + +<p>"The rainy night? Yes, I remember."</p> + +<p>"Well, she's the one. She sat on the floor and told me her troubles."</p> + +<p>"You don't suppose that I could meet her, do you?" I asked.</p> + +<p>The poet looked at me with withering scorn. "You wouldn't like her," he +said. "She's very modern. She says very startling things. You have to be +in the modern spirit to follow her. And sympathetic. She doesn't want +any marriage or government or things like that. Just truth and freedom. +It's convention that clips our wings."</p> + +<p>"Conventions are stupid things," I agreed.</p> + +<p>"And the past isn't any good, either," the poet said. "The past is a +chain upon us. It keeps us off the mountains."</p> + +<p>"Exactly," I assented.</p> + +<p>"That's what the Countess thinks. We must destroy the past. Everything. +Customs. Art. Government. We must be ready for the coming of the dawn."<a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a></p> + +<p>"Naturally," I said. "Candles trimmed, and all that sort of thing. You +don't suppose that I could meet the Countess? Well, I'm sorry. What's +the bit of red paper on the wall? Is it over a dirty spot?"</p> + +<p>"It's to stir up my ideas. It's gay and when I look at it I think of +something."</p> + +<p>"And then I suppose that you look out of that window, against that brick +wall and those windows opposite, and write poems—a sonnet to the girl +who stuck out her tongue at me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes."</p> + +<p>"Hot in summer up here?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"And cold in winter?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"And I suppose that you get some ideas out of that old tin bath-tub and +those ash-cans."</p> + +<p>"Well, hardly."</p> + +<p>"And you look at the moon through that dirty skylight?"</p> + +<p>"No! There's nothing in that old stuff. Everybody's fed up on the moon."</p> + +<p>"It's a snug place," I said. And I came away.</p> + +<p>I circled the stairs into the denser smell which, by this time, I found +rather agreeable. The embalmer's door was open. In the gloom inside I +saw the apprentice busied in some dark employment. "I got somethin' to +show you," he called.</p> + +<p>"Tomorrow," I answered.</p> + +<p>As I was opening the street door, a woman came up<a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a> the steps. She was a +dark, Bulgarian sort of woman. Or Esthonian, perhaps. I held back the +door to let her pass. She wore long ear-rings. Her skirt was looped high +in scollops. She wore sandals—and painted stockings.<a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="Autumn_Days" id="Autumn_Days"></a>Autumn Days.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> was rather a disservice when the poet wrote that the melancholy days +were come. His folly is inexplicable. If he had sung through his nose of +thaw and drizzle, all of us would have pitched in to help him in his +dismal chorus. But October and November are brisk and cheerful months.</p> + +<p>In the spring, to be sure, there is a languid sadness. Its beauty is too +frail. Its flowerets droop upon the plucking. Its warm nights, its +breeze that blows from the fragrant hills, warn us how brief is the +blossom time. In August the year slumbers. Its sleepy days nod across +the heavy orchards and the yellow grain fields. Smoke looks out from +chimneys, but finds no wind for comrade. For a penny it would stay at +home and doze upon the hearth, to await a playmate from the north. The +birds are still. Only the insects sing. A threshing-machine, far off, +sinks to as drowsy a melody as theirs, like a company of grasshoppers, +but with longer beard and deeper voice. The streams that frolicked to +nimble tunes in May now crawl from pool to pool. The very shadows linger +under cover. They crouch close beneath shed and tree, and scarcely stir +a finger until the fiery sun has turned its back.</p> + +<p>September rubs its eyes. It hears autumn, as it were, pounding on its +bedroom door, and turns for<a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a> another wink of sleep. But October is +awakened by the frost. It dresses itself in gaudy color. It flings a +scarlet garment on the woods and a purple scarf across the hills. The +wind, at last, like a merry piper, cries out the tune, and its brisk and +sunny days come dancing from the north.</p> + +<p>Yesterday was a holiday and I went walking in the woods. Although it is +still September it grows late, and there is already a touch of October +in the air. After a week of sultry weather—a tardy remnant from last +month—a breeze yesterday sprang out of the northwest. Like a good +housewife it swept the dusty corners of the world. It cleared our path +across the heavens and raked down the hot cobwebs from the sky. Clouds +had yawned in idleness. They had sat on the dull circle of the earth +like fat old men with drooping chins, but yesterday they stirred +themselves. The wind whipped them to their feet. It pursued them and +plucked at their frightened skirts. It is thus, after the sleepy season, +that the wind practices for the rough and tumble of November. It needs +but to quicken the tempo into sixteenth notes, to rouse a wholesome +tempest.</p> + +<p>Who could be melancholy in so brisk a month? The poet should hang his +head for shame at uttering such a libel. These dazzling days could hale +him into court. The jury, with one voice, without rising from its box, +would hold for a heavy fine. Apples have been gathered in. There is a +thirsty, tipsy smell from the cider presses. Hay is pitched up to the +very roof.<a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a> Bursting granaries show their golden produce at the cracks. +The yellow stubble of the fields is a promise that is kept. And who +shall say that there is any sadness in the fallen leaves? They are a gay +and sounding carpet. Who dances here needs no bell upon his ankle, and +no fiddle for the tune.</p> + +<p>And sometimes in October the air is hazy and spiced with smells. Nature, +it seems, has cooked a feast in the heat of summer, and now its viands +stand out to cool.</p> + +<p>November lights its fires and brings in early candles. This is the +season when chimneys must be tightened for the tempest. Their mighty +throats roar that all is strong aloft. Dogs now leave a stranger to go +his way in peace, and they bark at the windy moon. Windows rattle, but +not with sadness. They jest and chatter with the blast. They gossip of +storms on barren mountains.</p> + +<p>Night, for so many months, has been a timid creature. It has hid so long +in gloomy cellars while the regal sun strutted on his way. But now night +and darkness put their heads together for his overthrow. In shadowy +garrets they mutter their discontent and plan rebellion. They snatch the +fields by four o'clock. By five they have restored their kingdom. They +set the stars as guardsmen of their rule.</p> + +<p>Now travelers are pelted into shelter. Signboards creak. The wind +whistles for its rowdy company. Night, the monarch, rides upon the +storm.</p> + +<p>A match! We'll light the logs. We'll crack nuts<a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a> and pass the cider. How +now, master poet, is there no thirsty passage in your throat? I offer +you a bowl of milk and popcorn. Must you brood tonight upon the barren +fields—the meadows brown and sear? Who cares now how the wind grapples +with the chimneys? Here is snug company, warm and safe. Here are syrup +and griddle-cakes. Do you still suck your melancholy pen when such a +feast is going forward?<a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="On_Finding_a_Plot" id="On_Finding_a_Plot"></a>On Finding a Plot.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span> <b>YOUNG</b> author has confessed to me that lately, in despair at hitting on +a plot, he locked himself in his room after breakfast with an oath that +he would not leave it until something was contrived and under way. He +did put an apple and sandwich prudently at the back of his desk, but +these, he swore, like the locusts and wild honey in the wilderness, +should last him through his struggle. By a happy afterthought he took +with him into retirement a volume of De Maupassant. Perhaps, he +considered, if his own invention lagged and the hour grew late, he might +shift its characters into new positions. Rather than starve till dawn he +could dress a courtezan in honest cloth, or tease a happy wife from her +household in the text to a mad elopement. Or by jiggling all the plots +together, like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope, the pieces might +fall into strange and startling patterns.</p> + +<p>This is not altogether a new thought with him. While sucking at his pen +in a former drouth he considered whether a novel might not be made by +combining the characters of one story with the circumstance of another. +Let us suppose, for example, that Carmen, before she got into that ugly +affair with the Toreador, had settled down in Barchester beneath the +towers. Would the shadow of the cloister, do you<a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a> think, have cooled her +southern blood? Would she have conformed to the decent gossip of the +town? Or, on the contrary, does not a hot color always tint the colder +mixture? Suppose that Carmen came to live just outside the Cathedral +close and walked every morning with her gay parasol and her pretty +swishing skirts past the Bishop's window.</p> + +<p>We can fancy his pen hanging dully above his sermon, with his eyes on +space for any wandering thought, as if the clouds, like treasure ships +upon a sea, were freighted with riches for his use. The Bishop is +brooding on an address to the Ladies' Sewing Guild. He must find a text +for his instructive finger. It is a warm spring morning and the +daffodils are waving in the borders of the grass. A robin sings in the +hedge with an answer from his mate. There is wind in the tree-tops with +lively invitation to adventure, but the Bishop is bent to his sober +task. Carmen picks her way demurely across the puddles in the direction +of the Vicarage. Her eyes turn modestly toward his window. Surely she +does not see him at his desk. That dainty inch of scarlet stocking is +quite by accident. It is the puddles and the wind frisking with her +skirt.</p> + +<p>"Eh! Dear me!" The good man is merely human. He pushes up his spectacles +for nearer sight. He draws aside the curtain. "Dear me! Bless my soul! +Who is the lady? Quite a foreign air. I don't remember her at our little +gatherings for the heathen." A text is forgotten. The clouds are empty +caravels.<a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a> He calls to Betsy, the housemaid, for a fresh neck-cloth and +his gaiters. He has recalled a meeting with the Vicar and goes out +whistling softly, to disaster.</p> + +<p>Alas! In my forgetfulness I have skimmed upon the actual plot. You have +recalled already how La Signora Madeline descended on the Bishop's +Palace. Her beauty was a hard assault. Except for her crippled state she +might herself have toppled the Bishop over. But she pales beside the +dangerous Carmen.</p> + +<p>Suppose, for a better example, that the cheerful Mark Tapley who always +came out strong in adversity, were placed in a modern Russian novel. As +the undaunted Taplovitch he would have shifted its gloom to a sunny +ending. Fancy our own dear Pollyanna, the glad girl, adopted by an aunt +in "Crime and Punishment." Even Dostoyevsky must have laid down his +doleful pen to give her at last a happy wedding—flower-girls and +angel-food, even a shrill soprano behind the hired palms and a table of +cut glass.</p> + +<p>Oliver Twist and Nancy,—merely acquaintances in the original +story,—with a fresh hand at the plot, might have gone on a bank holiday +to Margate. And been blown off shore. Suppose that the whole excursion +was wrecked on Treasure Island and that everyone was drowned except +Nancy, Oliver and perhaps the trombone player of the ship's band, who +had blown himself so full of wind for fox-trots on the upper deck that +he couldn't sink. It is Robinson Crusoe, lodging as a handsome bachelor +on the lonely island,—observe<a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a> the cunning of the plot!—who battles +with the waves and rescues Nancy. The movie-rights alone of this are +worth a fortune. And then Crusoe, Oliver, Friday and the trombone player +stand a siege from John Silver and Bill Sikes, who are pirates, with +Spanish doubloons in a hidden cove. And Crusoe falls in love with Nancy. +Here is a tense triangle. But youth goes to youth. Crusoe's whiskers are +only dyed their glossy black. The trombone player, by good luck (you see +now why he was saved from the wreck), is discovered to be a retired +clergyman—doubtless a Methodist. The happy knot is tied. And then—a +sail! A sail! Oliver and Nancy settle down in a semi-detached near +London, with oyster shells along the garden path and cat-tails in the +umbrella jar. The story ends prettily under their plane-tree at the +rear—tea for three, with a trombone solo, and the faithful Friday and +Old Bill, reformed now, as gardener, clipping together the shrubs +against the sunny wall.</p> + +<p>Was there a serpent in the garden at peaceful Cranford? Suppose that one +of the gay rascals of Dumas, with tall boots and black moustachios, had +got in when the tempting moon was up. Could the gentle ladies in their +fragile guard of crinoline have withstood this French assault?</p> + +<p>Or Camille, perhaps, before she took her cough, settled at Bath and +entangled Mr. Pickwick in the Pump Room. Do not a great hat and feather +find their victim anywhere? Is not a silken ankle as potent at Bath as +in Bohemia? Surely a touch of age and<a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a> gout is no prevention against the +general plague. Nor does a bald head tower above the softer passions. +Camille's pretty nose is powdered for the onslaught. She has arranged +her laces in dangerous hazard to the eye. And now the bold huzzy +undeniably winks at Mr. Pickwick over her pint of "killibeate." She +drops her fan with usual consequence. A nod. A smile. A word. At the +Assembly—mark her sudden progress and the triumphant end!—they sit +together in the shadows of the balcony. "My dear," says Mr. Pickwick, +gazing tenderly through his glasses, "my love, my own, will you—bless +my soul!—will you share my lodgings at Mrs. Bardell's in Goswell +Street?" We are mariners, all of us, coasting in dangerous waters. It is +the syren's voice, her white beauty gleaming on the shoal—it is the +moon that throws us on the rocks.</p> + +<p>And then a dozen dowagers breed the gossip. Duchesses, frail with years, +pop and burst with the pleasant secret. There is even greater commotion +than at Mr. Pickwick's other disturbing affair with the middle-aged lady +in the yellow curl-papers. This previous affair you may recall. He had +left his watch by an oversight in the taproom, and he went down to get +it when the inn was dark. On the return he took a false direction at the +landing and, being misled by the row of boots along the hall, he entered +the wrong room. He was in his nightcap in bed when, peeping through the +curtains, he saw the aforesaid lady brushing her back hair. A duel was +narrowly averted when<a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a> this startling scandal came to the ears of the +lady's lover, Mr. Peter Magnus. Camille, I think, could have kept this +sharper scandal to herself. At most, with a prudent finger on her lips, +she would have whispered the intrigue harmlessly behind her fan and set +herself to snare a duke.</p> + +<p>I like to think, also, of the incongruity of throwing Rollo (Rollo the +perfect, the Bayard of the nursery, the example of our suffering +childhood)—Rollo grown up, of course, and without his aseptic Uncle +George—into the gay scandal, let us say, of the Queen's Necklace. +Perhaps it is forgotten how he and his little sister Jane went to the +Bull Fight in Rome on Sunday morning by mistake. They were looking for +the Presbyterian Church, and hand in hand they followed the crowd. It is +needless to remind you how Uncle George was vexed. Rollo was a prig. He +loved his Sunday school and his hour of piano practice. He brushed his +hair and washed his face without compulsion. He even got in behind his +ears. He went to bed cheerfully upon a hint. Thirty years ago—I was so +pestered—if I could have met Rollo in the flesh I would have lured him +to the alleyway behind our barn and pushed him into the manure-pit. In +the crisp vernacular of our street, I would have punched the everlasting +tar out of him.</p> + +<p>It was circumstance that held the Bishop and Rollo down. Isn't +Cinderella just a common story of sordid realism until the fairy +godmother appears? Except for the pumpkin and a very small foot she +would have<a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a> married the butcher's boy, and been snubbed by her sisters +to the end. It was only luck that it was a prince who awakened the +Sleeping Beauty. The plumber's assistant might have stumbled by. What +was Aladdin without his uncle, the magician? Do princesses still sleep +exposed to a golden kiss? Are there lamps for rubbing, discarded now in +attics?</p> + +<p>Sinbad, with a steady wife, would have stayed at home and become an +alderman. Romeo might have married a Montague and lived happily ever +after. It was but chance that Titania awakened in the Ass's +company—chance that Viola was cast on the coast of Illyria and found +her lover. Any of these plots could have been altered by jogging the +author's elbow. A bit of indigestion wrecks the crimson shallop. Comedy +or tragedy is but the falling of the dice. By the flip of a coin comes +the poisoned goblet or the princess.</p> + +<p>But my young author's experiment with De Maupassant was not successful. +He tells me that hunger caught him in the middle of the afternoon, and +that he went forth for a cup of malted milk, which is his weakness. His +head was as empty as his stomach.</p> + +<p>And yet there are many novels written and even published, and most of +them seem to have what pass for plots. Bipeds, undeniably, are set up +with some likeness to humanity. They talk from page to page without any +squeak of bellows. They live in lodgings and make acquaintance across +the air-shaft. They wrestle with villains. They fall in love. They +starve<a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a> and then grow famous. And at last, in all good books, journeys +end in lovers' meeting. It is as easy as lying. Only a plot is needed.</p> + +<p>And may not anyone set up the puppets? Rich man, poor man, beggarman, +thief! You have only to say <i>eenie meenie</i> down the list, and trot out a +brunette or a blonde. There is broadcloth in the tiring-box, and swords +and velvet; and there is, also, patched wool, and shiny elbows. Your +lady may sigh her soul to the Grecian tents, or watch for honest Tom on +his motor-cycle. On Venetian balcony and village stoop the stars show +alike for lovers and everywhere there are friendly shadows in the night.</p> + +<p>Like a master of marionettes, we may pull the puppets by their strings. +It is such an easy matter—if once a plot is given—to lift a beggar or +to overthrow a rascal. A virtuous puppet can be hoisted to a tinsel +castle. A twitching of the thumb upsets the wicked King. Rollo is +pitched to his knees before a scheming beauty. And would it not be fun +to dangle before the Bishop that little Carmen figure with her daring +lace and scarlet stockings?—or to swing the bold Camille by the strings +into Mr. Pickwick's arms as the curtain falls?</p> + +<p>Was it not Hawthorne who died leaving a notebook full of plots? And +Walter Scott, when that loyal, harassed hand of his was shriveled into +death, must have had by him a hundred hints for projected books. One +author—I forget who he was—bequeathed to another author—the name has +escaped<a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a> me—a memorandum of characters and events. At any author's +death there must be a precious salvage. Among the surviving papers there +sits at least one dusty heroine waiting for a lover. Here are notes for +the Duchess's elopement. Here is a sketch how the deacon proved to be a +villain. As old ladies put by scraps of silk for a crazy quilt, shall +not an author, also, treasure in his desk shreds of character and odds +and ends to make a plot?</p> + +<p>Now the truth is, I suspect, that the actual plot has little to do with +the merits of a great many of the best books. It is only the bucket that +fetches up the water from the well. It is the string that holds the +shining beads. Who really cares whether Tom Jones married Sophia? And +what does it matter whether Falstaff died in bed or in his boots, or +whether Uncle Toby married the widow? It is the mirth and casual +adventure by the way that hold our interest.</p> + +<p>Some of the best authors, indeed, have not given a thought to their +plots until it is time to wind up the volume. When Dickens sent the +Pickwick Club upon its travels, certainly he was not concerned whether +Tracy Tupman found a wife. He had not given a thought to Sam's romance +with the pretty housemaid at Mr. Nupkins's. The elder Mrs. Weller's +fatal cough was clearly a happy afterthought. Thackeray, at the start, +could hardly have foreseen Esmond's marriage. When he wrote the early +chapters of "Vanity Fair," he had not traced Becky to her shabby garret +of the Elephant at Pumpernickel. Dumas, I<a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a> have no doubt, wrote from +page to page, careless of the end. Doubtless he marked Milady for a bad +end, but was unconcerned whether it would be a cough or noose. Victor +Hugo did no more than follow a trail across the mountains of his +invention, content with the kingdoms of each new turning.</p> + +<p>In these older and more deliberate books, if a young lady smiled upon +the hero, it was not already schemed whether they would be lovers, with +the very manner of his proposal already set. The glittering moon was not +yet bespoken for the night. "My dear young lady," this older author +thinks, "you have certainly very pretty eyes and I like the way that +lock of brown hair rests against your ear, but I am not at all sure that +I shall let you marry my hero. Please sit around for a dozen chapters +while I observe you. I must see you in tweed as well as silk. Perhaps +you have an ugly habit of whining. Or safe in a married state you might +wear a mob-cap in to breakfast. I'll send my hero up to London for his +fling. There is an actress I must have him meet. I'll let him frolic +through the winter. On his return he may choose between you."</p> + +<p>"My dear madam," another of these older authors meditates, "how can I +judge you on a first acquaintance? Certainly you talk loosely for an +honest wife. It is too soon, as yet, to know how far your flirtation +leads. I must observe you with Mr. Fopling in the garden after dinner. +If, later, I grow dull and my readers nod, your elopement will come +handy."</p> + +<p>Nor was a lady novelist of the older school less deliberate.<a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a> When a +bold adventurer appears, she holds her heroine to the rearward of her +affection. "I'll make no decision yet for Lady Emily," she thinks. "This +gay fellow may have a wife somewhere. His smooth manner with the ladies +comes with practice. It is soon enough if I decide upon their affair in +my second volume. Perhaps, after all, the captain may prove to be the +better man."</p> + +<p>And yet this spacious method requires an ample genius. A smaller writer +must take a map and put his finger beforehand on his destination. When a +hero fares forth singing in the dawn, the author must know at once his +snug tavern for the night. The hazard of the morning has been matched +already with a peaceful twilight. The seeds of time are planted, the +very harvest counted when the furrow's made. My heart goes out to that +young author who sits locked in his study, munching his barren apple. He +must perfect his scenario before he starts. How easy would be his task, +if only he could just begin, "Once upon a time," and follow his careless +contrivance.</p> + +<p>I know a teacher who has a full-length novel unpublished and concealed. +Sometimes, I fancy, at midnight, when his Latin themes are marked, he +draws forth its precious pages. He alters and smooths his sentences +while the household sleeps. And even in his classroom, as he listens to +the droning of a conjugation, he leaps to horse. Little do his students +suspect, as they stutter with their verbs, that with<a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a> their teacher, +heedless of convention, rides the dark lady of his swift adventure.</p> + +<p>I look with great awe on an acquaintance who averages more than one +story a week and publishes them in a periodical called <i>Frisky Stories</i>. +He shifts for variety among as many as five or six pen-names. And I +marvel at a friend who once wrote a story a day for a newspaper +syndicate. But his case was pathetic. When I saw him last, he was +sitting on a log in the north forest, gloomily estimating how many of +his wretched stories would cover the wood-pulp of the state. His health +was threatened. He was resting from the toil</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry"> +<tr><td align="left">"Of dropping buckets into empty wells,</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> And growing old in drawing nothing up."</td></tr> +</table> + +<p>From all this it must appear that the real difficulty is in finding a +sufficient plot. The start of a plot is easy, but it is hard to carry it +on and end it. I myself, on any vacant morning, could get a hero tied +hand and foot inside a cab, but then I would not know where to drive +him. I have thought, in an enthusiastic moment, that he might be lowered +down a manhole through the bottom of the cab. This is an unprecedented +villainy, and I have gone so far as to select a lonely manhole in +Gramercy Park around the corner from the Players' Club. But I am lost +how my hero could be rescued. Covered with muck, I could hardly hope +that his lady would go running to his arms. I<a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a> have, also, a pretty +pencil for a fight in the ancient style, with swords upon a stairway. +But what then? And what shall I do with the gallant Percival de Vere, +after he has slid down the rope from his beetling dungeon tower? As for +ladies—I could dress up the pretty creatures, but would they move or +speak upon my bidding? No one would more gladly throw a lady and +gentleman on a desert island. At a pinch I flatter myself I could draw a +roaring lion. But in what circumstance should the hungry cannibals +appear? These questions must tax a novelist heavily.</p> + +<p>Or might I not, for copy, strip the front from that building opposite?</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry"> +<tr><td align="left">"The whole of the frontage shaven sheer,</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> The inside gaped: exposed to day,</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> Right and wrong and common and queer,</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay."</td></tr> +</table> + +<p>Every room contains a story. That chair, the stove, the very tub for +washing holds its secrets. The stairs echo with the tread of a dozen +lives. And in every crowd upon the street I could cast a stone and find +a hero. There is a seamstress somewhere, a locksmith, a fellow with a +shovel. I need but the genius to pluck out the heart of their mystery. +The rumble of the subway is the friction of lives that rub together. The +very roar of cities is the meshing of our human gear.</p> + +<p>I dream of this world I might create. In romantic mood, a castle lifts +its towers into the blue dome of<a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a> heaven. I issue in spirit with Jeanne +d'Arc from the gate of Orleans, and I play the tragedy with changing +scene until the fires of Rouen have fallen into ashes. I sail the seas +with Raleigh. I scheme with the hump-backed Richard. Out of the north, +with wind and sunlight, my hero comes singing to his adventures.</p> + +<p>It would be glorious fun to create a world, to paint a valley in autumn +colors and set up a village at the crossroads. Housewives chatter at +their wash-lines. Wheels rattle on the wooden bridge. Old men doze on +the grocery bench. And now let's throw the plot, at a hazard, around the +lovely Susan, the grocer's clerk. For her lover we select a young +garage-man, the jest of the village, who tinkers at an improvement of a +carburetor. The owner of a thousand acres on the hill shall be our +villain—a wastrel and a gambler. There is a mortgage on his acres. He +is pressed for payment. He steals the garage-man's blueprints. And now +it is night. Susan dearly loves a movie. The Orpheum is eight miles off. +Painted Cupids. Angels with trumpets. The villain. An eight-cylindered +runabout. Susan. B-r-r-r-r! The movie. The runabout again. A lonely +road. Just a kiss, my pretty girl. Help! Help! Chug! Chug! Aha! Foiled! +The garage-man. You cur! You hound! Take that! And that! Susan. The +garage-man. The blueprints. Name the happy day. Oh, joy! Oh, bliss!</p> + +<p>It would be fun to model these little worlds and set them up to cool.<a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a></p> + +<p>Is it any wonder that there are a million stars across the night? God +Himself enjoyed the vast creation of His worlds. It was the evening and +the morning of the sixth day when He set his puppets moving in their +stupendous comedy.<a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a></p> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illpg_122.png"> +<img src="images/illpg_122_sml.png" width="456" height="277" alt="" title="" /></a> +</p> + +<h3 class="nspc"><a name="Circus_Days" id="Circus_Days"></a>Circus Days.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><b>HERE</b> have been warm winds out of the south for several days, soft rains +have teased the daffodils into blossom along the fences, and this +morning I heard the first clicking of a lawn-mower. It seems but +yesterday that winter was tugging at the chimneys, that March freshets +were brawling in the gutters; but, with the shifting of the cock upon +the steeple, the spring comes from its hiding in the hills. At this +moment, to prove the changing of the season, a street organ plays +beneath my window. It is a rather miserable box and is stocked with +sentimental tunes for coaxing nickels out of pity. Its inlaid mahogany +is soiled with travel. It has a peg-leg and it hangs around the +musician's neck as if weary of the road. "Master," it seems to say, "may +we sit awhile? My old stump is wearing off." And yet on<a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a> this warm +morning in the sunlight there is almost a touch of frolic in the box. A +syncopation attempts a happier temper. It has sniffed the fragrant air, +and desires to put a better face upon its troubles.</p> + +<p>The housemaid next door hangs out the Monday's garments to dry, and +there is a pleasant flapping of legs and arms as if impatient for +partners in a dance. Must a petticoat sit unasked when the music plays? +Surely breeches and stockings will not hold back when a lively skirt +shall beckon. A slow waltz might even tempt aunty's night-gown off the +line. If only a vegetable man would come with a cart of red pieplant and +green lettuce and offer his gaudy wares along the street, then the +evidence of spring would be complete.</p> + +<p>But there is even better evidence at hand. This morning I noticed that a +circus poster had been pasted on the billboard near the school-house. +Several children and I stopped to see the wonders that were promised. +Then the school-bell rang and they dawdled off. At Stratford, also, once +upon a time, boys with shining morning faces crept like snails to +school. Were there circus billboards in so remote a day? The pundits, +bleared with search, are strangely silent. This morning it will be a +shrewd lesson that keeps the children's thoughts from leaping out the +window. Two times two will hardly hold their noses on the desk.</p> + +<p>On the billboard there is the usual blonde with pink legs, balanced on +one toe on a running horse. The clown holds the paper hoop. The band is +blowing<a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a> itself very red in the face. An acrobat leaps headlong from a +high trapeze. There are five rings, thirty clowns, an amazing variety of +equestrian and slack-wire genius, a galaxy of dazzling beauties; and +every performance includes a dizzy, death-defying dive by a dauntless +dare-devil—on a bicycle from the top of the tent. And of course there +are elephants and performing dogs and fat ladies. One day only—two +performances—rain or shine.</p> + +<p>Does not this kind of billboard stir the blood in these languid days of +spring? It is a tonic to the sober street. It is a shining dial that +marks the coming of the summer. In the winter let barns and fences +proclaim the fashion of our dress and tease us with bargains for the +kitchen. But in the spring, when the wind is from the south, fences have +a better use. They announce the circus. What child now will not come +upon a trot? What student can keep to his solemn book? There is a sleepy +droning from the school-house. The irregular verbs—lawless rascals with +a past—chafe in a dull routine. The clock loiters through the hour.</p> + +<p>It was by mere coincidence that last night on my way home I stopped at a +news-stand for a daily paper, and saw a periodical by the name of the +<i>Paste-Brush</i>. On a gay cover was the picture of another blonde—a +sister, maybe, of the lady of the billboard. She was held by an ankle +over a sea of up-turned faces, but by her happy, inverted smile she +seemed unconscious of her danger.<a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a></p> + +<p>The <i>Paste-Brush</i> is new to me. I bought a copy, folded its scandalous +cover out of sight and took it home. It proves to be the trade journal +of the circus and amusement-park interests. It announces a circulation +of seventy thousand, which I assume is largely among acrobats, +magicians, fat ladies, clowns, liniment-venders, lion-tamers, Caucasian +Beauties and actors on obscure circuits.</p> + +<p>Now it happens that among a fairly wide acquaintance I cannot boast a +single acrobat or liniment-vender. Nor even a professional fat man. A +friend of mine, it is true, swells in that direction as an amateur, but +he rolls night and morning as a corrective. I did once, also, pass an +agreeable hour at a County Fair with a strong man who bends iron bars in +his teeth. He had picked me from his audience as one of convincing +weight to hang across the bar while he performed his trick. When the +show was done, he introduced me to the Bearded Beauty and a talkative +Mermaid from Chicago. One of my friends, also, has told me that she is +acquainted with a lady—a former pupil of her Sunday school—who leaps +on holidays in the park from a parachute. The bantam champion, too, many +years ago, lived behind us around the corner; but he was a distant hero, +sated with fame, unconscious of our youthful worship. But these meetings +are exceptional and accidental. Most of us, let us assume, find our +acquaintance in the usual walks of life. Last night, therefore, having +laid by the letters of Madame d'Arblay, on whose seven volumes I have<a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a> +been engaged for a month, I took up the <i>Paste-Brush</i> and was carried at +once into another and unfamiliar world.</p> + +<p>The frontispiece is the big tent of the circus with side-shows in the +foreground. There is a great wheel with its swinging baskets, a +merry-go-round, a Funny Castle, and a sword-swallower's booth. By a +dense crowd around a wagon I am of opinion that here nothing less than +red lemonade is sold. Certainly Jolly Maude, "that mountain of flesh," +holds a distant, surging crowd against the ropes.</p> + +<p>An article entitled "Freaks I Have Known" is worth the reading. You may +care to know that a celebrated missing-link—I withhold the lady's +name—plays solitaire in her tent as she waits her turn. Bearded ladies, +it is asserted, are mostly married and have a fondness for crocheting +out of hours. A certain three-legged boy, "the favorite of applauding +thousands," tried to enlist for the war, but was rejected because he +broke up a pair of shoes. The Wild Man of Borneo lived and died in +Waltham, Massachusetts. If the street and number were given, it would +tempt me to a pilgrimage. Have I not journeyed to Concord and to +Plymouth? Perhaps an old inhabitant—an antique spinster or rheumatic +grocer—can still remember the pranks of the Wild Man's childhood.</p> + +<p>But in the <i>Paste-Brush</i> the pages of advertisement are best. Slot +machines for chewing-gum are offered for sale—Merry-Widow swings, beach +babies (a kind<a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a> of doll), genuine Tiffany rings that defy the expert, +second-hand saxophones, fountain pens at eight cents each and sofa +pillows with pictures of Turkish beauties.</p> + +<p>But let us suppose that you, my dear sir, are one of those seventy +thousand subscribers and are by profession a tattooer. On the day of +publication with what eagerness you scan its columns! Here is your +opportunity to pick up an improved outfit—"stencils and supplies +complete, with twelve chest designs and a picture of a tattooed lady in +colors, twelve by eighteen, for display. Send for price list." Or if you +have skill in charming snakes and your stock of vipers is running low, +write to the Snake King of Florida for his catalogue. "He treats you +right." Here is an advertisement of an alligator farm. +Alligator-wrestlers, it is said, make big money at popular resorts on +the southern circuit. You take off your shoes and stockings, when the +crowd has gathered, and wade into the slimy pool. It needs only a +moderate skill to seize the fierce creature by his tail and haul him to +the shore. A deft movement throws him on his back. Then you tickle him +under the ear to calm him and pass the hat.</p> + +<p>Here in the <i>Paste-Brush</i> is an announcement of a ship-load of monkeys +from Brazil. Would you care to buy a walrus? A crocodile is easy money +on the Public Square in old-home week. Or perhaps you are a glass-blower +with your own outfit, a ventriloquist, a diving beauty, a lyric tenor or +a nail-eater. If so, here<a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a> is an agent who will book you through the +West. The small cities and large towns of Kansas yearn for you. Or if +you, my dear madam, are of good figure, the Alamo Beauties, touring in +Mississippi, want your services. Long season. No back pay.</p> + +<p>Would you like to play a tuba in a ladies' orchestra? You are wanted in +Oklahoma. The Sunshine Girls—famous on western circuits—are looking to +augment their number. "Wanted: Woman for Eliza and Ophelia. Also a child +for Eva. Must double as a pony. State salary. Canada theatres."</p> + +<p>It is affirmed that there is money in box-ball, that hoop-la yields a +fortune, that "you mop up the tin" with a huckley-buck. It sounds easy. +I wonder what a huckley-buck is like. I wonder if I have ever seen one. +It must be common knowledge to the readers of the <i>Paste-Brush</i>, for the +term is not explained. Perhaps one puts a huckley-buck in a wagon and +drives from town to town. Doubtless it returns a fortune in a County +Fair. Is this not an opportunity for an underpaid school-teacher or slim +seamstress? No longer must she subsist upon a pittance. Here is rest for +her blue, old fingers. Let her write today for a catalogue. She should +choose a huckley-buck of gaudy color, with a Persian princess on the +side, to draw the crowd. Let her stop by the village pump and sound a +stirring blast upon her megaphone.</p> + +<p>Or perhaps you, my dear sir, have been chafing in an indoor job. You +have been hooped through a dreary winter upon a desk. If so, your gloomy +disposition<a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a> can be mended by a hoop-la booth, whatever it is. "This +way, gentlemen! Try your luck! Positively no blanks. A valuable prize +for everybody." Your stooped shoulders will straighten. Your digestion +will come to order in a month. Or why not run a stand at the beach for +walking-sticks, with a view in the handle of a "dashing French actress +in a daring pose, or the latest picture of President and Mrs. Wilson at +the Peace Conference."</p> + +<p>Or curiosities may be purchased—"two-headed giants, mermaids, +sea-serpents, a devil-child and an Egyptian mummy. New lists ready." A +mummy would be a quiet and profitable companion for our seamstress in +the long vacation. It would need less attention than a sea-serpent. She +should announce the dusty creature as the darling daughter of the +Ptolemies. When the word has gone round, she may sit at ease before the +booth in scarlet overalls and count the dropping nickels. With what +vigor will she take to her thimble in the autumn!</p> + +<p>Out in Gilmer, Texas, there is a hog with six legs—"alive and healthy. +Five hundred dollars take it." Here is a merchant who will sell you +"snake, frog and monkey tights." After your church supper, on the stage +of the Sunday school, surely, in such a costume, my dear madam, you +could draw a crowd. Study the trombone and double your income. Can you +yodle? "It can be learned at home, evenings, in six easy lessons."<a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a></p> + +<p>A used popcorn engine is cut in half. A waffle machine will be shipped +to you on trial. Does no one wish to take the road with a five-legged +cow? Here is one for sale—an extraordinary animal that cleaned up sixty +dollars in one afternoon at a County Fair in Indiana. "Walk up, ladies +and gentlemen! The marvel of the age. Plenty of time before the big show +starts. A five-legged cow. Count 'em. Answers to the name of Guenevere. +Shown before all the crowned heads of Europe. Once owned by the Czar of +Russia. Only a dime. A tenth of a dollar. Ten cents. Show about to +start."</p> + +<p>Or perhaps you think it more profitable to buy a steam calliope—some +very good ones are offered second-hand in the <i>Paste-Brush</i>—and tour +your neighboring towns. Make a stand at the crossroads under the +soldiers' monument. Give a free concert. Then when the crowd is thick +about you, offer them a magic ointment. Rub an old man for his +rheumatism. Throw away his crutch, clap him on the back and pronounce +him cured. Or pull teeth for a dollar each. It takes but a moment for a +diagnosis. When once the fashion starts, the profitable bicuspids will +drop around you.</p> + +<p>And Funny Castles can be bought. Perhaps you do not know what they are. +They are usual in amusement parks. You and a favorite lady enter, hand +in hand. It is dark inside and if she is of an agreeable timidity she +leans to your support. Only if you are a<a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a> churl will you deny your arm. +Then presently a fiery devil's head flashes beside you in the passage. +The flooring tilts and wobbles as you step. Here, surely, no lady will +wish to keep her independence. Presently a picture opens in the wall. It +is souls in hell, or the Queen of Sheba on a journey. Then a sharp draft +ascends through an opening in the floor. Your lady screams and minds her +skirts. A progress through a Funny Castle, it is said, ripens the +greenest friendship. Now take the lady outside, smooth her off and +regale her with a lovers' sundae. Funny Castles, with wind machines, a +Queen of Sheba almost new, and devil's head complete, can be purchased. +Remit twenty-five per cent with order. The balance on delivery.</p> + +<p>Perhaps I am too old for these high excitements. Funny Castles are +behind me. Ladies of the circus, alas! who ride in golden chariots are +no longer beautiful. Cleopatra in her tinsel has sunk to the common +level. Clowns with slap-sticks rouse in me only a moderate delight.</p> + +<p>At this moment, as I write, the clock strikes twelve. It is noon and +school is out. There is a slamming of desks and a rush for caps. The +boys scamper on the stairs. They surge through the gate. The acrobat on +the billboard greets their eyes—the clown, also the lady with the pink +legs. They pause. They gather in a circle. They have fallen victims to +her smile. They mark the great day in their memory.</p> + +<p>The wind is from the south. The daffodils flourish along the fences. The +street organ hangs heavily on<a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a> its strap. There will be a parade in the +morning. The freaks will be on their platforms by one o'clock. The great +show starts at two. I shall buy tickets and take Nepos, my nephew.</p> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illpg_132.png"> +<img src="images/illpg_132_sml.png" width="356" height="404" alt="" title="" /></a> +</p> + +<p><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a></p> + +<h3 class="nspc"><a name="In_Praise_of_a_Lawn-Mower" id="In_Praise_of_a_Lawn-Mower"></a>In Praise of a Lawn-Mower.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>DO</b> not recall that anyone has written the praises of a lawn-mower. I +seem to sow in virgin soil. One could hardly expect a poet to lift up +his voice on such a homely theme. By instinct he prefers the more +rhythmic scythe. Nor, on the other hand, will mechanical folk pay a full +respect to a barren engine without cylinders and motive power. But to me +it is just intricate enough to engage the interest. I can trace the +relation of its wheels and knives, and see how the lesser spinning +starts the greater. In a printing press, on the contrary, I hear only +the general rattle. Before a gas-engine, also, I am dumb. Its sixteen +processes to an explosion baffle me. I could as easily digest a machine +for setting type. I nod blankly, as if a god explained the motion of the +stars. Even when I select a motor I take it merely on reputation and by +bouncing on the cushions to test its comfort.</p> + +<p>It has been a great many years since I was last intimate with a +lawn-mower. My acquaintance began in the days when a dirty face was the +badge of freedom. One early Saturday morning I was hard at work before +breakfast. Mother called down through the upstairs shutters, at the +first clicking of the knives, to ask if I wore my rubbers in the dew. +With the money earned by noon, I went to Conrad's shop. The<a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a> season for +tops and marbles had gone by. But in the window there was a peerless +baseball with a rubber core, known as a <i>cock-of-the-walk</i>. By +indecision, even by starting for the door, I bought it a nickel off +because it was specked by flies.</p> + +<p>It did not occur to me last week, at first, that I could cut the grass. +I talked with an Irishman who keeps the lawn next door. He leaned on his +rake, took his pipe from his mouth and told me that his time was full. +If he had as many hands as a centipede—so he expressed himself—he +could not do all the work that was asked of him. The whole street +clamored for his service. Then I talked with an Italian on the other +side, who comes to work on a motor-cycle with his lawn-mower across his +shoulder. His time was worth a dollar an hour, and he could squeeze me +in after supper and before breakfast. But how can I consistently write +upstairs—I am puttering with a novel—with so expensive a din sounding +in my ears? My expected royalties shrink beside such swollen pay. So I +have become my own yard-man.</p> + +<p>Last week I had the lawn-mower sharpened, but it came home without +adjustment. It went down the lawn without clipping a blade. What a +struggle I had as a child getting the knives to touch along their entire +length! I remember it as yesterday. What an ugly path was left when they +cut on one side only! My bicycle chain, the front wheel that wobbled, +the ball-bearings in the gear, none of these things were so perplexing. +Last week I got out my screw-driver<a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a> with somewhat of my old feeling of +impotence. I sat down on the grass with discouragement in contemplation. +One set of screws had to be loosened while another set was tightened, +and success lay in the delicacy of my advance. What was my amazement to +discover that on a second trial my mower cut to its entire width! Even +when I first wired a base-plug and found that the table lamp would +really light, I was not more astonished.</p> + +<p>This success with the lawn-mower has given me hope. I am not, as I am +accused, all thumbs. I may yet become a handy man around the house. Is +the swirl of furnace pipes inside my intellect? Perhaps I can fix the +leaky packing in the laundry tubs, and henceforth look on the plumber as +an equal brother. My dormant brain cells at last are wakened. But I must +curb myself. I must not be too useful. There is no rest for a handy man. +It is ignorance that permits a vacant holiday. At most I shall admit a +familiarity with base-plugs and picture-wire and rubber washers—perhaps +even with canvas awnings, which smack pleasantly of the sea—but I shall +commit myself no further.</p> + +<p>Once in a while I rather enjoy cleaning the garage—raking down the +cobwebs from the walls and windows with a stream from the hose—puddling +the dirt into the central drain. I am ruthless with old oil cans and +with the discarded clothing of the chauffeur we had last month. Why is +an old pair of pants stuffed so regularly in the tool drawer? There is a +barrel at<a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a> the alley fence—but I shall spare the details. It was the +river Alpheus that Hercules turned through the Augean stables. They had +held three thousand oxen and had not been cleaned for thirty years. Dear +me! I know oxen. I rank this labor ahead of the killing of the Hydra, or +fetching the golden apples of the Hesperides. Our garage can be +sweetened with a hose.</p> + +<p>But I really like outside work. Last week I pulled up a quantity of dock +and dandelions that were strangling the grass. And I raked in seed. This +morning, when I went out for the daily paper, I saw a bit of tender +green. The Reds, as I noticed in the headline of the paper, were +advancing on Warsaw. France and England were consulting for the defense +of Poland, but I ignored these great events and stood transfixed in +admiration before this shimmer of new grass.</p> + +<p>Our yard, fore and aft, is about an afternoon's work. And now that I +have cut it once I have signed up for the summer. It requires just the +right amount of intelligence. I would not trust myself to pull weeds in +the garden. M—— has the necessary skill for this. I might pull up the +Canterbury bells which, out of season, I consider unsightly stalks. And +I do not enjoy clipping the grass along the walks. It is a kind of +barber's job. But I like the long straightaways, and I could wish that +our grass plot stretched for another hundred feet.</p> + +<p>And I like the sound of a lawn-mower. It is such<a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a> a busy click and +whirr. It seems to work so willingly. Not even a sewing-machine has +quite so brisk a tempo. And when a lawn-mower strikes a twig, it stops +suddenly on its haunches with such impatience to be off again. "Bend +over, won't you," it seems to say, "and pull out that stick. These trees +are a pesky nuisance. They keep dropping branches all the while. Now +then! Are we ready? Whee! What's an apple? I can cut an apple all to +flinders. You whistle and I'll whirr. Let's run down that slope +together!"<a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="On_Dropping_Off_to_Sleep" id="On_Dropping_Off_to_Sleep"></a>On Dropping Off to Sleep.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> <b>SLEEP</b> too well—that is, I go to sleep too soon. I am told that I pass +a few minutes of troubled breathing—not vulgar snores, but a kind of +uneasy ripple on the shore of wakefulness—then I drift out with the +silent tide. Doubtless I merit no sympathy for my perfection—and yet—</p> + +<p>Well, in the first place, lately we have had windy, moonlit nights and +as my bed sets at the edge of the sleeping porch and the rail cuts off +the earth, it is like a ride in an aëroplane to lie awake among the torn +and ragged clouds. I have cast off the moorings of the sluggish world. +Our garden with its flowering path, the coop for our neighbor's +chickens, the apple tree, all have sunk from sight. The prow of my plane +is pitched across the top of a waving poplar. Earth's harbor lights are +at the stern. The Pleiades mark the channel to the open sky. I must hang +out a lantern to fend me from the moon.</p> + +<p>I shall keep awake for fifteen minutes, I think. Perhaps I can recall +Keats's sonnet to the night:</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="poetry"> +<tr><td align="left">"When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance—"</td></tr> +</table> + +<p class="nind">and those lines of Milton about the moon rising in clouded majesty, +unveiling her peerless light.</p> + +<p><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>Here a star peeps out. Presently its companions will show themselves +and I shall know the constellation. Are they playing like little +children at hide-and-seek? Do I catch Arcturus looking from its cover? +Shall I shout hi-spy to Alpha Lyra? A shooting star, that has crouched +behind a cloud, runs home to the goal untagged. Surely these glistening +worlds cannot be hard-fisted planets like our own, holding a close +schedule across the sky. They have looted the shining treasure of the +sunset. They sail the high fantastic seas like caravels blown from +India. In the twilight they have lifted vagrant anchors and they will +moor in strange havens at the dawn.</p> + +<p>Are not these ragged clouds the garment of the night? Like the beggar +maiden of an ancient tale she runs with flying raiment. She unmasks her +beauty when the world's asleep. And the wind, like an eager prince upon +his wooing, rides out of the stormy north.</p> + +<p>And then! Poof! Sleep draws its dark curtain across the glittering +pageant—</p> + +<p>Presently I hear Annie, the cook, on the kitchen steps below, beating me +up to breakfast. She sounds her unwelcome reveille on a tin pan with an +iron spoon. Her first alarm I treat with indifference. It even weaves +itself pleasantly into my dreams. I have been to a circus lately, let us +say, and this racket seems to be the tom-tom of a side-show where a thin +gentleman swallows snakes. Nor does a second outburst stir me. She only +tries the metal and practices for the later din. At the third alarm I +rise, for now she nurses a mighty wrath. I must humor the angry creature +lest in her<a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a> fury she push over a shelf of crockery. There is a cold +jump for slippers—a chilly passage.</p> + +<p>I passed a week lately at a country hotel where there were a number of +bad sleepers—men broken by the cares of business, but convalescent. +Each morning, as I dressed, I heard them on the veranda outside my +window, exchanging their complaints. "Well," said one, "I slept three +hours last night." "I wish I could," said a second. "I never do," said a +third. No matter how little sleep the first man allowed himself, the +second clipped off an hour. The third man told the bells he had +heard—one and two and three and four—both Baptist and Methodist—and +finished with his preceding competitor at least a half hour down. But +always there was an old man—an ancient man with flowing beard—who +waited until all were done, and concluded the discussion just at the +breakfast gong: <i>"I never slept a wink."</i> This was the perfect score. +His was the golden cup. Whereupon the insomnious veranda hung its +defeated head with shame, and filed into the dining-room to be soothed +and comforted with griddle-cakes.</p> + +<p>This daily contest recalled to me the story of the two men drowned in +the Dayton and Johnstown floods who boasted to each other when they came +to heaven. Has the story gone the rounds? For a while they were the +biggest lions among all the angels, and harps hung untuned and neglected +in their presence. As often as they met in the windy portico of heaven, +one of these heroes, falling to reminiscence of the flood<a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a> that drowned +him, lifted the swirling water of Johnstown to the second floor. The +other hero, not to be outdone, drenched the Dayton garrets. The first +was now compelled to submerge a chimney. Turn by turn they mounted in +competition to the top of familiar steeples. But always an old man sat +by—an ancient man with flowing beard—who said "Fudge!" in a tone of +great contempt. Must I continue? Surely you have guessed the end. It was +the old mariner himself. It was the survivor of Ararat. It was Noah. +Once, I myself, among these bad sleepers on the veranda, boasted that I +had heard the bells at two o'clock, but I was scorned as an unfledged +novice in their high convention.</p> + +<p>Sleeping too well seems to argue that there is nothing on your mind. +Your head, it is asserted by the jealous, is a vacancy that matches the +empty spaces of the night. It is as void as the untwinkling north. If +there has been a rummage, they affirm, of important matters all day +above your ears, it can hardly be checked at once by popping the tired +head down upon a pillow. These fizzing squibs of thought cannot be +smothered in a blanket. When one has planned a railroad or a revolution, +the mighty churning still progresses in the dark. A dubious franchise +must be gained. Villains must be pricked down for execution. Or bankers +have come up from Paraguay, and one meditates from hour to hour on the +sureness of the loan. Or perhaps an imperfect poem searches for a rhyme, +or the plot of a novel sticks.<a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a></p> + +<p>It is the shell, they say, which is fetched from the stormy sea that +roars all night. My head, alas, by the evidence, is a shell which is +brought from a stagnant shore.</p> + +<p>Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! Sleep that knits up the +ravell'd sleave of care! That is all very well, and pretty poetry, but I +am afraid, when everything is said, that I am a sleepy-head. I do not, +of course, have to pinch myself at a business meeting. At high noon I do +not hear the lotus song. I do not topple, full of dreams, off the +platform of a street-car. The sleepy poppy is not always at my nose.</p> + +<p>Nor do I yawn at dinner behind a napkin, or doze in the firelight when +there are guests about. My manners keep me from this boorishness. In an +extremity, if they sit too late, I stir the fire, or I put my head out +of doors for the wind to waken me. I show a sudden anxiety whether the +garage is locked. I pretend that the lawn-mower is left outside, or that +the awnings are loose and flapping. But I do not dash out the lights +when our guests are still upon the steps. I listen at the window until I +hear their motor clear the corner. Then I turn furiously to my buttons. +I kick off my shoes upon the staircase.</p> + +<p>Several of us were camping once in the woods north of Lake Superior. As +we had no guides we did all the work ourselves, and everyone was of +harder endurance than myself. Was it not Pippa who cried out "Morning's +at seven"? Seven! I look on her as being no better than a slug-a-bed. +She should have<a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a> had her dishes washed and been on her way by six. Our +day began at five. Our tents had to be taken down, our blankets and +duffle packed. We were regularly on the water an hour before Pippa +stirred a foot. And then there were four or five hours of paddling, +perhaps in windy water. And then a new camp was made. Our day matched +the exertions of a traveling circus. In default of expert knowledge I +carried water, cut brouse for the beds and washed dishes. Little jobs, +of an unpleasant nature, were found for me as often as I paused. Others +did the showy, light-fingered work. I was housemaid and roustabout from +sunrise to weary sunset. I was never allowed to rest. Nor was I +permitted to flop the bacon, which I consider an easy, sedentary +occupation. I acquired, unjustly,—let us agree in this!—a reputation +for laziness, because one day I sat for several hours in a blueberry +patch, when work was going forward.</p> + +<p>And then one night, when all labor seemed done and there was an hour of +twilight, I was asked to read aloud. Everyone settled himself for a +feast of Shakespeare's sonnets. But it was my ill luck that I selected +the sonnet that begins, "Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed." A great +shout went up—a shout of derision. That night I read no more. I carried +up six or eight pails of water from the spring and followed the +sonneteer's example.</p> + +<p>There are a great many books that I would like to read of a winter's +evening if I could stay awake—all of the histories, certainly, of +Fiske. And Rhodes,<a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a> perhaps. I might even read "The Four Horsemen," +"Trilby" and "The Education of Henry Adams," so as not to be alone. It +is snug by the fire, and the very wind taps on the window as if it asked +for invitation to share the hearth. I could compile a list, a five-foot +shelf, for these nights of tempest. There is a writer in a Boston paper +who tells us every week the books that he would like to read. His is a +prospect rather than a review, for it is based on his anticipation. But +does he ever read these books? Perhaps he, too, dozes. His book slips +off his knee and his chin drops to comfort on his front. Let me inform +him that a wood fire—if the logs are hardly dry—is a corrective. Its +debility, as water oozes at the end, requires attendance every five +minutes. Even Wardle's fat boy at Manor Farm could have lasted through +the evening if the poker had been forced into his hand so often. "I +read," says Tennyson, "before my eyelids dropt their shade." And wasn't +Alice sitting with her book when she fell asleep and down the +rabbit-hole? "And so to bed," writes Pepys. He, too, then, is one of us.</p> + +<p>I wonder if that phrase—he who runs may read—has not a deeper +significance than lies upon the surface. Perhaps the prophet—was it +Habakkuk who wrote the line?—it does not matter—perhaps the bearded +prophet had himself the sleepy habit, and kept moving briskly for remedy +around his study. I can see him in dressing-gown and slippers, with book +in hand—his whiskers veering in the wind—quickening<a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a> his lively pace +around the kerosene lamp, steering among the chairs, stumbling across +the cat—</p> + +<p>In ambition I am a night-hawk. I would like to sit late with old books +and reconstruct the forgotten world at midnight. These bells that I hear +now across the darkness are the mad bells of Saint Bartholomew. With +that distant whistle—a train on the B. & O.—Guy Fawkes gathers his +villains to light the fuse. Through my window from the night I hear the +sounds of far-off wars and kingdoms falling.</p> + +<p>And I would like, also, at least in theory, to sit with a merry company +of friends, and let the cannikin clink till dawn.</p> + +<p>I would like to walk the streets of our crowded city and marvel at the +windows—to speculate on the thousand dramas that weave their webs in +our common life. Here is mirth that shakes its sides when its neighbors +sleep. Here is a hungry student whose ambition builds him rosy castles. +Here is a light at a fevered pillow where hope burns dim.</p> + +<p>On some fairy night I would wish to wander in the woods, when there are +dancing shadows and a moon. Here Oberon holds state. Here Titania +sleeps. I would cross a silver upland. I would stand on a barren +hill-top, like the skipper of the world in its whirling voyage.</p> + +<p>But these high accomplishments are beyond me. Habakkuk and the fat boy, +and Alice and Pepys and I, and all the others, must be content. Even the +wet wood and the poker fail. The very wind grows sleepy<a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a> at the window. +Our chins fall forward. Our books slip off our knees.</p> + +<p>And now, at last, our buoyant bed floats among the stars. I have cast +off the moorings of the sluggish world. Earth's harbor lights are at the +stern. The Pleiades mark the channel to the moon—</p> + +<p>Poof! Sleep draws again its dark curtain across the glittering pageant.<a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="Who_Was_Jeremy" id="Who_Was_Jeremy"></a>Who Was Jeremy?</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><b>HO</b> was Jeremy Bentham? I have run on his name recently two or three +times. I could, of course, find out. The Encyclopedia—volume <i>Aus to +Bis</i>—would enlighten me. Right now, downstairs in the bookcase—up near +the top where the shabby books are kept—among the old Baedekers—there +is a life of him by Leslie Stephen. No! That is a life of Hobbes. I +don't know anything about Hobbes either. It seems to me that he wrote +the "Leviathan," whatever that was. But there is a Bentham somewhere +around the house. But I have not read it.</p> + +<p>In a rough way I know who Bentham was. He lived perhaps a hundred years +ago and he had a theory of utility. Utility was to clean the infected +world. Even the worst of us were to rise out of the tub white and +perfect. It was Bentham who wished to revisit the world in a hundred +years to see how sweet and clean we had become. He was to utility what +Malthus was to population. Malthus! There is another hard one. It is the +kind of name that is cut round the top of a new City Hall to shame +citizens by their ignorance.</p> + +<p>I can go downstairs this minute and look up Bentham. Is it worth while? +But then I might be called to dinner in the middle of the article, or I +might be<a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a> wanted to move the refrigerator. There is a musty smell, it +seems, in the drain pipe, and the stubborn casters are turned sidewise. +It hardly seems worth the chance and effort.</p> + +<p>There are a great many things that really do stir my curiosity, and even +those things I don't look up. Or tardily, after my ignorance has been +exposed. The other day the moon arose—as a topic—at the round table of +the club where I eat lunch. It had really never occurred to me that we +had never seen its other side, that we never could—except by a +catastrophe—unless it smashed into a planet and was thrown heels up. +How does it keep itself so balanced that one face is forever hid? Try to +roll an apple around a pumpkin and meanwhile spin the pumpkin. Try this +on your carpet. I take my hat off to the moon.</p> + +<p>I have been very ignorant of the moon. All of these years I have +regarded it as a kindly creature that showed itself now and then merely +on a whim. It was just jogging around of an evening, so I supposed, and +looked us up. It was an old neighbor who dropped in after dinner, as it +were, for a bit of gossip and an apple. But even the itinerant +knife-grinder—whose whirling wheel I can hear this minute below me in +the street—even the knife-grinder has a route. He knows at what season +we grow dull. What necessity, then, of ours beckons to the moon? Perhaps +it comes with a silver brush to paint the earth when it grows shabby +with the traffic of the day. Perhaps it shows itself to stir a lover who +halts coldly in his suit. The pink god,<a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a> they say, shoots a dangerous +arrow when the moon is full.</p> + +<p>The extent of my general ignorance is amazing. And yet, I suppose, by +persistence and energy I could mend it. Old Doctor Dwight used to advise +those of us who sat in his classroom to read a hard book for half an +hour each day. How those half hours would mount up through the years! +What a prodigious background of history, of science, of literature, one +would gain as the years revolved! If I had followed his advice I would +today be bursting with knowledge of Jeremy Bentham; I would never have +been tripped upon the moon.</p> + +<p>How ignorant most of us are of the times in which we live! We see the +smoke and fires of revolution in Europe. We hear the cries of famine and +disease, but our perception is lost in the general smudge. How are the +Balkans parceled? How is the nest of nationalities along the Danube +disposed? This morning there is revolt in Londonderry. What parties are +opposite in the quarrel? Trouble brews in Chile. Is Tacni-Arica a +district or a mountain range? The Åland Islands breed war in the north. +Today there is a casualty list from Bagdad. The Bolsheviki advance on +Warsaw. Those of us who are cobblers tap our shoes unruffled, tailors +stitch, we bargain in the market—all of us go about on little errands +without excitement when the news is brought.</p> + +<p>And then there is mechanics. This is now so preeminently a mechanical +world that no one ought to be<a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a> entirely ignorant of cylinders and cogs +and carburetors. And yet my own motor is as dark as Africa. I am as +ignorant of a carburetor as of the black stomach of a zebra. Once a +carpenter's bench was given me at Christmas, fitted up with all manner +of tricky tools. The bookshelves I built in my first high enthusiasm +have now gone down to the basement to hold the canned fruit, where they +lean with rickets against the wall. Even the box I made to hold the milk +bottles on the back steps has gone the way of flesh. Any chicken-coop of +mine would topple in the wind. Well-instructed hens would sit around on +fence-posts and cackle at my efforts with a saw. Certainly, if a company +of us were thrown on a desert island, it would not be I who proved the +Admirable Crichton. Not by my shrewdness could we build a hut. Robinson +Crusoe contrived a boat. If I tied a raft together it would be sure to +sink.</p> + +<p>Where are the Virgin Islands? What makes a teapot bubble? What forces +bring the rain and tempest?</p> + +<p>In cooking I go no farther than an egg. Birds, to me, are either +sparrows or robins. I know an elm and a maple, but hemlocks and pines +and firs mix me up. I am not to be trusted to pull the weeds. Up would +come the hollyhocks. Japanese prints and Chinese vases sit in a world +above me.</p> + +<p>I can thump myself in front without knowing whether I jar my stomach or +my liver. I have no notion where my food goes when it disappears. When +once I have tilted my pudding off its spoon my knowledge<a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a> ceases. It is +as a child of Israel on journey in the wilderness. Does it pass through +my thorax? And where do my lungs branch off?</p> + +<p>I know nothing of etchings, and I sit in gloomy silence when friends +toss Whistler and Rembrandt across the table. I know who our mayor is, +but I scratch my head to name our senator. And why does the world +crumple up in hills and mountains?</p> + +<p>I could look up Jeremy Bentham and hereafter I would know all about him. +And I could look up the moon. And Hobbes. And Leslie Stephen, who wrote +a book about him. And a man named Maitland who wrote a life of Stephen. +Somebody must have written about Maitland. I could look him up, too. And +I could read about the Balkans and tell my neighbors whether they are +tertiary or triassic. I could pursue the thorax to its lair. Saws and +chicken-coops, no doubt, are an engaging study. I might take a tree-book +to the country, or seek an instructive job in a garage.</p> + +<p>But what is the use? Right in front of Jeremy Bentham, in <i>Aus to Bis</i>, +is George Bentham, an English botanist. To be thorough I would have to +read about him also. Then following along is Bentivoglio, and Benzene—a +long article on benzene. And Beowulf! No educated person should be quite +ignorant of him. Albrecht Bitzius was a Swiss novelist. Somehow he has +escaped me entirely. And Susanna Blamire, "the muse of Cumberland"! She +sounds engaging. Who is there so incurious that he would not<a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a> give an +evening to Borneo? And the Bryophyta?—which I am glad to learn include +"the mosses and the liverworts." Dear me! it is quite discouraging.</p> + +<p>And then, when I am gaining information on Hobbes, the Hittites, right +in front, take my eye. Hilarius wrote "light verses of the goliardic +type"—whatever that means. And the hippopotamus! "the largest +representative of the non-ruminating artiodactyle ungulate mammals." I +must sit with the hippopotamus and worm his secret.</p> + +<p>And after I have learned to use the saw, I would have to take up the +plane. And then the auger. And Whistler. And Japanese prints. And a bird +book.</p> + +<p>It is very discouraging.</p> + +<p>I stand with Pope. Certainly, unless one is very thirsty and has a great +deal of vacant time, it is best to avoid the Pierian spring.</p> + +<p>Jeremy can go and hang himself. I am learning to play golf.<a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a></p> + +<h3><a name="A_Chapter_for_Children" id="A_Chapter_for_Children"></a>A Chapter for Children.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span><b>NCE</b> upon a time—for this is the way a story should begin—there lived +in a remote part of the world a family of children whose father was busy +all day making war against his enemies. And so, as their mother, also, +was busy (clubs, my dear, and parties), they were taken care of and had +their noses wiped—but in a most kindly way—by an old man who loved +them very much.</p> + +<p>Now this old man had been a jester in his youth. For these were the +children of a king and so, of course, they had a jester, just as you and +I, if we are rich, have a cook. He had been paid wages—I don't know how +many kywatskies—merely to stand in the dining-room and say funny +things, and nobody asked him to jump around for the salt or to hurry up +the waffles. And he didn't even brush up the crumbs afterward.</p> + +<p>I do not happen to know the children of any king—there is not a single +king living on our street—yet, except for their clothes, they are much +like other children. Of course they wear shinier clothes. It is not the +shininess that comes from sliding down the stair rail, but a royal +shininess, as though it were always eleven o'clock on Sunday morning and +the second bell of the Methodist church were ringing, with several +deacons on the steps. For if one's father is a king, ambassadors and +generals keep dropping in all<a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a> the time, and queens, dressed up in +brocade so stiff you can hear them breathe.</p> + +<p>One day the children had been sliding down hill in the snow—on Flexible +Flyers, painted red—and their mittens and stockings were wet. So the +old man felt their feet—tickling their toes—and set them, bare-legged, +in a row, in front of the nursery fire. And he told them a story.</p> + +<p>"O children of the king!" he began, and with that he wiped their noses +all round, for it had been a cold day, when even the best-mannered +persons snuffle now and then. "O children of the king!" he began again, +and then he stopped to light a taper at the fire. For he was a wise old +man and he knew that when there is excitement in a tale, a light will +keep the bogies off. This old man could tell a story so that your eyes +opened wider and wider, as they do when Annie brings in ice-cream with +raspberry sauce. And once in a while he said Odd Zooks, and God-a-Mercy +when he forgot himself.</p> + +<p>"Once upon a time," he began, "there lived a king in a far-off country. +To get to that country, O children of a king, you would have to turn and +turn, and spell out every signpost. And then you climb up the sides of +seventeen mountains, and swim twenty-three streams precisely. Here you +wait till dusk. But just before the lamps are lighted, you get down on +all-fours—if you are a boy (girls, I believe, don't have +all-fours)—and crawl under the sofa. Keep straight on for an hour or so +with the coal-scuttle three points<a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a> starboard, but be careful not to let +your knees touch the carpet, for that wears holes in them and spoils the +magic. Then get nurse to pull you out by the hind legs—and—<i>there you +are</i>.</p> + +<p>"Once upon a time, then, there lived a king with a ferocious moustache +and a great sword which rattled when he walked around the house. He made +scratches all over the piano legs, but no one felt like giving him a +paddy-whack. This king had a pretty daughter.</p> + +<p>"Now it is a sad fact that there was a war going on. It was between this +king who had the pretty daughter and another king who lived near by, on +an adjoining farm, so to speak. And the first king had sworn by his +halidome—and at this his court turned pale—that he would take his +enemy by his blasted nose.</p> + +<p>"Both of these kings lived in castles whose walls were thick and whose +towers were high. And around their tops were curious indentings that +looked as your teeth would look if every other one were pulled. These +castles had moats with lily pads and green water in them, which was not +at all healthful, except that persons in those days did not know about +it and were consequently just as well off. And there were jousting +fields and soup caldrons (with a barrel of animal crackers) and a tun of +lemonade (six glasses to a lemon)—everything to make life comfortable.</p> + +<p>"Here's a secret. The other king who lived near by was in love with the +first king's daughter. Here are two kings fighting each other, and one +of them in<a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a> love with the other's daughter, but not saying a word about +it.</p> + +<p>"Now the second king—the one in love—was not very fierce, and his name +was King Muffin—which suggests pleasant thoughts—whereas the first +king with the beautiful daughter was called King Odd Zooks, Zooks the +Sixth, for he was the sixth of his powerful line. And my story is to +show how King Muffin got the better of King Zooks and married his +daughter. It was a clever piece of business, for the walls of the castle +were high, and the window of the Princess was way above the trees. King +Muffin didn't even know which her window was, for it did not have any +lace curtains and it looked no better than the cook's, except that the +cook sometimes on Monday tied her stockings to the curtain cord to dry. +And of course if King Muffin had come openly to the castle, the guards +would have cut him all to bits.</p> + +<p>"One day in June King Muffin was out on horseback. He had left his crown +at home and was wearing his third-best clothes, so you would have +thought that he was just an ordinary man. But he was a good horseman; +that is, he wasn't thinking every minute about falling off, but sat +loosely, as one might sit in a rocking-chair.</p> + +<p>"The country was beautiful and green, and in the sky there were puffy +clouds that looked the way a pop-over looks before it turns brown—a big +pop-over that would stuff even a hungry giant up to his ears. And there +was a wind that wiggled everything, and the<a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a> noise of a brook among the +trees. Also, there were birds, but you must not ask me their names, for +I am not good at birds.</p> + +<p>"King Muffin, although he was a brave man, loved a pleasant day. So he +turned back his collar at the throat in order that the wind might tickle +his neck and he dropped his reins on his horse's back in a careless way +that wouldn't be possible on a street where there were trolley-cars. In +this fashion he rode on for several miles and sang to himself a great +many songs. Sometimes he knew the words and sometimes he said <i>tum tum +te tum tum</i>, but he kept to the tune.</p> + +<p>"King Muffin enjoyed his ride so much that before he knew it he was out +of his own kingdom and at least six parasangs in the kingdom of King +Zooks. <i>My dear, use your handkerchief!</i></p> + +<p>"And even then King Muffin would not have realized it, except that on +turning a corner he saw a young man lying under a tree in a suit that +was half green and half yellow. King Muffin knew him at once to be a +jester—but whose? King Zooks's jester, of course, his mortal enemy. For +jesters have to go off by themselves once in a while to think up new +jokes, and no other king lived within riding distance. Really, the +jester was thinking of rhymes to <i>zithern</i>, which is the name of the +curious musical instrument he carried, and is a little like a mandolin, +only harder to play. It cannot be learned in twelve easy lessons. And +the jester was making a sorry business of it, for<a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a> it is a difficult +word to find rhymes to, as you would know if you tried. He was terribly +woeful.</p> + +<p>"King Muffin said 'Whoa' and stopped his horse. Then he said 'Good +morning, fellow,' in the kind of superior tone that kings use.</p> + +<p>"The jester got off the ground and, as he did not know that Muffin was a +king, he sneezed; for the ground was damp. It was a slow sneeze in +coming, for the ground was not very wet, and he stood waiting for it +with his mouth open and his eyes squinting. So King Muffin waited too, +and had a moment to think. And as kings think very fast, very many +thoughts came to him. So, by the time the sneeze had gone off like a +shower bath, and before the pipes filled up for another, some +interesting things had occurred to him. Well! things about the Princess +and how he might get a chance to speak with her. But he said:</p> + +<p>"'Ho, ho! Methinks King Zooks's jester has the snuffles.'</p> + +<p>"At this, Jeppo—for that was the jester's name—looked up with a wry +face, for he still kept a sneeze inside him which he couldn't dislodge.</p> + +<p>"'By my boots and spurs!' the King cried again, 'you are a woeful +jester.'</p> + +<p>"Jeppo <i>was</i> woeful. For on this very night King Zooks was to give a +grand dinner—not a simple dinner such as you have at home with Annie +passing dishes and rattling the pie around the pantry—but a dinner for +a hundred persons, generals and ambassadors, all dressed in lace and +eating from gold plates.<a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a> And of course everyone would look to Jeppo for +something funny—maybe a new song with twenty verses and a +<i>rol-de-rol-rol chorus</i>, which everyone could sing even if he didn't +know the words. And Jeppo didn't know a single new thing. He had tried +to write something, but had stuck while trying to think of a rhyme for +<i>zithern</i>. So of course he was woeful. And King Muffin knew it.</p> + +<p>"All this while King Muffin was thinking hard, although he didn't scowl +once, for some persons can think without scowling. He wished so much to +see the Princess, and yet he knew that if he climbed the tallest tree he +couldn't reach her window. And even if he found a ladder long enough, as +likely as not he would lean it up against the cook's window, not +noticing the stockings on the curtain cord. King Muffin should have +looked glum. But presently he smiled.</p> + +<p>"'Jeppo,' he said, 'what would you say if I offered to change places +with you? Here you are fretting about that song of yours and the dinner +only a few hours off. You will be flogged tomorrow, sure, for being so +dull tonight. Just change clothes with me and go off and enjoy yourself. +Sit in a tavern! Spend these kywatskies!' Here King Muffin rattled his +pocket. 'I'll take your place. I know a dozen songs, and they will +tickle your king until, goodness me! he will cry into his soup.' King +Muffin really didn't give King Zooks credit for ordinary manners, but +then he was his mortal enemy, and prej'iced.</p> + +<p>"Well, Jeppo <i>was</i> terribly woeful and that word<a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a> <i>zithern</i> was +bothering him. There was <i>pithern</i> and <i>dithern</i> and <i>mithern</i>. He had +tried them all, but none of them seemed to mean anything. So he looked +at King Muffin, who sat very straight on his horse, for he wasn't at all +afraid of him, although he was a tall horse and had nostrils that got +bigger and littler all the time; and back legs that twitched. Meanwhile +King Muffin twirled a gold chain in his fingers. Then Jeppo looked at +King Muffin's clothes and saw that they were fashionable. Then he looked +at his hat and there was a yellow feather in it. And those kywatskies. +King Muffin, just to tease him, twirled his moustache, as kings will.</p> + +<p>"So the bargain was made. There was a thicket near, so dense that it +would have done for taking off your clothes when you go swimming. In +this thicket King Muffin and Jeppo exchanged clothes. Of course Jeppo +had trouble with the buttons for he had never dressed in such fine +clothes before, and many of a king's buttons are behind.</p> + +<p>"And now, when the exchange was made, Jeppo inquired where he would find +an expensive tavern with brass pull-handles on the lemonade vat, and he +rode off, licking his lips and jingling his kywatskies. But King Muffin, +dressed as a jester, vaulted on his horse and trotted in the direction +of King Zooks's castle, which had indentings around the top like a row +of teeth if every other one were pulled.</p> + +<p>"And after a little while it became night. It is my private opinion, my +dear, which I shall whisper in the<a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a> middle of your ear—the outer flap +being merely ornamental and for 'spection purposes—that the sun is +afraid of the dark, because you never see him around after nightfall. +Bless you, he goes off to bed before twilight and tucks himself to the +chin before you or I would even think of lighting a candle. And, on my +word, he prefers to sleep in the basement. He goes down the back stairs +and cuddles behind the furnace. And he has the bad habit, mercy! of +reading in bed. A good half hour after he should be sound asleep, you +can see the reflection of his candle on the evening clouds."</p> + +<p>At this point the old man paused a bit, to see if the children were +still awake. Then he wiped their noses all around, not forgetting the +youngest with the fat legs, and began again.</p> + +<p>"During all this time King Zooks had been getting ready for the party, +trying on shiny coats, and getting his silk stockings so that the seams +at the back went straight up and didn't wind around, which is the way +they naturally do unless you are particular. And he put a clean +handkerchief into every pocket, in case he sneezed in a hurry—for King +Zooks was a lavish dresser.</p> + +<p>"His wife was dressing in another room, keeping three maids busy with +safety pins and powder-puffs, and getting all of the snarls out of her +hair. And, in still another room of the castle, his daughter was +dressing. Now his wife was a nice-looking woman, like nurse, except that +she wore stiff brocade and<a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a> didn't jounce. But his daughter was +beautiful and didn't need a powder-puff.</p> + +<p>"When they were all dressed they met outside, just to ask questions of +one another about handkerchiefs and noses and behind the ears. The +Queen, also, wished to be very sure that there wasn't a hole in the heel +of her stocking, for she wore black stockings, which makes it worse. +King Zooks was fond of his wife and fond of his daughter, and when he +was with them he did not look so fierce. He kissed both of them, but +when he kissed his daughter—which was the better fun—he took hold of +her nose—but in a most kindly way—so that her face wouldn't slip.</p> + +<p>"Then they went down the marble stairs, with flunkies bowing up and +down.</p> + +<p>"But how worried King Zooks would have been if he had known that at that +very moment his enemy, King Muffin, was coming into the castle, +disguised as a jester. Nobody stopped King Muffin, for wandering jesters +were common in those days.</p> + +<p>"And now the party started with all its might.</p> + +<p>"King Zooks offered his arm to the wife of the Ambassador, and Queen +Zooks offered hers to the General of the army. There was a fight around +the Princess, but she said <i>eenie meenie minie moe, catch a nigger by +the toe</i> and counted them all out but one. And so they went down another +marble stairway to the dining-room, where a band was blowing itself red +in the face—the trombonist, in particular, seeming to be in great +distress.<a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a></p> + +<p>"And where was King Muffin?</p> + +<p>"King Muffin came in by the postern—the back stoop, my dear—and he +washed his hands and ears at the kitchen sink and went right up to the +dining-room. And there he was standing behind the King's chair, where +King Zooks couldn't see him but the Princess could. You can see from +this what a crafty person King Muffin was. Queen Zooks, to be sure, +could see him, but she was an unsuspicious person, and was very hungry. +There were waffles for dinner, and when there were waffles she didn't +even talk very much.</p> + +<p>"King Muffin was very funny. He told jokes which were old at his own +castle, but were new to King Zooks. And King Zooks, thinking he was a +real jester, laughed until he cried—only his tears did not get into his +soup, for by that time the soup had been cleared away. A few of them, +however—just a splatter—did fall on his fish, but it didn't matter as +it was a salt fish anyway. But all the guests, inasmuch as they were +eating away from home, had to be more particular. And when the +<i>rol-de-rol-rol</i> choruses came, how King Zooks sang, throwing back his +head and forgetting all about his ferocious moustache!</p> + +<p>"No one enjoyed the fun more than King Muffin. Whenever things quieted +down a bit he said something even funnier than the last. But during all +this time it had not occurred to King Zooks to inquire for Jeppo, or to +ask why a new fool stood behind his chair. He just laughed and nudged +the wife of the Ambassador<a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a> with his elbow and ate his waffles and +enjoyed himself.</p> + +<p>"So the dinner grew merrier and merrier until at last everyone had had +enough to eat. They would have pushed back a little from the table to be +more comfortable in front, except for their manners. King Zooks was the +last to finish, for the dinner ended with ice-cream and he was fond of +it. He didn't have it ordinary days. In fact he was so eager to get the +last bit that he scraped his spoon round and round upon the dish until +Queen Zooks was ashamed of him. When, finally, he was all through, the +guests folded their napkins and pushed back their chairs until you never +heard such a squeak. A few of them—but these had never been out to +dinner before—had spilled crumbs in their laps and had to brush them +off.</p> + +<p>"And now there was a dance.</p> + +<p>"So King Zooks offered his arm to the wife of the Ambassador and Queen +Zooks offered hers to the General of the army, and they started up the +marble stairway to the ballroom. But what should King Muffin do but skip +up to the Princess while she was still smoothing out her skirts. (Yellow +organdie, my dear, and it musses when you sit on it.) Muffin made a low +bow and kissed her hand. Then he asked her for the first dance. It was +so preposterous that a jester should ask her to dance at all, that +everyone said it was the funniest thing he had done, and they went into +a gale about it on the marble stairway. Even Queen Zooks, who ordinarily +didn't laugh much<a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a> at jokes, threw back her head and laughed quite +loud—but in a minute, when everybody else was done. And then to +everyone's surprise the Princess consented to dance with King Muffin, +although the General of the army stood by in a kind of empty fashion. +But everybody was so merry, and in particular King Zooks, that no one +minded.</p> + +<p>"King Muffin, when he danced with the Princess, looked at her very hard +and softly, and she looked back at him as if she didn't mind it a bit. +Evidently she knew him despite his disguise. And naturally she knew that +he was in love with her.</p> + +<p>"Now King Muffin hadn't had a thing to eat, for jesters are supposed to +eat at a little table afterwards. If they ate at the big table they +would forget and sing sometimes with their mouths full and you know how +that would sound. So he and the Princess went downstairs to the pantry, +where he ate seven cream puffs and three floating islands, one after the +other, never spilling a bit on his blouse. He called them 'floatin' +Irelands,' having learned it that way as a child, his nurse not +correcting him. Then he felt better and they returned to the ballroom, +where the dance was still going on with all its might.</p> + +<p>"King Muffin took the Princess out on the balcony, which was the place +where young gentlemen, even in those days, took ladies when they had +something particular to say. He shut the door carefully and looked all +around to make sure that there were no spies about, under the chairs, +inside the vases. He even wiggled<a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a> the rug for fear that there might be +a trapdoor beneath.</p> + +<p>"Did the Princess love King Muffin? Of course she did. But she wasn't +going to let him know it all at once. Ladies never do things like that. +So she looked indifferent, as though she might yawn at any moment. +Despite that, King Muffin told her what was on his mind, and when he was +finished, he looked for an answer. But she didn't say anything, but just +sat quiet and pretended there was a button off her dress. So King Muffin +told it again, and moved up a bit. And this time her head nodded ever so +little. But he saw it. So he reached down in his side pocket, so far +that he had to straighten out his leg to get to the bottom. He brought +up a ring. Then he slipped it on her finger, the next to the longest one +on her left hand. After that he kissed her in a most affectionate way.</p> + +<p>"This was all very well, but of course King Zooks would never consent to +their marriage. And if he discovered that the new jester was King +Muffin, his guards would cut him all to slivers. For a minute they were +woeful. Then a bright idea came to King Muffin—</p> + +<p>"Meanwhile the dance had been going on with all its might. First the +General of the army danced with Queen Zooks. He was a very manly dancer +and was quite stiff from the waist up, and she bounced around on +tip-toe. Then the Ambassador danced with her, but his sword kept getting +in her way. Then both of<a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a> them, having done their duty, looked around +for the Princess. They went to the lemonade room, for that was the first +place naturally to look. Then they went to the cardroom, where the older +persons were playing casino, and were sitting very solemn, as if it were +not a party at all.</p> + +<p>"Then they went to King Zooks, who was jiggling on his toes, with his +back to the fire, full and happy. 'Where is your daughter, Majestical +Majesty?' they asked. But as King Zooks didn't know he joined the +search, and Queen Zooks, too. But she wasn't much good at it, for she +had a long train and she couldn't turn a corner sharp, although her +maids trotted after her and whisked it about as fast as possible.</p> + +<p>"But they couldn't find the Princess anywhere inside the castle.</p> + +<p>"After a while it occurred to King Zooks that the cook might know. She +had gone to bed—leaving her dishes until morning—so up they climbed. +She answered from under the covers, 'Whajuwant?' which shows that she +didn't talk English and was probably a Spanish cook or an Indian +princess captured very young. So she got up, all excited. My! how she +scuffed around, looking for her slippers, trying to find her clothes and +getting one or two things on wrong side out! She was so confused that +she thought it was morning and brushed her teeth.</p> + +<p>"By this time an hour had passed and King Zooks was fidgety. He told his +red-faced band to lean<a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a> their trombones and other things up against the +wall, so that he could think. Then he stroked his chin, while the court +stood by and tried to think also. Finally the King sent a herald to +proclaim around the castle how fidgety he was and that his daughter must +be brought to him. But the Princess was not found. Meantime the band ate +ice-cream and cocoanut macaroons, and appeared to enjoy itself.</p> + +<p>"In a tall tower that stands high above the trees there was a great +clock, and, by and by, it began to strike the hour. It did not stop +until it had struck ten times. So you see it was growing late and the +King had the right to be getting fidgety. When the clock had done, those +guests who were not in the habit of sitting up so late, began to grow +sleepy; only, of course, they did not yawn out loud, but behind fans and +things.</p> + +<p>"Meanwhile King Muffin had gone downstairs to the stable. He brought out +his horse with the flaring nostrils and another horse also. He took them +around to the Princess, who sat waiting for him on a marble bench in the +shadow of a tree.</p> + +<p>"'Climb up, beautiful Princess,' he said.</p> + +<p>"She hopped into her saddle and he into his. They were off like the +wind.</p> + +<p>"They heard the clock strike ten and they saw the great tower rising +above the castle with the silver moon upon it, but they galloped on and +on. Through the forest they galloped, over bridges and streams. And<a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a> the +moon climbed off the tower and kept with them—as it does with all good +folk—plunging through the clouds like a ship upon the ocean. And still +they galloped on. Presently they met Jeppo returning from the tavern +with the brass pull-handles. 'Yo, ho!' called out the King, and they +passed him in a flash. <i>Clackety-clack-clack, clackety-clack-clack, +clack-clack, clackety-clack!</i></p> + +<p>"And peasants, who usually slept right through the night, awoke at the +sound of their hoofs and although they were very sleepy, they ran and +looked out of their windows—being careful to put on slippers so as not +to get the snuffles. And King Muffin and the Princess galloped by with +the moonlight upon them, and the peasants wondered who they were. But as +they were very sleepy, presently they went back to bed without finding +out. One of them did, however, stumble against a chair, right on the +toe, and had to light a candle to see if it were worth mending.</p> + +<p>"But in the morning the peasants found a bauble near the lodge-gate, a +cap and bells on the ravine bridge, and on the long road to the border +of King Muffin's land they found a jester's coat.</p> + +<p>"And to this day, although many years have passed, their children and +their children's children, on the way from school, gather the lilies of +the valley which flourish in the woods and along the roads. And they +think that they are jesters' bells which were scattered in the flight."<a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a></p> + +<p>Whereupon the old man, having finished his story, wiped the noses of the +children, not forgetting the youngest one with the fat legs, and sent +them off to bed.</p> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illpg_170.png"> +<img src="images/illpg_170_sml.png" width="436" height="286" alt="" title="" /></a> +</p> + +<p><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a></p> + +<h3 class="nspc"><a name="The_Crowded_Curb" id="The_Crowded_Curb"></a>The Crowded Curb.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">R</span><b>ECENTLY</b> I came on an urchin in the crowded city, pitching pennies by +himself, in the angle of an abutment. Three feet from his patched +seat—a gay pattern which he tilted upward now and then—there moved a +thick stream of shoppers. He was in solitary contest with himself, his +evening papers neglected in a heap, wrapped in his score, unconscious of +the throng that pressed against him. He was resting from labor, as a +greater merchant takes to golf for his refreshment. The curb was his +club. He had fetched his recreation down to business, to the vacancy +between editions. Presently he will scoop his earnings to his pocket and +will bawl out to his advantage our latest murder.</p> + +<p>How mad—how delightful our streets would be if all of us followed as +unreservedly, with so little self-consciousness or respect of small +convention, our innocent desires!</p> + +<p>Who of us even whistles in a crowd?—or in the spring goes with a skip +and leap?</p> + +<p>A lady of my acquaintance—who grows plump in her early forties—tells +me that she has always wanted to run after an ice-wagon and ride up +town, bouncing on the tail-board. It is doubtless an inheritance from a +childhood which was stifled and kept in starch. A singer, also, of +bellowing bass, has confided to me<a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a> that he would like above all things +to roar his tunes down town on a crowded crossing. The trolley-cars, he +feels, the motors and all the shrill instruments of traffic, are no more +than a sufficient orchestra for his lusty upper register. An old lady, +too, in the daintiest of lace caps, with whom I lately sat at dinner, +confessed that whenever she has seen hop-scotch chalked in an eddy of +the crowded city, she has been tempted to gather up her skirts and join +the play.</p> + +<p>But none of these folk obey their instinct. Opinion chills them. They +plod the streets with gray exterior. Once, on Fifth Avenue, to be sure, +when it was barely twilight, I observed a man, suddenly, without +warning, perform a cart-wheel, heels over head. He was dressed in the +common fashion. Surely he was not an advertisement. He bore no placard +on his hat. Nor was it apparent that he practiced for a circus. Rather, +I think, he was resolved for once to let the stiff, censorious world go +by unheeded, and be himself alone.</p> + +<p>On a night of carnival how greedily the crowd assumes the pantaloon! A +day that was prim and solemn at the start now dresses in cap and bells. +How recklessly it stretches its charter for the broadest jest! Observe +those men in women's bonnets! With what delight they swing their merry +bladders at the crowd! They are hard on forty. All week they have bent +to their heavy desks, but tonight they take their pay of life. The years +are a sullen garment, but on a night of carnival they toss it off. Blood +that was cold and<a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a> temperate at noon now feels the fire. Scratch a man +and you find a clown inside. It was at the celebration of the Armistice +that I followed a sober fellow for a mile, who beat incessantly with a +long iron spoon on an ash-can top. Almost solemnly he advanced among the +throng. Was it joy entirely for the ending of the war? Or rather was he +not yielding at last to an old desire to parade and be a band? The glad +occasion merely loosed him from convention. That lady friend of mine, in +the circumstance, would have bounced on ice-wagons up to midnight.</p> + +<p>For it is convention, rather than our years—it is the respect and fear +of our neighbors that restrains us on an ordinary occasion. If we +followed our innocent desires at the noon hour, without waiting for a +carnival, how mad our streets would seem! The bellowing bass would pitch +back his head and lament the fair Isolde. The old lady in lace cap would +tuck up her skirts for hop-scotch and score her goal at last.</p> + +<p>Is it not the French who set aside a special night for foolery, when +everyone appears in fancy costume? They should set the celebration +forward in the day, and let the blazing sun stare upon their mirth. +Merriment should not wait upon the owl.</p> + +<p>The Dickey Club at Harvard, I think, was fashioned with some such +purpose of release. Its initiation occurs always in the spring, when the +blood of an undergraduate is hottest against restraint. It is a vent +placed where it is needed most. Zealously the candidates perform their +pranks. They exceed<a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a> the letter of their instruction. The streets of +Boston are a silly spectacle. Young men wear their trousers inside out +and their coats reversed. They greet strangers with preposterous speech. +I once came on a merry fellow eating a whole pie with great mouthfuls on +the Court House steps, explaining meantime to the crowd that he was the +youngest son of Little Jack Horner. And, of course, with such a hardened +gourmand for an ancestor, he was not embarrassed by his ridiculous +posture.</p> + +<p>But it is not youth which needs the stirring most. Nor need one +necessarily play an absurd antic to be natural. And therefore, here at +home, on our own Soldiers' Monument—on its steps and pediment that +mount above the street—I offer a few suggestions to the throng.</p> + +<p>Ladies and gentlemen! I invite you to a carnival. Here! Now! At noon! I +bid you to throw off your solemn pretense. And be yourself! That sober +manner is a cloak. Your dignity scarcely reaches to your skin. Does no +one desire to play leap-frog across those posts? Do none of you care to +skip and leap? What! Will no one accept my invitation?</p> + +<p>You, my dear sirs, I know you. You play chess together every afternoon +in your club. One of you carries at this moment a small board in his +waistcoat pocket. Why hurry to your club, gentlemen? Here on this step +is a place to play your game. Surely your concentration is proof against +the legs that swing around you. And you, my dear sir! I see that you<a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a> +are a scholar by your bag of books. You chafe for your golden studies. +Come, sit alongside! Here is a shady spot for the pursuit of knowledge. +Did not Socrates ply his book in the public concourse?</p> + +<p>My dear young lady, it is evident that a desire has seized you to +practice your soprano voice. Why do you wait for your solitary piano to +pitch the tune? On these steps you can throw your trills up heaven-ward.</p> + +<p>An ice-wagon! With a tail-board! Is there no lady in her forties, prim +in youth, who will take her fling? Or does no gentleman in silk hat wish +a piece of ice to suck?</p> + +<p>Observe that good-natured father with his son! They have shopped for +toys. He carries a bundle beneath his arm. It is doubtless a mechanical +bear—a creature that roars and walks on the turning of a key. After +supper these two will squat together on the parlor carpet and wind it up +for a trial performance. But must such an honest pleasure sit for the +coming of the twilight? Break the string! Insert the key! Let the +fearful creature stride boldly among the shoppers.</p> + +<p>Here is an iron balustrade along the steps. A dozen of you desire, +secretly, to slide down its slippery length.</p> + +<p>My dear madam, it is plain that the heir is naughty. Rightfully you have +withdrawn his lollypop. And now he resists your advance, stiff-legged +and spunky. Your stern eye already has passed its<a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a> sentence. You merely +wait to get him home. I offer you these steps in lieu of nursery or +woodshed. You have only to tip him up. Surely the flat of your hand +gains no cunning by delay.</p> + +<p>And you, my dear sir—you who twirl a silk moustache—you with the young +lady on your arm! If I am not mistaken you will woo your fair companion +on this summer evening beneath the moon. Must so good a deed await the +night? Shall a lover's arms hang idle all the day? On these steps, my +dear sir, a kiss, at least, may be given as a prelude.</p> + +<p>Hop-scotch! Where is my old friend of the lace cap? The game is already +chalked upon the stones.</p> + +<p>Is there no one in the passing throng who desires to dance? Are there no +toes that wriggle for release? My dear lady, the rhythmic swish of your +skirt betrays you. A tune for a merry waltz runs through your head. +Come! we'll find you a partner in the crowd. Those silk stockings of +yours must not be wasted in a mincing gait.</p> + +<p>Have lawyers, walking sourly on their business, any sweeter nature to +display to us? Our larger merchants seem covered with restraint and +thought of profit. That physician with his bag of pellets seems not to +know that laughter is a panacea. Has Labor no desire to play leap-frog +on its pick and go shouting home to supper? Housewives follow their +unfaltering noses from groceries to meats. Will neither gingham nor +brocade romp and cut a caper for us?<a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a></p> + +<p>Ladies and gentlemen! Why wait for a night of carnival? Does not the +blood flow red, also, at the noon hour? Must the moon point a silly +finger before you start your merriment? I offer you these steps.</p> + +<p>Is there no one who will whistle in the crowd? Will none of you, even in +the spring, go with a skip and leap upon your business?<a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a></p> + +<p class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/illpg_178.png"> +<img src="images/illpg_178_sml.png" width="466" height="280" alt="" title="" /></a> +</p> + +<h3 class="nspc"><a name="A_Corner_for_Echoes" id="A_Corner_for_Echoes"></a>A Corner for Echoes.</h3> + +<p class="nind"><span class="letra">S</span><b>OMETIMES</b> in a quiet hour I see in the memory of my childhood a frame +house across a wide lawn from a pleasant street. There are no trees +about the yard, in itself a defect, yet in its circumstance, as the +house arises in my view, the barrenness denotes no more than a breadth +of sunlight across those endless days.</p> + +<p>There was, indeed, in contrast and by way of shadowy admonishment, a +church near by, whose sober bell, grieving lest our joy should romp too +long, recalled us to fearful introspection on Sunday evening, and it +moved me chiefly to the thought of eternity—eternity everlasting. +Reward or punishment mattered not. It was Time itself that plagued me, +Time that rolled like a wheel forever until the imagination reeled<a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a> and +sickened. And on Thursday evening also—another bad intrusion on the +happy week—again the sexton tugged at the rope for prayer and the +dismal clapper answered from above. It is strange that a man in friendly +red suspenders, pipe in mouth as he pushed his lawn-mower through the +week, should spread such desolation. But presently, when our better +neighbors were stiffly gathered in and had composed their skirts, a +brisker hymn arose. Tenor and soprano assured one another vigorously +from pew to pew that they were Christian soldiers marching as to war. +When they were off at last for the fair Jerusalem, the fret of eternity +passed from me. And yet, for the most part, we played in sunlight all +the week, and our thoughts dwelt happily on wide horizons.</p> + +<p>There was another church, far off across the housetops, seen only from +an attic window, whose bells in contrast were of a pleasant jangle. +Exactly where this church stood I never knew. Its towers arose above a +neighbor's barn and acknowledged no base or local habitation. Indeed, +its glittering and unsubstantial spire offered a hint that it was but an +imaginary creature of the attic, a pageant that mustered only to the +view of him who looked out through these narrow, cobwebbed windows. For +here, as in a kind of magic, the twilight flourished at the noon and its +shadows practiced beforehand for the night. Through these windows +children saw the unfamiliar, distant marvels of the world—towers and +kingdoms unseen<a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a> by older eyes that were grown dusty with common sights.</p> + +<p>Yet regularly, out of a noonday stillness—except for the cries of the +butcher boy upon the steps—a dozen clappers of the tower struck their +sudden din across the city. It appeared that at the very moment of the +noon, having lagged to the utmost second, the frantic clappers had +bolted up the belfry stairs to call the town to dinner. Or perhaps to an +older ear their discordant and heterodox tongue hinted that Roman +infallibility had here fallen into argument and that various and +contrary doctrine was laboring in warm dispute. Certainly the clappers +were brawling in the tower and had come to blows. But a half mile off it +was an agreeable racket and did not rouse up eternity to tease me.</p> + +<p>Across from our house, but at the rear, with only an alley entrance, +there was a building in which pies were baked—a horrid factory in our +very midst!—and insolent smoke curled off the chimney and flaunted our +imperfection. Respectable ladies, long resident, wearing black poke +bonnets and camel's-hair shawls, lifted their patrician eyebrows with +disapproval. Scorn sat on their gentle up-turned noses. They held their +skirts close, in passing, from contamination. These pies could not count +upon their patronage. They were contraband even in a pinch, with +unexpected guests arrived. It were better to buy of Cobey, the grocer on +the Circle. And the building did smell heavily of its commodity. But +despite detraction, as one came<a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a> from school, when the wind was north, +an agreeable whiff of lard and cooking touched the nostrils as a happy +prologue to one's dinner. Sometimes a cart issued to the street, boarded +close, full of pies on shelves, and rattled cityward.</p> + +<p>The fire station was around the corner and down a hill. We marveled at +the polished engine, the harness that hung ready from the ceiling, the +poles down which the firemen slid from their rooms above. It was at the +fire station that we got the baseball score, inning by inning, and other +news, if it was worthy, from the outside world. But perhaps we dozed in +a hammock or were lost with Oliver Optic in a jungle when the fire-bell +rang. If spry, we caught a glimpse of the hook-and-ladder from the top +of the hill, or the horses galloping up the slope. But would none of our +neighbors ever burn? we thought. Must all candles be overturned far off?</p> + +<p>Near the school-house was the reservoir, a mound and pond covering all +the block. Round about the top there was a gravel path that commanded +the city—the belching chimneys on the river, the ships upon the lake, +and to the south a horizon of wooded hills. The world lay across that +tumbled ridge and there our thoughts went searching for adventure. +Perhaps these were the foothills of the Himalaya and from the top were +seen the towers of Babylon. Perhaps there was an ocean, with white sails +which were blown from the Spanish coast. On a summer afternoon clouds +drifted across the sky, like mountains on a<a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a> journey—emigrants, they +seemed, from a loftier range, seeking a fresh plain on which to erect +their fortunes.</p> + +<p>But the chief use of this reservoir, except for its wholly subsidiary +supply of water, was its grassy slope. It was usual in the noon +recess—when we were cramped with learning—to slide down on a barrel +stave and be wrecked and spilled midway. In default of stave a geography +served as sled, for by noon the most sedentary geography itched for +action. Of what profit—so it complained—is a knowledge of the world if +one is cooped always with stupid primers in a desk? Of what account are +the boundaries of Hindostan, if one is housed all day beneath a lid with +slate and pencils? But the geography required an exact balance, with +feet lifted forward into space, and with fingers gripped behind. Our +present geographies, alas, are of smaller surface, and, unless students +have shrunk and shriveled, their more profitable use upon a hill is +past. Some children descended without stave or book, and their +preference was marked upon their shining seats.</p> + +<p>It was Hoppy who marred this sport. Hoppy was the keeper of the +reservoir, a one-legged Irishman with a crutch. His superfluous +trouser-leg was folded and pinned across, and it was a general quarry +for patches. When his elbow or his knees came through, here was a remedy +at hand. Here his wife clipped, also, for her crazy quilt. And all the +little Hoppies—for I fancy him to have been a family man—were +reinforced<a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a> from this extra cloth. But when Hoppy's bad profile appeared +at the top of the hill we grabbed our staves and scurried off. The cry +of warning—"Peg-leg's a-comin'"—still haunts my memory. It was Hoppy's +reward to lead one of us smaller fry roughly by the ear. Or he gripped +us by the wrist and snapped his stinging finger at our nose. Then he +pitched us through the fence where a wooden slat was gone.</p> + +<p>Hoppy's crutch was none of your elaborate affairs, curved and glossy. +Instead, it was only a stout, unvarnished stick, with a padded +cross-piece at the top. But the varlet could run, leaping forward upon +us with long, uneven strides. And I have wondered whether Stevenson, by +any chance, while he was still pondering the plot of "Treasure Island," +may not have visited our city and, seeing Hoppy on our heels, have +contrived John Silver out of him. He must have built him anew above the +waist, shearing him at his suspender buttons, scrapping his common upper +parts; but the wooden stump and breeches were a precious salvage. His +crutch, at the least, became John Silver's very timber.</p> + +<p>The Circle was down the street. In the center of this sunny park there +arose an artificial mountain, with a waterfall that trickled off the +rocks pleasantly on hot days. Ruins and blasted towers, battlements and +cement grottoes, were still the fashion. In those days masons built +stony belvederes and laid pipes which burst forth into mountain pools a +good ten feet above the sidewalk. The cliff upon our Circle, with<a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a> its +path winding upward among the fern, its tiny castle on the peak and its +tinkle of little water, sprang from this romantic period. From the +terrace on top one could spit over the balustrade on the unsuspecting +folk who walked below. Later the town had a mechanical ship that sailed +around the pond. As often as this ship neared the cliffs the mechanical +captain on the bridge lifted his glasses with a startled jerk and gave +orders for the changing of the course.</p> + +<p>Tinkey's shop was on the Circle. One side of Tinkey's window was a +bakery with jelly-cakes and angel-food. This, as I recall, was my +earliest theology. Heaven, certainly, was worth the effort. The other +window unbent to peppermint sticks and grab-bags to catch our dirtier +pennies. But this meaner produce was a concession to the trade, and the +Tinkey fingers, from father down to youngest daughter, touched it with +scorn. Mrs. Tinkey, in particular, who, we thought, was above her place, +lifted a grab-bag at arm's length, and her nostrils quivered as if she +held a dead mouse by the tail.</p> + +<p>But in the essence Tinkey was a caterer and his handiwork was shown in +the persons of a frosted bride and groom who waited before a sugar altar +for the word that would make them man and wife. Her nose in time was +bruised—a careless lifting of the glass by the youngest Miss +Tinkey—but he, like a faithful suitor, stood to his youthful pledge.</p> + +<p>Beyond the shop was a room with blazing red wall paper and a fiery +carpet. In this hot furnace, out-rivaling<a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a> the boasts of Abednego, the +neighborhood perspired pleasantly on August nights, and ate ice-cream. +If we arose to the price of a Tinkey layer-cake thick with chocolate, +the night stood out in splendor above its fellows.</p> + +<p>Around the corner was Conrad's bookstore. Conrad was a dumpy fellow with +unending good humor and a fat, soft hand. He sometimes called lady +customers, <i>My dear</i>, but it was only in his eagerness to press a sale. +I do not recall that he was a scholar. If you asked to be shown the +newest books, he might offer you the "Vicar of Wakefield" as a work just +off the press, and tell you that Goldsmith was a man to watch. A young +woman assistant read The Duchess between customers. In her fancy she +eloped daily with a duke, but actually she kept company with a grocer's +clerk. They ate sodas together at Tinkey's. How could he know, poor +fellow, when their fingers met beneath the table, that he was but a +substitute in her high romance? At the very moment, in her thoughts, she +was off with the duke beneath the moon. Conrad had also an errand boy +with a dirty face, who spent the day on a packing case at the rear of +the shop, where he ate an endless succession of apples. An orchard went +through him in the season.</p> + +<p>Conrad's shop was only moderate in books, but it spread itself in fancy +goods—crackers for the Fourth—marbles and tops in their season—and +for Saint Valentine's Day a range of sentiment that distanced his +competitors. A lover, though he sighed like furnace,<a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a> found here mottoes +for his passion. Also there were "comics"—base insulting valentines of +suitable greeting from man to man. These were three for a nickel just as +they came off the pile, but two for a nickel with selection.</p> + +<p>At Christmas, Conrad displayed china inkstands. There was one of these +which, although often near a sale, still stuck to the shelves year after +year. The beauty of its device dwelt in a little negro who perched at +the rear on a rustic fence that held the penholders. But suddenly, when +choice was wavering in his favor, off he would pitch into the inkwell. +At this mischance Conrad would regularly be astonished, and he would +sell instead a china camel whose back was hollowed out for ink. Then he +laved the negro for the twentieth time and set him back upon the fence, +where he sat like an interrupted suicide with his dark eye again upon +the pool.</p> + +<p>Nor must I forget a line of Catholic saints. There was one jolly bit of +crockery—Saint Patrick, I believe—that had lost an arm. This defect +should have been considered a further mark of piety—a martyrdom +unrecorded by the church—a special flagellation—but although the price +in successive years sunk to thirty-nine and at last to the wholly +ridiculous sum of twenty-three cents—less than one third the price of +his unbroken but really inferior mates (Saint Aloysius and Saint +Anthony)—yet he lingered on.</p> + +<p>Nowhere was there a larger assortment of odd and unmatched letter paper. +No box was full and many<a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a> were soiled. If pink envelopes were needed, +Conrad, unabashed, laid out a blue, or with his fat thumb he fumbled two +boxes into one to complete the count. Initialed paper once had been the +fashion—G for Gladys—and there was still a remnant of several letters +toward the end of the alphabet. If one of these chanced to fit a +customer, with what zest Conrad blew upon the box and slapped it! But +until Xenophon and Xerxes shall come to buy, these final letters must +rest unsold upon his shelves.</p> + +<p>Conrad was a dear good fellow (Bless me! he is still alive—just as fat +and bow-legged, with the same soft hand, just as friendly!) and when he +retired at last from business the street lost half its mirth and humor.</p> + +<p>Near Conrad's shop and the Circle was our house. By it a horse-car +jangled, one way only, cityward, at intervals of twelve minutes. In +winter there was straw on the floor. In front was a fare-box with +sliding shelves down which the nickels rattled, or, if one's memory +lagged, the thin driver rapped his whip-handle on the glass. He sat on a +high stool which was padded to eke out nature.</p> + +<p>Once before, as I have read, there was a corner for echoes. The +buildings were set so that the quiet folk who dwelt near by could hear +the sound of coming steps—steps far off, then nearer until they tramped +beneath the windows. Then, as they listened, the sounds faded. And it +seemed to him who chronicled the place that he heard the persons of his +drama<a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a> coming—little steps that would grow to manhood, steps that +faltered already toward their final curtain. But there is no plot to +thicken around our corner. Or rather, there are a hundred plots. And +when I listen in fancy to the echoes, I hear the general tapping of our +neighbors—beloved feet that have gone into darkness for a while.</p> + +<p>I hear the footsteps of an old man. When he trod our street he was of +gloomy temper. The world was awry for him. He was sunk in despair at +politics, yet I recall that he relished an apple. As often as he stopped +to see us, he told us that the country had gone to the demnition +bow-wows, and he snapped at his apple as if it had been a Democrat. His +little dog ran a full block ahead of him on their evening stroll, and +always trotted into our gateway. He sat on the lowest step with his eyes +down the street. "Master," he seemed to say, "here we all are, waiting +for you."</p> + +<p>John Smith cut the grass on the Circle. He was a friend of children, +and, for his nod and greeting, I drove down street my span of tin horses +on a wheel. Hand in hand we climbed his rocky mountain to see where the +waterfall spurted from a pipe. Below, the neighbors' bonnets, with +baskets, went to shop at Cobey's. I still hear the click of his +lawn-mower of a summer afternoon.</p> + +<p>Darky Dan beat our carpets. He was a merry fellow and he sang upon the +street. Wild melodies they were, with head thrown back and crazy +laughter. He was a harmless, good-natured fellow, but nurse-maids<a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a> +huddled us close until his song had turned the corner.</p> + +<p>I recall a crippled child—maybe of half wit only—who dragged a broken +foot. To our shame he seemed a comic creature and we pelted him with +snowballs and ran from his piteous anger.</p> + +<p>A match-boy with red hair came by on winter nights and was warmed beside +the fire. My father questioned him—as one merchant to another—about +his business, and mother kept him in mittens. In payment for bread and +jam he loosed his muffler and played the mouth-organ. In turn we blew +upon the vents, but as music it was naught. Gone is that melody. The +house is dark.</p> + +<p>There was an old lady lived near by in almost feudal state. Her steps +were the broadest on the street, her walnut doors were carved in the +deepest pattern, her fence was the highest. Her furniture, the year +around, was covered in linen cloths, and the great chairs with their +claw feet resembled the horses in panoply that draw the chariot of the +Nubian Queen in the circus parade. With this old lady there lived an old +cook, an old second-maid, an old laundress and an old coachman. The +second-maid thrust a platter at you as you sat at table and nudged you +in the ribs—if you were a child—"Eat it," she said, "it's good!" The +coachman nodded on his box, the laundress in her tubs, but the cook was +spry despite her years. In the yard there was a fountain—all yards had +fountains then—and I used to wonder whether this were the<a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a> font of +Ponce de León that restored the aged to their youth. Here, surely, was +the very house to test the cure. And when the ancient laundress came by +I speculated whether, after a sudden splash, she would emerge a dazzling +princess.</p> + +<p>With this old lady there dwelt a niece, or a daughter, or a younger +sister—relationship was vague—and this niece owned a little black dog. +But the old lady was dull of sight and in the dark passages of her house +she waved her arm and kept saying, "Whisk, Nigger! Whisk, Nigger!" for +she had stepped once on the creature's tail. Every year she gave a +children's party, and we youngsters looked for magic in a mirror and +went to Jerusalem around her solemn chairs. She had bought toys and +trinkets from Europe for all of us.</p> + +<p>Then there was an old neighbor, a justice of the peace, who, being +devoid of much knowledge of the law, put his cases to my grandfather. +When he had been advised, he stroked his beard and said it was an +opinion to which he had come himself. He went down the steps mumbling +the judgment to keep it in his memory.</p> + +<p>It was my grandfather's custom in the late afternoon of summer, when the +sun had slanted, to pull a chair off the veranda and sit sprinkling the +lawn with his crutch beside him. Toward supper Mr. Hodge, a building +contractor and our neighbor, went by. His wagon usually rattled with +some bit of salvage—perhaps an iron bath-tub plucked from a building +before<a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a> he wrecked it, or a kitchen sink. His yard was piled with the +fruitage of his profession. Mr. Hodge was of sociable turn and he cried +<i>whoa</i> to his jogging horse.</p> + +<p>Now ensued a half-hour's gossip. It was the comedy of the occasion that +the horse, after having made several attempts to start and been stopped +by a jerking of the reins, took to craftiness. He put forward a hoof, +quite carelessly it seemed. If there was no protest, in time he tried a +diagonal hoof behind. It was then but a shifting of the weight to swing +forward a step. "Whoa!" yelled Mr. Hodge. "Yes, yes," the old horse +seemed to answer, "certainly, of course, yes, yes! But can't a fellow +shift his legs?" In this way the sly brute inched toward supper. My +grandfather enjoyed this comedy, and once, if I am not mistaken, I +caught him exchanging a wink with the horse. Certainly the beast was +glancing round to find a partner for his jest. A conversation, begun at +the standpipe, progressed to the telegraph pole, and at last came +opposite the kitchen. As my grandfather did not move his chair, Mr. +Hodge lifted his voice until the neighborhood knew the price of brick +and the unworthiness of plumbers. Mr. Hodge was a Republican and he +spoke in favor of the tariff. To clinch an argument he had a usual +formula. "It's neither here nor there," and he brought his fist against +the dashboard, <i>"it's right here."</i> But finally the hungry horse +prevailed, Mr. Hodge slapped the reins in consent and they rattled home +to supper.</p> + +<p>Around this corner, also, there are echoes of children'<a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>s feet—racing +feet upon the grass—feet that lag in the morning on the way to school +and run back at four o'clock—feet that leap the hitching posts or avoid +the sidewalk cracks. Girls' feet rustle in the fallen leaves, and they +think their skirts are silk. And I hear dimly the cries of hide-and-seek +and pull-away and the merriment of blindman's buff. One lad rises in my +memory who won our marbles. Another excelled us all when he threw his +top. His father was a grocer and we envied him his easy access to the +candy counter.</p> + +<p>And particularly I remember a little girl with yellow curls and blue +eyes. She was the Sleeping Beauty in a Christmas play. I had known her +before in daytime gingham and I had judged her to be as other +girls—creatures that tag along and spoil the fun. But now, as she +rested in laces for the picture, she dazzled my imagination; for I was +the silken Prince to awaken her. For a week I wished to run to sea, sink +a pirate ship, and be worthy of her love. But then a sewer was dug along +the street and I was a miner instead—recusant to love—digging in the +yellow sand for the center of the earth.</p> + +<p>But chiefly it is the echo of older steps I hear—steps whose sound is +long since stilled—feet that have crossed the horizon and have gone on +journey for a while. And when I listen I hear echoes that are fading +into silence.</p> + +<p> +<br /> +<br /> +</p> + +<p class="c"><small>PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</small></p> + +<hr /> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Hints to Pilgrims, by Charles Stephen Brooks + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HINTS TO PILGRIMS *** + +***** This file should be named 37105-h.htm or 37105-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/1/0/37105/ + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images available at The Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Hints to Pilgrims + +Author: Charles Stephen Brooks + +Illustrator: Florence Minard + +Release Date: August 16, 2011 [EBook #37105] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HINTS TO PILGRIMS *** + + + + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images available at The Internet Archive) + + + + + + + + +Other Books of Essays by the Same Author: + +"Journeys to Bagdad" +_Fifth printing_. + +"There's Pippins and Cheese to Come" +_Third printing_. + +"Chimney-Pot Papers" +_Second printing_. + +Also a novel, published by The Century Co., +New York City, +"Luca Sarto" +_Second printing_. + + + + +Hints to Pilgrims + + + + +HINTS +TO +PILGRIMS + +BY + +CHARLES S. BROOKS + +With Pictures by +Florence Minard + +[Illustration] + +NEW HAVEN: +YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS +LONDON:HUMPHREY MILFORD +OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS +MDCCCCXXI + +Copyright, 1921, by +Yale University Press. + +Publisher's Note: + +The Yale University Press makes grateful +acknowledgment to the Editors of _The +Century Magazine_, _The Yale Review_, _The +Atlantic Monthly_ and _The Literary Review_ +for permission to include in the present +volume essays of which they were the +original publishers. + + + + +To Edward B. Greene, +as witness of our long friendship and my high regard. + + + + +Contents. + + + I. Hints to Pilgrims 11 + II. I Plan a Vacation 27 + III. At a Toy-Shop Window 42 + IV. Sic Transit-- 55 + V. The Posture of Authors 59 + VI. After-Dinner Pleasantries 77 + VII. Little Candles 86 + VIII. A Visit to a Poet 92 + IX. Autumn Days 103 + X. On Finding a Plot 107 + XI. Circus Days 122 + XII. In Praise of a Lawn-Mower 133 + XIII. On Dropping Off to Sleep 138 + XIV. Who Was Jeremy? 147 + XV. A Chapter for Children 153 + XVI. The Crowded Curb 171 + XVII. A Corner for Echoes 178 + + + + +Hints to Pilgrims. + + +When a man's thoughts in older time were set on pilgrimage, his +neighbors came forward with suggestions. One of them saw that his boots +were freshly tapped. Another was careful that his hose were darned with +honest wool--an oldish aunt, no doubt, with beeswax and thimble and +glasses forward on her nose. A third sly creature fetched in an +embroidered wallet to hold an extra shift, and hinted in return for a +true nail from the holy cross. If he were a bachelor, a tender garter +was offered him by a lonely maiden of the village, and was acknowledged +beneath the moon. But the older folk who had made the pilgrimage took +the settle and fell to argument on the merit of the inns. They scrawled +maps for his guidance on the hearth, and told him the sights that must +not be missed. Here he must veer off for a holy well. Here he must +beware a treacherous bog. Here he must ascend a steeple for the view. +They cautioned him to keep upon the highway. Was it not Christian, they +urged, who was lost in By-path Meadow? Again they talked of thieves and +warned him to lay a chair against the door. Then a honey syllabub was +drunk in clinking cups, and they made a night of it. + +Or perhaps our pilgrim belonged to a guild which--by an agreeable +precedent--voted that its members walk with him to the city's gate and +present from each a half-penny to support him on the journey. The greasy +pockets yield their treasure. He rattles on both sides with generous +copper. Here, also, is a salve for man and beast--a receipt for a +fever-draught. We may fancy now the pilgrim's mule plowing up the lazy +dust at the turn of the road as he waves his last farewell. His thoughts +already have leaped the valley to the misty country beyond the hills. + +And now above his dusty road the sun climbs the exultant noon. It whips +its flaming chariot to the west. On the rim of twilight, like a traveler +who departs, it throws a golden offering to the world. + +But there are pilgrims in these later days, also,--strangers to our own +fair city, script in wallet and staff in hand,--who come to place their +heavy tribute on our shrine. And to them I offer these few suggestions. + +The double stars of importance--as in Baedeker--mark our restaurants and +theatres. Dear pilgrim, put money in thy purse! Persuade your guild to +advance you to a penny! They mark the bridges, the shipping, the sharp +canyons of the lower city, the parks--limousines where silk and lace +play nurse to lap dogs--Bufo on an airing, the precious spitz upon a +scarlet cushion. They mark the parade of wealth, the shops and glitter +of Fifth Avenue on a winter afternoon. "If this is Fifth Avenue,"--as I +heard a dazzled stranger comment lately on a bus-top,--"my God! what +must First Avenue be like!" + +And then there are the electric signs--the mammoth kitten rolling its +ball of silk, ginger-ale that forever issues from a bottle, a fiery +motor with a flame of dust, the Wrigley triplets correcting their +sluggish livers by exercise alongside the Astor roof. Surely letters +despatched home to Kalamazoo deal excitedly with these flashing +portents. And of the railroad stations and the Woolworth Tower with its +gothic pinnacles questing into heaven, what pilgrim words are adequate! +Here, certainly, Kalamazoo is baffled and must halt and bite its pen. + +Nor can the hotels be described--toppling structures that run up to +thirty stories--at night a clatter in the basement and a clatter on the +roof--sons of Belial and rich folk from Akron who are spending the +profit on a few thousand hot-water bottles and inner tubes--what mad +pursuit! what pipes and timbrels! what wild ecstasy! Do we set a noisy +bard upon our towers in the hope that our merriment will sound to Mars? +Do we persuade them that jazz is the music of the spheres? But at +morning in these hotels are thirty stories of snoring bipeds--exhausted +trousers across the bed-post, frocks that have been rumpled in the +hubbub--tier on tier of bipeds, with sleepy curtains drawn against the +light. Boniface, in the olden time, sunning himself beneath his bush and +swinging dragon, watching the dust for travelers, how would he be amazed +at the advancement of the inn! Dear pilgrim, you must sag and clink for +entrance to the temples of our joyous gods. Put money in thy purse and +wire ahead! + +On these streets there is a roar of traffic that Babylon never heard. +Nineveh in its golden age could have packed itself with all its splendid +luggage in a single building. Athens could have mustered in a street. +Our block-parties that are now the fashion--neighborhood affairs in +fancy costumes, with a hot trombone, and banners stretched from house to +house--produce as great an uproar as ever arose upon the Acropolis. And +lately, when our troops returned from overseas and marched beneath our +plaster arches, Rome itself could not have matched the largeness of our +triumph. Here, also, men have climbed up to walls and battlements--but +to what far dizzier heights!--to towers and windows, and to +chimney-tops, to see great Pompey pass the streets. + +And by what contrast shall we measure our tall buildings? Otus and +Ephialtes, who contracted once to pile Pelion on top of Ossa, were +evidently builders who touched only the larger jobs. They did not stoop +to a cottage or a bungalow, but figured entirely on such things as arks +and the towers of Jericho. When old Cheops sickened, it is said, and +thought of death, they offered a bid upon his pyramid. Noah, if he was +indeed their customer, as seems likely, must have fretted them as their +work went forward. Whenever a cloud appeared in the rainy east he nagged +them for better speed. He prowled around on Sunday mornings with his +cubit measure to detect any shortness in the beam. Or he looked for +knot-holes in the gopher wood. But Otus and Ephialtes could not, with +all their sweating workmen, have fetched enough stones for even the +foundations of one of our loftier structures. + +The Tower of Babel, if set opposite Wall Street, would squat as low as +Trinity: for its top, when confusion broke off the work, had advanced +scarcely more than seven stories from the pavement. My own windows, +dwarfed by my surroundings, look down from as great a height. Indeed, I +fancy that if the famous tower were my neighbor to the rear--on Ninth +Street, just off the L--its whiskered masons on the upmost platform +could have scraped acquaintance with our cook. They could have gossiped +at the noon hour from gutter to sink, and eaten the crullers that the +kind creature tossed across. Our whistling grocery-man would have found +a rival. And yet the good folk of the older Testament, ignorant of our +accomplishment to come, were in amazement at the tower, and strangers +came in from Gilead and Beersheba. Trippers, as it were, upon a +holiday--staff in hand and pomegranates in a papyrus bag--locusts and +wild honey, or manna to sustain them in the wilderness on their +return--trippers, I repeat, cocked back their heads, and they counted +the rows of windows to the top and went off to their far land marveling. + +The Bankers Trust Building culminates in a pyramid. Where this narrows +to a point there issues a streamer of smoke. I am told that inside this +pyramid, at a dizzy height above the street, there is a storage room +for gold. Is it too fanciful to think that inside, upon this unsunned +heap of metal, there is concealed an altar of Mammon with priests to +feed the fire, and that this smoke, rising in the lazy air, is sweet in +the nostrils of the greedy god? + +There is what seems to be a chapel on the roof of the Bush Terminal. +Gothic decoration marks our buildings--the pointed arch, mullions and +gargoyles. There are few nowadays to listen to the preaching of the +church, but its symbol is at least a pretty ornament on our commercial +towers. + +Nor in the general muster of our sights must I forget the magic view +from across the river, in the end of a winter afternoon, when the lower +city is still lighted. The clustered windows shine as if a larger +constellation of stars had met in thick convention. But it is to the eye +of one who travels in the evening mist from Staten Island that towers of +finest gossamer arise. They are built to furnish a fantastic dream. The +architect of the summer clouds has tried here his finer hand. + +It was only lately when our ferry-boat came around the point of +Governor's Island, that I noticed how sharply the chasm of Broadway cuts +the city. It was the twilight of a winter's day. A rack of sullen clouds +lay across the sky as if they met for mischief, and the water was black +with wind. In the threatening obscurity the whole island seemed a +mightier House of Usher, intricate of many buildings, cleft by Broadway +in its middle, and ready to fall prostrate into the dark waters of the +tarn. But until the gathering tempest rises and an evil moon peers +through the crevice, as in the story, we must judge the city to be safe. + +Northward are nests of streets, thick with children. One might think +that the old woman who lived in a shoe dwelt hard by, with all of her +married sisters roundabout. Children scurry under foot, oblivious of +contact. They shoot their marbles between our feet, and we are the +moving hazard of their score. They chalk their games upon the pavement. +Baseball is played, long and thin, between the gutters. Peddlers' carts +line the curb--carrots, shoes and small hardware--and there is shrill +chaffering all the day. Here are dim restaurants, with truant smells for +their advertisement. In one of these I was served unleavened bread. Folk +from Damascus would have felt at home, and yet the shadow of the +Woolworth Tower was across the roof. The loaf was rolled thin, like a +chair-pad that a monstrous fat man habitually sits upon. Indeed, I +looked sharply at my ample waiter on the chance that it was he who had +taken his ease upon my bread. If Kalamazoo would tire for a night of the +Beauty Chorus and the Wrigley triplets, and would walk these streets of +foreign population, how amazing would be its letters home! + +Our Greenwich Village, also, has its sights. Time was when we were +really a village beyond the city. Even more remotely there were farms +upon us and comfortable burghers jogged up from town to find the peace +of country. There was once a swamp where Washington Square now is, and, +quite lately, masons in demolishing a foundation struck into a conduit +of running water that still drains our pleasant park. When Broadway was +a muddy post-road, stretching for a weary week to Albany, ducks quacked +about us and were shot with blunderbuss. Yes, and they were doubtless +roasted, with apple-sauce upon the side. And then a hundred years went +by, and the breathless city jumped to the north and left us a village in +its midst. + +It really is a village. The grocer gives you credit without question. +Further north, where fashion shops, he would inspect you up and down +with a cruel eye and ask a reference. He would linger on any patch or +shiny spot to trip your credit. But here he wets his pencil and writes +down the order without question. His friendly cat rubs against your +bundles on the counter. The shoemaker inquires how your tapped soles are +wearing. The bootblack, without lifting his eyes, knows you by the knots +in your shoe-strings. I fear he beats his wife, for he has a great red +nose which even prohibition has failed to cool. The little woman at the +corner offers you the _Times_ before you speak. The cigar man tosses you +a package of Camels as you enter. Even the four-corners beyond +Berea--unknown, remote, quite off the general travel--could hardly be +more familiar with the preference of its oldest citizen. We need only a +pump, and a pig and chickens in the street. + +Our gossip is smaller than is found in cities. If we had yards and +gardens we would talk across the fence on Monday like any village, with +clothes-pins in our mouths, and pass our ailments down the street. + +But we are crowded close, wall to wall. I see my neighbor cooking across +the street. Each morning she jolts her dust-mop out of the window. I see +shadows on a curtain as a family sits before the fire. A novelist is +down below. By the frenzy of his fingers on the typewriter it must be a +tale of great excitement. He never pauses or looks at the ceiling for a +plot. At night he reads his pages to his patient wife, when they +together have cleared away the dishes. In another window a girl lies +abed each morning. Exactly at 7.45, after a few minutes of sleepy +stretching, I see her slim legs come from the coverlet. Once she caught +my eye. She stuck out her tongue. Your stockings, my dear, hang across +the radiator. + +We have odd characters, too, known to everybody, just as small towns +have, who, in country circumstance, would whittle on the bench outside +the village store. The father of a famous poet, but himself unknown +except hereabouts, has his chair in the corner of a certain restaurant, +and he offers wisdom and reminiscence to a coterie. He is our Johnson at +the Mitre. Old M----, who lives in the Alley in what was once a +hayloft--now a studio,--is known from Fourth to Twelfth Street for his +Indian curry and his knowledge of the older poets. It is his pleasant +custom to drop in on his friends from time to time and cook their +dinner. He tosses you an ancient sonnet as he stirs the pot, or he beats +time with his iron spoon to a melody of the Pathetique. He knows +Shakespeare to a comma, and discourses so agreeably that the Madison +Square clock fairly races up to midnight. Every morning, it is said--but +I doubt the truth of this, for a gossiping lady told me--every morning +until the general drouth set in, he issued from the Alley for a toddy to +sustain his seventy years. Sometimes, she says, old M---- went without +tie or collar on these quick excursions, yet with the manners of the +Empire and a sweeping bow, if he met any lady of his acquaintance. + +A famous lecturer in a fur collar sweeps by me often, with his eyes on +the poetic stars. As he takes the air this sunny morning he thinks of +new paradoxes to startle the ladies at his matinee. How they love to be +shocked by his wicked speech! He is such a daring, handsome fellow--so +like a god of ancient Greece! And of course most of us know T----, who +gives a yearly dinner at an Assyrian restaurant--sixty cents a plate, +with a near-beer extra from a saloon across the way. Any guest may bring +a friend, but he must give ample warning in order that the table may be +stretched. + +The chief poet of our village wears a corduroy suit and goes without his +hat, even in winter. If a comedy of his happens to be playing at a +little theatre, he himself rings a bell in his favorite restaurant and +makes the announcement in true Elizabethan fashion. "Know ye, one and +all, there is a conceited comedy this night--" His hair is always +tousled. But, as its confusion continues from March into the quieter +months, the disarrangement springs not so much from the outer tempest as +from the poetic storms inside. + +Then we have a kind of Peter Pan grown to shiny middle life, who makes +ukuleles for a living. On any night of special celebration he is +prevailed upon to mount a table and sing one of his own songs to this +accompaniment. These songs tell what a merry, wicked crew we are. He +sings of the artists' balls that ape the Bohemia of Paris, of our +genius, our unrestraint, our scorn of all convention. What is morality +but a suit to be discarded when it is old? What is life, he sings, but a +mad jester with tinkling bells? Youth is brief, and when dead we're +buried deep. So let's romp and drink and kiss. It is a pagan song that +has lasted through the centuries. If it happens that any folk are down +from the uptown hotels, Peter Pan consents to sell a ukulele between his +encores. Here, my dear pilgrims, is an entertainment to be squeezed +between Ziegfeld's and the Winter Garden. + +You are welcome at all of our restaurants--our Samovars, the Pig and +Whistle, the Three Steps Down (a crowded room, where you spill your soup +as you carry it to a table, but a cheap, honest place in which to eat), +the Green Witch, the Simple Simon. The food is good at all of these +places. Grope your way into a basement--wherever one of our fantastic +signs hangs out--or climb broken stairs into a dusty garret--over a +contractor's storage of old lumber and bath-tubs--over the litter of the +roofs--and you will find artistic folk with flowing ties, spreading +their elbows at bare tables with unkept, dripping candles. + +Here is youth that is blown hither from distant villages--youth that was +misunderstood at home--youth that looks from its poor valley to the +heights and follows a flame across the darkness--youth whose eyes are a +window on the stars. Here also, alas, are slim white moths about a +candle. And here wrinkled children play at life and art. + +Here are radicals who plot the reformation of the world. They hope it +may come by peaceful means, but if necessary will welcome revolution and +machine-guns. They demand free speech, but put to silence any utterance +less red than their own. + +Here are seething sonneteers, playwrights bulging with rejected +manuscript, young women with bobbed hair and with cigarettes lolling +limply at their mouths. For a cigarette, I have observed, that hangs +loosely from the teeth shows an artistic temperament, just as in +business circles a cigar that is tilted up until it warms the nose marks +a sharp commercial nature. + +But business counts for little with us. Recently, to make a purchase, I +ventured of an evening into one of our many small shops of fancy wares. +Judge my embarrassment to see that the salesman was entertaining a young +lady on his knee. I was too far inside to retreat. Presently the +salesman shifted the lady to his other knee and, brushing a lock of her +hair off his nose, asked me what I wanted. But I was unwilling to +disturb his hospitality. I begged him not to lay down his pleasant +burden, but rather to neglect my presence. He thanked me for my +courtesy, and made his guest comfortable once more while I fumbled along +the shelves. By good luck the price was marked upon my purchase. I laid +down the exact change and tip-toed out. + +The peddlers of our village, our street musicians, our apple men, belong +to us. They may wander now and then to the outside world for a silver +tribute, yet they smile at us on their return as at their truest +friends. Ice creaks up the street in a little cart and trickles at the +cracks. Rags and bottles go by with a familiar, jangling bell. Scissors +grinders have a bell, also, with a flat, tinny sound, like a cow that +forever jerks its head with flies. But it was only the other day that +two fellows went by selling brooms. These were interlopers from a +noisier district, and they raised up such a clamor that one would have +thought that the Armistice had been signed again. The clatter was so +unusual--our own merchants are of quieter voice--that a dozen of us +thrust our heads from our windows. Perhaps another German government had +fallen. The novelist below me put out his shaggy beard. The girl with +the slim legs was craned out of the sill with excitement. My pretty +neighbor below, who is immaculate when I meet her on the stairs, was in +her mob-cap. + +My dear pilgrim from the West, with your ample house and woodshed, your +yard with its croquet set and hammock between the wash-poles, you have +no notion how we are crowded on the island. Laundry tubs are concealed +beneath kitchen tables. Boxes for clothes and linen are ambushed under +our beds. Any burglar hiding there would have to snuggle among the moth +balls. Sitting-room tables are swept of books for dinner. Bookcases are +desks. Desks are beds. Beds are couches. Couches are--bless you! all the +furniture is at masquerade. Kitchen chairs turn upside down and become +step-ladders. If anything does not serve at least two uses it is a +slacker. Beds tumble out of closets. Fire escapes are nurseries. A patch +of roof is a pleasant garden. A bathroom becomes a kitchen, with a lid +upon the tub for groceries, and the milk cooling below with the cold +faucet drawn. + +A room's use changes with the clock. That girl who lives opposite, when +she is dressed in the morning, puts a Bagdad stripe across her couch. +She punches a row of colored pillows against the wall. Her bedroom is +now ready for callers. It was only the other day that I read of a new +invention by which a single room becomes four rooms simply by pressing a +button. This is the manner of the magic. In a corner, let us say, of a +rectangular room there is set into the floor a turntable ten feet +across. On this are built four compartments, shaped like pieces of pie. +In one of these is placed a bath-tub and stand, in another a folding-bed +and wardrobe, in a third is a kitchen range and cupboard, and in the +fourth a bookcase and piano. Must I explain the mystery? On rising you +fold away your bed and spin the circle for your tub. And then in turn +your stove appears. At last, when you have whirled your dishes to +retirement, the piano comes in sight. It is as easy as spinning the +caster for the oil and vinegar. A whirling Susan on the supper table is +not more nimble. With this device it is estimated that the population of +our snug island can be quadruplicated, and that landlords can double +their rents with untroubled conscience. Or, by swinging a fifth piece of +pie out of the window, a sleeping-porch could be added. When the morning +alarm goes off you have only to spin the disk and dress in comfort +beside the radiator. Or you could--but possibilities are countless. + +Tom Paine died on Grove Street. O. Henry lived on Irving Place and ate +at Allaire's on Third Avenue. The Aquarium was once a fort on an island +in the river. Later Lafayette was welcomed there. And Jenny Lind sang +there. John Masefield swept out a saloon, it's said, on Sixth Avenue +near the Jefferson Market, and, for all I know, his very broom may be +still standing behind the door. The Bowery was once a post-road up +toward Boston. In the stream that flowed down Maiden Lane, Dutch girls +did the family washing. In William Street, not long ago, they were +tearing down the house in which Alexander Hamilton lived. These are +facts at random. + +But Captain Kidd lived at 119 Pearl Street. Dear me, I had thought that +he was a creature of a nursery book--one of the pirates whom Sinbad +fought. And here on Pearl Street, in our own city, he was arrested and +taken to hang in chains in London. A restaurant now stands at 119. A +bucket of oyster shells is at the door, and, inside, a clatter of hungry +spoons. + +But the crowd thickens on these narrow streets. Work is done for the day +and tired folk hurry home. Crowds flow into the subway entrances. The +streets are flushed, as it were, with people, and the flood drains to +the rushing sewers. Now the lights go out one by one. The great +buildings, that glistened but a moment since at every window, are now +dark cliffs above us in the wintry mist. + +It is time, dear pilgrim, to seek your hotel or favorite cabaret. + +The Wrigley triplets once more correct by exercise their sluggish +livers. The kitten rolls its ball of fiery silk. Times Square flashes +with entertainment. It stretches its glittering web across the night. + +Dear pilgrim, a last important word! Put money in thy purse! + + + + +I Plan a Vacation. + + +It is my hope, when the snow is off the ground and the ocean has been +tamed by breezes from the south, to cross to England. Already I fancy +myself seated in the pleasant office of the steamship agent, listening +to his gossip of rates and sailings, bending over his colored charts, +weighing the merit of cabins. Here is one amidships in a location of +greatest ease upon the stomach. Here is one with a forward port that +will catch the sharp and wholesome wind from the Atlantic. I trace the +giant funnels from deck to deck. My finger follows delightedly the +confusing passages. I smell the rubber on the landings and the salty +rugs. From on top I hear the wind in the cordage. I view the moon, and I +see the mast swinging among the stars. + +Then, also, at the agent's, for my pleasure, there is a picture of a +ship cut down the middle, showing its inner furnishing and the hum of +life on its many decks. I study its flights of steps, its strange tubes +and vents and boilers. Munchausen's horse, when its rearward end was +snapped off by the falling gate (the faithful animal, you may recall, +galloped for a mile upon its forward legs alone before the misadventure +was discovered)--Munchausen's horse, I insist,--the unbroken, forward +half,--did not display so frankly its confusing pipes and coils. Then +there is another ship which, by a monstrous effort of the printer, is +laid in Broadway, where its stacks out-top Trinity. I pace its mighty +length on the street before my house, and my eye climbs our tallest tree +for a just comparison. + +It is my hope to find a man of like ambition and endurance as myself and +to walk through England. He must be able, if necessary, to keep to the +road for twenty-five miles a day, or, if the inn runs before us in the +dark, to stretch to thirty. But he should be a creature, also, who is +content to doze in meditation beneath a hedge, heedless whether the sun, +in faster boots, puts into lodging first. Careless of the hour, he may +remark in my sleepy ear "how the shadows lengthen as the sun declines." + +He must be able to jest when his feet are tired. His drooping grunt must +be spiced with humor. When stiffness cracks him in the morning, he can +the better play the clown. He will not grumble at his bed or poke too +shrewdly at his food. Neither will he talk of graves and rheumatism when +a rainstorm finds us unprepared. If he snuffle at the nose, he must +snuffle cheerfully and with hope. Wit, with its unexpected turns, is to +be desired; but a pleasant and even humor is a better comrade on a dusty +road. It endures blisters and an empty stomach. A pack rests more +lightly on its weary shoulders. If he sing, he should know a round of +tunes and not wear a single melody to tatters. The merriest lilt grows +dull and lame when it travels all the day. But although I wish my +companion to be of a cheerful temper, he need not pipe or dance until +the mists have left the hills. Does not the shining sun itself rise +slowly to its noonday glory? A companion must give me leave to enjoy in +silence my sullen breakfast. + +A talent for sketching shall be welcome. Let him produce his pencils and +his tablet at a pointed arch or mullioned window, or catch us in absurd +posture as we travel. If one tumbles in a ditch, it is but decency to +hold the pose until the picture's made. + +But, chiefly, a companion should be quick with a smile and nod, apt for +conversation along the road. Neither beard nor ringlet must snub his +agreeable advance. Such a fellow stirs up a mixed acquaintance between +town and town, to point the shortest way--a bit of modest gingham mixing +a pudding at a pantry window, age hobbling to the gate on its friendly +crutch, to show how a better path climbs across the hills. Or in a +taproom he buys a round of ale and becomes a crony of the place. He +enlists a dozen friends to sniff outdoors at bedtime, with conflicting +prophecy of a shifting wind and the chance of rain. + +A companion should be alert for small adventure. He need not, therefore, +to prove himself, run to grapple with an angry dog. Rather, let him +soothe the snarling creature! Let him hold the beast in parley while I +go on to safety with unsoiled dignity! Only when arbitration and soft +terms fail shall he offer a haunch of his own fair flesh. Generously he +must boost me up a tree, before he seeks safety for himself. + +But many a trivial mishap, if followed with a willing heart, leads to +comedy and is a jest thereafter. I know a man who, merely by following +an inquisitive nose through a doorway marked "No Admittance," became +comrade to a company of traveling actors. The play was _Uncle Tom's +Cabin_, and they were at rehearsal. Presently, at a changing of the +scene, my friend boasted to Little Eva, as they sat together on a pile +of waves, that he performed upon the tuba. It seems that she had +previously mounted into heaven in the final picture without any +welcoming trumpet of the angels. That night, by her persuasion, my +friend sat in the upper wings and dispensed flutings of great joy as she +ascended to her rest. + +Three other men of my acquaintance were caught once, between towns, on a +walking trip in the Adirondacks, and fell by chance into a kind of +sanitarium for convalescent consumptives. At first it seemed a gloomy +prospect. But, learning that there was a movie in a near-by village, +they secured two jitneys and gave a party for the inmates. In the church +parlor, when the show was done, they ate ice-cream and layer-cake. Two +of the men were fat, but the third, a slight and handsome fellow--I +write on suspicion only--so won a pretty patient at the feast, that, on +the homeward ride--they were rattling in the tonneau--she graciously +permitted him to steady her at the bumps and sudden turns. + +Nor was this the end. As it still lacked an hour of midnight the general +sanitarium declared a Roman holiday. The slight fellow, on a challenge, +did a hand-stand, with his feet waving against the wall, while his knife +and keys and money dropped from his pockets. The pretty patient read +aloud some verses of her own upon the spring. She brought down her +water-colors, and laying a charcoal portrait off the piano, she ranged +her lovely wares upon the top. The fattest of my friends, also, eager to +do his part, stretched himself, heels and head, between two chairs. But, +when another chair was tossed on his unsupported middle, he fell with a +boom upon the carpet. Then the old doctor brought out wine and Bohemian +glasses with long stems and, as the clock struck twelve, the company +pledged one another's health, with hopes for a reunion. They lighted +their candles on the landing, and so to bed. + +I know a man, also, who once met a sword-swallower at a county fair. A +volunteer was needed for his trick--someone to hold the scarlet cushion +with its dangerous knives--and zealous friends pushed him from his seat +and toward the stage. Afterwards he met the Caucasian Beauties and, +despite his timidity, they dined together with great merriment. + +Then there is a kind of humorous philosophy to be desired on an +excursion. It smokes a contented pipe to the tune of every rivulet. It +rests a peaceful stomach on the rail of every bridge, and it observes +the floating leaves, like golden caravels upon the stream. It interprets +a trivial event. It is both serious and absurd. It sits on a fence to +moralize on the life of cows and flings in Plato on the soul. It plays +catch and toss with life and death and the world beyond. And it sees +significance in common things. A farmer's cart is a tumbril of the +Revolution. A crowing rooster is Chanticleer. It is the very cock that +proclaimed to Hamlet that the dawn was nigh. When a cloud rises up, such +a philosopher discourses of the flood. He counts up the forty rainy days +and names the present rascals to be drowned--profiteers in food, +plumbers and all laundrymen. + +A stable lantern, swinging in the dark, rouses up a race of giants-- + +I think it was some such fantastic quality of thought that Horace +Walpole had in mind when he commended the Three Princes of Serendip. +Their Highnesses, it seems, "were always making discoveries, by accident +and sagacity, of things which they were not in quest of: for instance," +he writes, "one of them discovered that a mule blind of the right eye +had traveled the same road lately, because the grass was eaten on the +left side." At first, I confess, this employment seems a waste of time. +Sherlock Holmes did better when he pronounced, on finding a neglected +whisp of beard, that Doctor Watson's shaving mirror had been shifted to +an opposite window. But doubtless the Princes put their deduction to +higher use, and met the countryside and village with shrewd and vivid +observation. + +Don Quixote had this same quality, but with more than a touch of +madness. Did he not build up the Lady Tolosa out of a common creature +at an inn? He sought knighthood at the hands of its stupid keeper and +watched his armor all night by the foolish moon. He tilted against a +windmill. I cannot wholeheartedly commend the Don, but, for an +afternoon, certainly, I would prefer his company between town and town +to that of any man who carries his clanking factory on his back. + +But, also, I wish a companion of my travels to be for the first time in +England, in order that I may have a fresh audience for my superior +knowledge. In the cathedral towns I wish to wave an instructive finger +in crypt and aisle. Here is a bit of early glass. Here is a wall that +was plastered against the plague when the Black Prince was still alive. +I shall gossip of scholars in cord and gown, working at their rubric in +sunny cloisters. Or if I choose to talk of kings and forgotten battles, +I wish a companion ignorant but eager for my boasting. + +It was only last night that several of us discussed vacations. Wyoming +was the favorite--a ranch, with a month on horseback in the mountains, +hemlock brouse for a bed, morning at five and wood to chop. But a horse +is to me a troubled creature. He stands to too great a height. His eye +glows with exultant deviltry as he turns and views my imperfection. His +front teeth seem made for scraping along my arm. I dread any fly or bee +lest it sting him to emotion. I am point to point in agreement with the +psalmist: "An horse is a vain thing for safety." If I must ride, I +demand a tired horse, who has cropped his wild oats and has come to a +slippered state. Are we not told that the horse in the crustaceous +age--I select a large word at random--was built no bigger than a dog? +Let this snug and peerless ancestor be saddled and I shall buy a ticket +for the West. + +But I do not at this time desire to beard the wilderness. There is a +camp of Indians near the ranch. I can smell them these thousand miles +away. Their beads and greasy blankets hold no charm. Smoky bacon, +indeed, I like. I can lie pleasurably at the flap of the tent with +sleepy eyes upon the stars. I can even plunge in a chilly pool at dawn. +But the Indians and horses that infest Wyoming do not arouse my present +interest. + +I am for England, therefore--for its winding roads, its villages that +nest along the streams, its peaked bridges with salmon jumping at the +weir, its thatched cottages and flowering hedges. + + "The chaffinch sings on the orchard bough + In England--now!" + +I wish to see reapers at work in Surrey fields, to stride over the windy +top of Devon, to cross Wiltshire when wind and rain and mist have +brought the Druids back to Stonehenge. At a crossroad Stratford is ten +miles off. Raglan's ancient towers peep from a wooded hill. Tintern or +Glastonbury can be gained by night. Are not these names sweet upon the +tongue? And I wish a black-timbered inn in which to end the day--with +polished brasses in the tap and the smell of the musty centuries upon +the stairs. + +At the window of our room the Cathedral spire rises above the roofs. +There is no trolley-car or creaking of any wheel, and on the pavement we +hear only the fall of feet in endless pattern. Day weaves a hurrying +mesh, but this is the quiet fabric of the night. + +[Illustration] + +I wish to walk from London to Inverness, to climb the ghostly ramparts +of Macbeth's castle, to hear the shrill cry of Duncan's murder in the +night, to watch for witches on the stormy moor. I shall sit on the bench +where Johnson sat with Boswell on his journey to the Hebrides. I shall +see the wizard of the North, lame of foot, walking in the shade of +ruined Dryburgh. With drunken Tam, I shall behold in Alloway Kirk +warlocks in a dance. From the gloomy house of Shaws and its broken tower +David Balfour runs in flight across the heather. Culloden echoes with +the defeat of an outlaw prince. The stairs of Holyrood drip with +Rizzio's blood. But also, I wish to follow the Devon lanes, to rest in +villages on the coast at the fall of day when fishermen wind their nets, +to dream of Arthur and his court on the rocks beyond Tintagel. Merlin +lies in Wales with his dusty garments pulled about him, and his magic +sleeps. But there is wind tonight in the noisy caverns of the sea, and +Spanish pirates dripping with the slime of a watery grave, bury their +treasure when the fog lies thick. + +Thousands of years have peopled these English villages. Their pavements +echo with the tread of kings and poets. Here is a sunny bower for lovers +when the world was young. Bishops of the Roman church--Saint Thomas +himself in his robes pontifical has walked through these broken +cloisters. Here is the altar where he knelt at prayer when his assassins +came. From that tower Mary of Scotland looked vainly for assistance to +gallop from the north. + +Here stretches the Pilgrims' Way across the downs of Surrey--worn and +scratched by pious feet. From the west they came to Canterbury. The wind +stirs the far-off traffic, and the mist covers the hills as with an +ancient memory. + +How many thirsty elbows have rubbed this table in the forgotten years! +How many feasts have come steaming from the kitchen when the London +coach was in! That pewter cup, maybe, offered its eager pledge when the +news of Agincourt was blown from France. Up that stairway Tom Jones +reeled with sparkling canary at his belt. These cobbles clacked in the +Pretender's flight. Here is the chair where Falstaff sat when he cried +out that the sack was spoiled with villainous lime. That signboard +creaked in the tempest that shattered the Armada. + +My fancy mingles in the past. It hears in the inn-yard the chattering +pilgrims starting on their journey. Here is the Pardoner jesting with +the merry Wife of Bath, with his finger on his lips to keep their +scandal private. It sees Dick Turpin at the crossroads with loaded +pistols in his boots. There is mist tonight on Bagshot Heath, and men in +Kendal green are out. And fancy rebuilds a ruined castle, and lights the +hospitable fires beneath its mighty caldrons. It hangs tapestry on its +empty walls and, like a sounding trumpet, it summons up a gaudy company +in ruff and velvet to tread the forgotten measures of the past. + +Let Wyoming go and hang itself in its muddy riding-boots and khaki +shirt! Let its tall horses leap upward and click their heels upon the +moon! I am for England. + +It is my preference to land at Plymouth, and our anchor--if the captain +is compliant--will be dropped at night, in order that the Devon hills, +as the thrifty stars are dimmed, may appear first through the mists of +dawn. If my memory serves, there is a country church with +stone-embattled tower on the summit above the town, and in the early +twilight all the roads that climb the hills lead away to promised +kingdoms. Drake, I assert, still bowls nightly on the quay at Plymouth, +with pins that rattle in the windy season, but the game is done when the +light appears. + +We clatter up to London. Paddington station or Waterloo, I care not. But +for arrival a rainy night is best, when the pavements glisten and the +mad taxis are rushing to the theatres. And then, for a week, by way of +practice and to test our boots, we shall trudge the streets of +London--the Strand and the Embankment. And certainly we shall explore +the Temple and find the sites of Blackfriars and the Globe. Here, beyond +this present brewery, was the bear-pit. Tarlton's jests still sound upon +the bank. A wherry, once, on this busy river, conveyed Sir Roger up to +Vauxhall. Perhaps, here, on the homeward trip, he was rejected by the +widow. The dear fellow, it is recorded, out of sentiment merely, kept +his clothes unchanged in the fashion of this season of his +disappointment. Here, also, was the old bridge across the Fleet. Here +was Drury Lane where Garrick acted. Tender hearts, they say, in pit and +stall, fluttered to his Romeo, and sighed their souls across the +candles. On this muddy curb link-boys waited when the fog was thick. +Here the footmen bawled for chairs. + +But there are bookshops still in Charing Cross Road. And, for frivolous +moments, haberdashery is offered in Bond Street and vaudeville in +Leicester Square. + +And then on a supreme morning we pack our rucksacks. + +It was a grievous oversight that Christian failed to tell us what +clothing he carried in his pack. We know it was a heavy burden, for it +dragged him in the mire. But did he carry slippers to ease his feet at +night? And what did the Pardoner put inside his wallet? Surely the Wife +of Bath was supplied with a powder-puff and a fresh taffeta to wear at +the journey's end. I could, indeed, spare Christian one or two of his +encounters for knowledge of his wardrobe. These homely details are of +interest. The mad Knight of La Mancha, we are told, mortgaged his house +and laid out a pretty sum on extra shirts. Stevenson, also, tells us the +exact gear that he loaded on his donkey, but what did Marco Polo carry? +And Munchausen and the Wandering Jew? I have skimmed their pages vainly +for a hint. + +For myself, I shall take an extra suit of underwear and another flannel +shirt, a pair of stockings, a rubber cape of lightest weight that falls +below the knees, slippers, a shaving-kit and brushes. I shall wash my +linen at night and hang it from my window, where it shall wave like an +admiral's flag to show that I sleep upon the premises. I shall replace +it as it wears. And I shall take a book, not to read but to have ready +on the chance. I once carried the Book of Psalms, but it was Nick Carter +I read, which I bought in a tavern parlor, fifteen pages missing, from a +fat lady who served me beer. + +We run to the window for a twentieth time. It has rained all night, but +the man in the lift was hopeful when we came up from breakfast. We +believe him; as if he sat on a tower with a spy-glass on the clouds. We +cherish his tip as if it came from AEolus himself, holding the winds in +leash. + +And now a streak of yellowish sky--London's substitute for blue--shows +in the west. + +We pay our bill. We scatter the usual silver. Several senators in +uniform bow us down the steps. We hale a bus in Trafalgar Square. We +climb to the top--to the front seat with full prospect. The Haymarket. +Sandwich men with weary step announce a vaudeville. We snap our fingers +at so stale an entertainment. There are flower-girls in Piccadilly +Circus. Regent Street. We pass the Marble Arch, near which cut-throats +were once hanged on the three-legged mare of Tyburn. Hammersmith. +Brentford. The bus stops. It is the end of the route. We have ridden out +our sixpence. We climb down. We adjust our packs and shoe-strings. The +road to the western country beckons. + +My dear sir, perhaps you yourself have planned for a landaulet this +summer and an English trip. You have laid out two swift weeks to make +the breathless round. You journey from London to Bristol in a day. +Another day, and you will climb out, stiff of leg, among the northern +lakes. If then, as you loll among the cushions, lapped in luxury, pink +and soft--if then, you see two men with sticks in hand and packs on +shoulder, know them for ourselves. We are singing on the road to +Windsor--to Salisbury, to Stonehenge, to the hills of Dorset, to +Lyme-Regis, to Exeter and the Devon moors. + +It was a shepherd who came with a song to the mountain-top. "The sun +shone, the bees swept past me singing; and I too sang, shouted, World, +world, I am coming!" + +[Illustration] + + + + +At a Toy-Shop Window. + + +In this Christmas season, when snowflakes fill the air and twilight is +the pleasant thief of day, I sometimes pause at the window of a toy-shop +to see what manner of toys are offered to the children. It is only five +o'clock and yet the sky is dark. The night has come to town to do its +shopping before the stores are shut. The wind has Christmas errands. + +And there is a throng of other shoppers. Fathers of families drip with +packages and puff after street cars. Fat ladies--Now then, all +together!--are hoisted up. Old ladies are caught in revolving doors. And +the relatives of Santa Claus--surely no nearer than nephews (anaemic +fellows in faded red coats and cotton beards)--pound their kettles for +an offering toward a Christmas dinner for the poor. + +But, also, little children flatten their noses on the window of the +toy-shop. They point their thumbs through their woolly mittens in a +sharp rivalry of choice. Their unspent nickels itch for large +investment. Extravagant dimes bounce around their pockets. But their +ears are cold, and they jiggle on one leg against a frosty toe. + +Here in the toy-shop is a tin motor-car. Here is a railroad train, with +tracks and curves and switches, a pasteboard mountain and a tunnel. Here +is a steamboat. With a turning of a key it starts for Honolulu behind +the sofa. The stormy Straits of Madagascar lie along the narrow hall. +Here in the window, also, are beams and girders for a tower. Not since +the days of Babel has such a vast supply been gathered. And there are +battleships and swift destroyers and guns and armoured tanks. The +nursery becomes a dangerous ocean, with submarines beneath the stairs: +or it is the plain of Flanders and the great war echoes across the +hearth. Chateau-Thierry is a pattern in the rug and the andirons are the +towers of threatened Paris. + +But on this Christmas night, as I stand before the toy-shop in the +whirling storm, the wind brings me the laughter of far-off children. +Time draws back its sober curtain. The snow of thirty winters is piled +in my darkened memory, but I hear shrill voices across the night. + +Once upon a time--in the days when noses and tables were almost on a +level, and manhood had wavered from kilts to pants buttoning at the +side--once there was a great chest which was lodged in a closet behind +a sitting-room. It was from this closet that the shadows came at night, +although at noon there was plainly a row of hooks with comfortable +winter garments. And there were drawers and shelves to the ceiling where +linen was kept, and a cupboard for cough-syrup and oily lotions for +chapped hands. A fragrant paste, also, was spread on the tip of the +little finger, which, when wiggled inside the nostril and inhaled, was +good for wet feet and snuffles. Twice a year these bottles were smelled +all round and half of them discarded. It was the ragman who bought them, +a penny to the bottle. He coveted chiefly, however, lead and iron, and +he thrilled to old piping as another man thrills to Brahms. He was a sly +fellow and, unless Annie looked sharp, he put his knee against the +scale. + +But at the rear of the closet, beyond the lamplight, there was a chest +where playing-blocks were kept. There were a dozen broken sets of +various shapes and sizes--the deposit and remnant of many years. + +These blocks had once been covered with letters and pictures. They had +conspired to teach us. C had stood for cat. D announced a dog. Learning +had put on, as it were, a sugar coat for pleasant swallowing. The arid +heights teased us to mount by an easy slope. But we scraped away the +letters and the pictures. Should a holiday, we thought, be ruined by +insidious instruction? Must a teacher's wagging finger always come among +us? It was sufficient that five blocks end to end made a railway car, +with finger-blocks for platforms; that three blocks were an engine, with +a block on top to be a smokestack. We had no toy mountain and pasteboard +tunnel, as in the soft fashion of the present, but we jacked the rug +with blocks up hill and down, and pushed our clanking trains through the +hollow underneath. It was an added touch to build a castle on the +summit. A spool on a finger-block was the Duke himself on horseback, +hunting across his sloping acres. + +There was, also, in the chest, a remnant of iron coal-cars with real +wheels. Their use was too apparent. A best invention was to turn +playthings from an obvious design. So we placed one of the coal-cars +under the half of a folding checkerboard and by adding masts and turrets +and spools for guns we built a battleship. This could be sailed all +round the room, on smooth seas where the floor was bare, but it pitched +and tossed upon a carpet. If it came to port battered by the storm, +should it be condemned like a ship that is broken on a sunny river? Its +plates and rivets had been tested in a tempest. It had skirted the +headlands at the staircase and passed the windy Horn. + +Or perhaps we built a fort upon the beach before the fire. It was a +pretty warfare between ship and fort, with marbles used shot and shot in +turn. A lucky marble toppled the checkerboard off its balance and +wrecked the ship. The sailors, after scrambling in the water, put to +shore on flat blocks from the boat deck and were held as prisoners until +supper, in the dungeons of the fort. It was in the sitting-room that we +played these games, under the family's feet. They moved above our sport +like a race of tolerant giants; but when callers came, we were brushed +to the rear of the house. + +Spools were men. Thread was their short and subsidiary use. Their larger +life was given to our armies. We had several hundred of them threaded on +long strings on the closet-hooks. But if a great campaign was +planned--if the Plains of Abraham were to be stormed or Cornwallis +captured--our recruiting sergeants rummaged in the drawers of the +sewing-machine for any spool that had escaped the draft. Or we peeked +into mother's work-box, and if a spool was almost empty, we suddenly +became anxious about our buttons. Sometimes, when a great spool was +needed for a general, mother wound the thread upon a piece of cardboard. +General Grant had carried black silk. Napoleon had been used on +trouser-patches. And my grandmother and a half-dozen aunts and elder +cousins did their bit and plied their needles for the war. In this +regard grandfather was a slacker, but he directed the battle from the +sofa with his crutch. + +Toothpicks were guns. Every soldier had a gun. If he was hit by a marble +in the battle and the toothpick remained in place, he was only wounded; +but he was dead if the toothpick fell out. Of each two men wounded, by +Hague Convention, one recovered for the next engagement. + +Of course we had other toys. Lead soldiers in cocked hats came down the +chimney and were marshaled in the Christmas dawn. A whole Continental +Army lay in paper sheets, to be cut out with scissors. A steam engine +with a coil of springs and key furnished several rainy holidays. A red +wheel-barrow supplied a short fury of enjoyment. There were sleds and +skates, and a printing press on which we printed the milkman's tickets. +The memory still lingers that five cents, in those cheap days, bought a +pint of cream. There was, also, a castle with a princess at a window. +Was there no prince to climb her trellis and bear her off beneath the +moon? It had happened so in Astolat. The princes of the gorgeous East +had wooed, also, in such a fashion. Or perhaps this was the very castle +that the wicked Kazrac lifted across the Chinese mountains in the night, +cheating Aladdin of his bride. It was a rather clever idea, as things +seem now in this time of general shortage, to steal a lady, house and +all, not forgetting the cook and laundress. But one day a little girl +with dark hair smiled at me from next door and gave me a Christmas cake, +and in my dreams thereafter she became the princess in my castle. + +We had stone blocks with arches and round columns that were too delicate +for the hazard of siege and battle. Once, when a playmate had scarlet +fever, we lent them to him for his convalescence. Afterwards, against +contagion, we left them for a month under a bush in the side yard. Every +afternoon we wet them with a garden hose. Did not Noah's flood purify +the world? It would be a stout microbe, we thought, that could survive +the deluge. At last we lifted out the blocks at arm's length. We smelled +them for any lurking fever. They were damp to the nose and smelled like +the cement under the back porch. But the contagion had vanished like +Noah's wicked neighbors. + +But store toys always broke. Wheels came off. Springs were snapped. Even +the princess faded at her castle window. + +Sometimes a toy, when it was broken, arrived at a larger usefulness. +Although I would not willingly forget my velocipede in its first gay +youth, my memory of sharpest pleasure reverts to its later days, when +one of its rear wheels was gone. It had been jammed in an accident +against the piano. It has escaped me whether the piano survived the +jolt; but the velocipede was in ruins. When the wheel came off the +brewery wagon before our house and the kegs rolled here and there, the +wreckage was hardly so complete. Three spokes were broken and the hub +was cracked. At first, it had seemed that the day of my velocipede was +done. We laid it on its side and tied the hub with rags. It looked like +a jaw with tooth-ache. Then we thought of the old baby-carriage in the +storeroom. Perhaps a transfusion of wheels was possible. We conveyed +upstairs a hammer and a saw. It was a wobbling and impossible +experiment. But at the top of the house there was a kind of race-track +around the four posts of the attic. With three wheels complete, we had +been forced to ride with caution at the turns or be pitched against the +sloping rafters. We now discovered that a missing wheel gave the +necessary tilt for speed. I do not recall that the pedals worked. We +legged it on both sides. Ten times around was a race; and the audience +sat on the ladder to the roof and held a watch with a second-hand for +records. + +Ours was a roof that was flat in the center. On winter days, when snow +would pack, we pelted the friendly milkman. Ours, also, was a cellar +that was lost in darkened mazes. A blind area off the laundry, where the +pantry had been built above, seemed to be the opening of a cavern. And +we shuddered at the sights that must meet the candle of the furnaceman +when he closed the draught at bedtime. + +Abandoned furniture had uses beyond a first intention. A folding-bed of +ours closed to about the shape of a piano. When the springs and mattress +were removed it was a house with a window at the end where a wooden flap +let down. Here sat the Prisoner of Chillon, with a clothes-line on his +ankle. A pile of old furniture in the attic, covered with a cloth, +became at twilight a range of mountains with a gloomy valley at the +back. I still believe--for so does fancy wanton with my thoughts--that +Aladdin's cave opens beneath those walnut bed-posts, that the cavern of +jewels needs but a dusty search on hands and knees. The old house, alas, +has come to foreign use. Does no one now climb the attic steps? Has time +worn down the awful Caucasus? No longer is there children's laughter on +the stairs. The echo of their feet sleeps at last in the common day. + +Nor must furniture, of necessity, be discarded. We dived from the +footboard of our bed into a surf of pillows. We climbed its headboard +like a mast, and looked for pirates on the sea. A sewing-table with legs +folded flat was a sled upon the stairs. Must I do more than hint that +two bed-slats make a pair of stilts, and that one may tilt like King +Arthur with the wash-poles? Or who shall fix a narrow use for the +laundry tubs, or put a limit on the coal-hole? And step-ladders! There +are persons who consider a step-ladder as a menial. This is an injustice +to a giddy creature that needs but a holiday to show its metal. On +Thursday afternoons, when the cook was out, you would never know it for +the same thin creature that goes on work-days with a pail and cleans the +windows. It is a tower, a shining lighthouse, a crowded grandstand, a +circus, a ladder to the moon. + +But perhaps, my dear young sir, you are so lucky as to possess a smaller +and inferior brother who frets with ridicule. He is a toy to be desired +above a red velocipede. I offer you a hint. Print upon a paper in bold, +plain letters--sucking the lead for extra blackness--that he is afraid +of the dark, that he likes the girls, that he is a butter-fingers at +baseball and teacher's pet and otherwise contemptible. Paste the paper +inside the glass of the bookcase, so that the insult shows. Then lock +the door and hide the key. Let him gaze at this placard of his weakness +during a rainy afternoon. But I caution you to secure the keys of all +similar glass doors--of the china closet, of the other bookcase, of the +knick-knack cabinet. Let him stew in his iniquity without chance of +retaliation. + +But perhaps, in general, your brother is inclined to imitate you and be +a tardy pattern of your genius. He apes your fashion in suspenders, the +tilt of your cap, your method in shinny. If you crouch in a barrel in +hide-and-seek, he crowds in too. You wag your head from side to side on +your bicycle in the manner of Zimmerman, the champion. Your brother wags +his, too. You spit in your catcher's mit, like Kelly, the +ten-thousand-dollar baseball beauty. Your brother spits in his mit, too. +These things are unbearable. If you call him "sloppy" when his face is +dirty, he merely passes you back the insult unchanged. If you call him +"sloppy-two-times," still he has no invention. You are justified now to +call him "nigger" and to cuff him to his place. + +Tagging is his worst offense--tagging along behind when you are engaged +on serious business. "Now then, sonny," you say, "run home. Get nurse to +blow your nose." Or you bribe him with a penny to mind his business. + +I must say a few words about paper-hangers, although they cannot be +considered as toys or play--things by any rule of logic. There is +something rather jolly about having a room papered. The removal of the +pictures shows how the old paper looked before it faded. The furniture +is pushed into an agreeable confusion in the hall. A rocker seems +starting for the kitchen. The great couch goes out the window. A chair +has climbed upon a table to look about. It needs but an alpenstock to +clamber on the bookcase. The carpet marks the places where the piano +legs came down. + +And the paper-hanger is a rather jolly person. He sings and whistles in +the empty room. He keeps to a tune, day after day, until you know it. He +slaps his brush as if he liked his work. It is a sticky, splashing, +sloshing slap. Not even a plasterer deals in more interesting material. +And he settles down on you with ladders and planks as if a circus had +moved in. After hours, when he is gone, you climb on his planking and +cross Niagara, as it were, with a cane for balance. To this day I think +of paper-hangers as a kindly race of men, who sing in echoing rooms and +eat pie and pickles for their lunch. Except for their Adam's apples--got +with gazing at the ceiling--surely not the wicked apple of the Garden--I +would wish to be a paper-hanger. + +Plumbers were a darker breed, who chewed tobacco fetched up from their +hip-pockets. They were enemies of the cook by instinct, and they spat in +dark corners. We once found a cake of their tobacco when they were gone. +We carried it to the safety of the furnace-room and bit into it in turn. +It was of a sweetish flavor of licorice that was not unpleasant. But the +sin was too enormous for our comfort. + +But in November, when days were turning cold and hands were chapped, our +parents' thoughts ran to the kindling-pile, to stock it for the winter. +Now the kindling-pile was the best quarry for our toys, because it was +bought from a washboard factory around the corner. Not every child has +the good fortune to live near a washboard factory. Necessary as +washboards are, a factory of modest output can supply a county, with +even a little dribble for export into neighbor counties. Many unlucky +children, therefore, live a good ten miles off, and can never know the +fascinating discard of its lathes--the little squares and cubes, the +volutes and rhythmic flourishes which are cast off in manufacture and +are sold as kindling. They think a washboard is a dull and common thing. +To them it smacks of Monday. It smells of yellow soap and suds. It +wears, so to speak, a checkered blouse and carries clothes-pins in its +mouth. It has perspiration on its nose. They do not know, in their +pitiable ignorance, the towers and bridges that can be made from the +scourings of a washboard factory. + +Our washboard factory was a great wooden structure that had been built +for a roller-skating rink. Father and mother, as youngsters in the time +of their courtship, had cut fancy eights upon the floor. And still, in +these later days, if you listened outside a window, you heard a whirling +roar, as if perhaps the skaters had returned and again swept the corners +madly. But it was really the sound of machinery that you heard, +fashioning toys and blocks for us. At noonday, comely red-faced girls +ate their lunches on the window-sills, ready for conversation and +acquaintance. + +And now, for several days, a rumor has been running around the house +that a wagon of kindling is expected. Each afternoon, on our return from +school, we run to the cellar. Even on baking-day the whiff of cookies +holds us only for a minute. We wait only to stuff our pockets. And at +last the great day comes. The fresh wood is piled to the ceiling. It is +a high mound and chaos, without form but certainly not void. For there +are long pieces for bridges, flat pieces for theatre scenery, tall +pieces for towers and grooves for marbles. It is a vast quarry for our +pleasant use. You will please leave us in the twilight, sustained by +doughnuts, burrowing in the pile, throwing out sticks to replenish our +chest of blocks. + +And therefore on this Christmas night, as I stand before the toy-shop in +the whirling storm, the wind brings me the laughter of these far-off +children. The snow of thirty winters is piled in my darkened memory, but +I hear shrill voices across the night. + + + + +Sic Transit-- + + +I do not recall a feeling of greater triumph than on last Saturday when +I walked off the eighteenth green of the Country Club with my opponent +four down. I have the card before me now with its pleasant row of fives +and sixes, and a four, _and a three_. Usually my card has mounted here +and there to an eight or nine, or I have blown up altogether in a +sandpit. Like Byron--but, oh, how differently!--I have wandered in the +pathless wood. Like Ruth I have stood in tears amid the alien corn. + +In those old days--only a week ago, but dim already (so soon does time +wash the memory white)--in those old days, if I were asked to make up a +foursome, some green inferior fellow, a novice who used his sister's +clubs, was paired against me; or I was insulted with two strokes a hole, +with three on the long hole past the woods. But now I shall ascend to +faster company. It was my elbow. I now square it and cock it forward a +bit. And I am cured. Keep your head down, Fritzie Boy, I say. Mind your +elbow--I say it aloud--and I have no trouble. + +There is a creek across the course. Like a thread in the woof it cuts +the web of nearly every green. It is a black strand that puts trouble in +the pattern, an evil thread from Clotho's ancient loom. Up at the sixth +hole this creek is merely a dirty rivulet and I can get out of the +damned thing--one must write, they say, as one talks and not go on +stilts--I can get out with a niblick by splashing myself a bit. But even +here, in its tender youth, as it were, the rivulet makes all the +mischief that it can. Gargantua with his nurses was not so great a +rogue. It crawls back and forth three times before the tee with a kind +of jeering tongue stuck out. It seems foredoomed from the cradle to a +villainous course. Farther down, at the seventeenth and second holes, +which are near together, it cuts a deeper chasm. The bank is shale and +steep. As I drive I feel like a black sinner on the nearer shore of +Styx, gazing upon the sunny fields of Paradise beyond. I put my caddy at +the top of the slope, where he sits with his apathetic eye upon the +sullen, predestined pool. + +But since last Saturday all is different. I sailed across on every +drive, on every approach. The depths beckoned but I heeded not. And, +when I walked across the bridge, I snapped my fingers in contempt, as at +a dog that snarls safely on a leash. + +I play best with a niblick. It is not entirely that I use it most. (Any +day you can hear me bawling to my caddy to fetch it behind a bunker or +beyond a fence.) Rather, the surface of the blade turns up at a +reassuring, hopeful angle. Its shining eye seems cast at heaven in a +prayer. I have had spells, also, of fondness for my mashie. It is fluted +for a back-spin. Except for the click and flight of a prosperous drive I +know nothing of prettier symmetry than an accurate approach. But my +brassie I consider a reckless creature. It has bad direction. It treads +not in the narrow path. I have driven. Good! For once I am clear of the +woods. That white speck on the fairway is my ball. But shall my ambition +o'erleap itself? Shall I select my brassie and tempt twice the gods of +chance? No! I'll use my mashie. I'll creep up to the hole on hands and +knees and be safe from trap and ditch. + +Has anyone spent more time than I among the blackberry bushes along the +railroad tracks on the eleventh? It is no grossness of appetite. My +niblick grows hot with its exertions. + +Once our course was not beset with sandpits. In those bright days woods +and gulley were enough. Once clear of the initial obstruction I could +roll up unimpeded to the green. I practiced a bouncing stroke with my +putter that offered security at twenty yards. But now these approaches +are guarded by traps. The greens are balanced on little mountains with +sharp ditches all about. I hoist up from one to fall into another. "What +a word, my son, has passed the barrier of your teeth!" said Athene once +to Odysseus. Is the game so ancient? Were there sandpits, also, on the +hills of stony Ithaca? Or in Ortygia, sea-girt? Was the dear wanderer +off his game and fallen to profanity? The white-armed nymph Calypso must +have stuffed her ears. + +But now my troubles are behind me. I have cured my elbow of its fault. I +keep my head down. My very clubs have taken on a different look since +Saturday. I used to remark their nicks against the stones. A bit of +green upon the heel of my driver showed how it was that I went sidewise +to the woods. In those days I carried the bag spitefully to the shower. +Could I leave it, I pondered, as a foundling in an empty locker? Or +should I strangle it? But now all is changed. My clubs are servants to +my will, kindly, obedient creatures that wait upon my nod. Even my +brassie knows me for its master. And the country seems fairer. The +valleys smile at me. The creek is friendly to my drive. The tall hills +skip and clap their hands at my approach. My game needs only thought and +care. My fives will become fours, my sixes slip down to fives. And here +and there I shall have a three. + +Except for a row of books my mantelpiece is bare. Who knows? Some day I +may sweep off a musty row of history and set up a silver cup. + +Later--Saturday again. I have just been around in 123. Horrible! I was +in the woods and in the blackberry bushes, and in the creek seven times. +My envious brassie! My well-beloved mashie! Oh, vile conspiracy! +Ambition's debt is paid. 123! Now--now it's my shoulder. + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Posture of Authors. + + +There is something rather pleasantly suggestive in the fashion employed +by many of the older writers of inscribing their books from their +chambers or lodging. It gives them at once locality and circumstance. It +brings them to our common earth and understanding. Thomas Fuller, for +example, having finished his Church History of Britain, addressed his +reader in a preface from his chambers in Sion College. "May God alone +have the glory," he writes, "and the ingenuous reader the benefit, of my +endeavors! which is the hearty desire of Thy servant in Jesus Christ, +Thomas Fuller." + +One pictures a room in the Tudor style, with oak wainscot, tall +mullioned windows and leaded glass, a deep fireplace and black beams +above. Outside, perhaps, is the green quadrangle of the college, +cloistered within ancient buildings, with gay wall--flowers against the +sober stones. Bells answer from tower to belfry in agreeable dispute +upon the hour. They were cast in a quieter time and refuse to bicker on +a paltry minute. The sunlight is soft and yellow with old age. Such a +dedication from such a place might turn the most careless reader into +scholarship. In the seat of its leaded windows even the quirk of a Latin +sentence might find a meaning. Here would be a room in which to meditate +on the worthies of old England, or to read a chronicle of forgotten +kings, queens, and protesting lovers who have faded into night. + +Here we see Thomas Fuller dip his quill and make a start. "I have +sometimes solitarily pleased myself," he begins, and he gazes into the +dark shadows of the room, seeing, as it were, the pleasant spectres of +the past. Bishops of Britain, long dead, in stole and mitre, forgetful +of their solemn office, dance in the firelight on his walls. Popes move +in dim review across his studies and shake a ghostly finger at his +heresy. The past is not a prude. To her lover she reveals her beauty. +And the scholar's lamp is her marriage torch. + +Nor need it entirely cool our interest to learn that Sion College did +not slope thus in country fashion to the peaceful waters of the Cam, +with its fringe of trees and sunny meadow; did not possess even a gothic +tower and cloister. It was built on the site of an ancient priory, +Elsing Spital, with almshouses attached, a Jesuit library and a college +for the clergy. It was right in London, down near the Roman wall, in the +heart of the tangled traffic, and street cries kept breaking +in--muffins, perhaps, and hot spiced gingerbread and broken glass. I +hope, at least, that the good gentleman's rooms were up above, somewhat +out of the clatter, where muffins had lost their shrillness. +Gingerbread, when distance has reduced it to a pleasant tune, is not +inclined to rouse a scholar from his meditation. And even broken glass +is blunted on a journey to a garret. I hope that the old gentleman +climbed three flights or more and that a range of chimney-pots was his +outlook and speculation. + +It seems as if a rather richer flavor were given to a book by knowing +the circumstance of its composition. Not only would we know the +complexion of a man, whether he "be a black or a fair man," as Addison +suggests, "of a mild or choleric disposition, married or a bachelor," +but also in what posture he works and what objects meet his eye when he +squares his elbows and dips his pen. We are concerned whether sunlight +falls upon his papers or whether he writes in shadow. Also, if an +author's desk stands at a window, we are curious whether it looks on a +street, or on a garden, or whether it squints blindly against a wall. A +view across distant hills surely sweetens the imagination, whereas the +clatter of the city gives a shrewder twist to fancy. + +And household matters are of proper concern. We would like to be +informed whether an author works in the swirl of the common +sitting-room. If he writes within earshot of the kitchen, we should know +it. There has been debate whether a steam radiator chills a poet as +against an open fire, and whether a plot keeps up its giddy pace upon a +sweeping day. Histories have balked before a household interruption. +Novels have been checked by the rattle of a careless broom. A smoky +chimney has choked the sturdiest invention. + +If a plot goes slack perhaps it is a bursted pipe. An incessant grocer's +boy, unanswered on the back porch, has often foiled the wicked Earl in +his attempts against the beautiful Pomona. Little did you think, my dear +madam, as you read your latest novel, that on the very instant when the +heroine, Mrs. Elmira Jones, deserted her babies to follow her conscience +and become a movie actress--that on that very instant when she slammed +the street door, the plumber (the author's plumber) came in to test the +radiator. Mrs. Jones nearly took her death on the steps as she waited +for the plot to deal with her. Even a Marquis, now and then, one of the +older sort in wig and ruffles, has been left--when the author's ashes +have needed attention--on his knees before the Lady Emily, begging her +to name the happy day. + +Was it not Coleridge's cow that calved while he was writing "Kubla +Khan"? In burst the housemaid with the joyful news. And that man from +Porlock--mentioned in his letters--who came on business? Did he not +despoil the morning of its poetry? Did Wordsworth's pigs--surely he +owned pigs--never get into his neighbor's garden and need quick +attention? Martin Luther threw his inkpot, supposedly, at the devil. Is +it not more likely that it was at Annie, who came to dust? Thackeray is +said to have written largely at his club, the Garrick or the Athenaeum. +There was a general stir of feet and voices, but it was foreign and did +not plague him. A tinkle of glasses in the distance, he confessed, was +soothing, like a waterfall. + +Steele makes no complaint against his wife Prue, but he seems to have +written chiefly in taverns. In the very first paper of the _Tatler_ he +gratifies our natural curiosity by naming the several coffee-houses +where he intends to compose his thoughts. "Foreign and domestic news," +he says, "you will have from Saint James's Coffee-House." Learning will +proceed from the Grecian. But "all accounts of gallantry, pleasure and +entertainment shall be under the article of White's Chocolate-House." In +the month of September, 1705, he continues, a gentleman "was washing his +teeth at a tavern window in Pall Mall, when a fine equipage passed by, +and in it, a young lady who looked up at him; away goes the coach--" +Away goes the beauty, with an alluring smile--rather an ambiguous smile, +I'm afraid--across her silken shoulder. But for the continuation of this +pleasant scandal (you may be sure that the pretty fellow was quite +distracted from his teeth) one must turn up the yellow pages of the +_Tatler_. + +We may suppose that Steele called for pens and paper and a sandbox, and +took a table in one of White's forward windows. He wished no garden view +or brick wall against the window. We may even go so far as to assume +that something in the way of punch, or canary, or negus _luke_, _my +dear_, was handy at his elbow. His paragraphs are punctuated by the gay +procession of the street. Here goes a great dandy in red heels, with +lace at his beard and wrists. Here is a scarlet captain who has served +with Marlborough and has taken a whole regiment of Frenchmen by the +nose. Here is the Lady Belinda in her chariot, who is the pledge of all +the wits and poets. That little pink ear of hers has been rhymed in a +hundred sonnets--ear and tear and fear and near and dear. The King has +been toasted from her slipper. The pretty creature has been sitting at +ombre for most of the night, but now at four of the afternoon she takes +the morning air with her lap dog. That great hat and feather will slay +another dozen hearts between shop and shop. She is attended by a female +dragon, but contrives by accident to show an inch or so of charming +stocking at the curb. Steele, at his window, I'm afraid, forgets for the +moment his darling Prue and his promise to be home. + +There is something rather pleasant in knowing where these old authors, +who are now almost forgotten, wrote their books. Richardson wrote +"Clarissa" at Parson's Green. That ought not to interest us very much, +for nobody reads "Clarissa" now. But we can picture the fat little +printer reading his daily batch of tender letters from young ladies, +begging him to reform the wicked Lovelace and turn the novel to a happy +end. For it was issued in parts and so, of course, there was no +opportunity for young ladies, however impatient, to thumb the back pages +for the plot. + +Richardson wrote "Pamela" at a house called the Grange, then in the open +country just out of London. There was a garden at the back, and a +grotto--one of the grottoes that had been the fashion for prosperous +literary gentlemen since Pope had built himself one at Twickenham. Here, +it is said, Richardson used to read his story, day by day, as it was +freshly composed, to a circle of his lady admirers. Hugh Thompson has +drawn the picture in delightful silhouette. The ladies listen in +suspense--perhaps the wicked Master is just taking Pamela on his +knee--their hands are raised in protest. La! The Monster! Their noses +are pitched up to a high excitement. One old lady hangs her head and +blushes at the outrage. Or does she cock her ear to hear the better? + +Richardson had a kind of rocking-horse in his study and he took his +exercise so between chapters. We may imagine him galloping furiously on +the hearth--rug, then, quite refreshed, after four or five dishes of +tea, hiding his villain once more under Pamela's bed. Did it never occur +to that young lady to lift the valance? Half a dozen times at least he +has come popping out after she has loosed her stays, once even when she +has got her stockings off. Perhaps this is the dangerous moment when the +old lady in the silhouette hung her head and blushed. If Pamela had gone +rummaging vigorously with a poker beneath her bed she could have cooled +her lover. + +Goldsmith wrote his books, for the most part, in lodgings. We find him +starving with the beggars in Axe Lane, advancing to Green Arbour +Court--sending down to the cook-shop for a tart to make his +supper--living in the Temple, as his fortunes mended. Was it not at his +window in the Temple that he wrote part of his "Animated Nature"? His +first chapter--four pages--is called a sketch of the universe. In four +pages he cleared the beginning up to Adam. Could anything be simpler or +easier? The clever fellow, no doubt, could have made the +universe--actually made it out of chaos--stars and moon and fishes in +the sea--in less than the allotted six days and not needed a rest upon +the seventh. He could have gone, instead, in plum-colored coat--"in full +fig"--to Vauxhall for a frolic. Goldsmith had nothing in particular +outside of his window to look at but the stone flagging, a pump and a +solitary tree. Of the whole green earth this was the only living thing. +For a brief season a bird or two lodged there, and you may be sure that +Goldsmith put the remnant of his crumbs upon the window casement. +Perhaps it was here that he sent down to the cook-shop for a tart, and +he and the birds made a common banquet across the glass. + +Poets, depending on their circumstance, are supposed to write either in +garrets or in gardens. Browning, it is true, lived at Casa Guidi, which +was "yellow with sunshine from morning to evening," and here and there a +prosperous Byron has a Persian carpet and mahogany desk. But, for the +most part, we put our poets in garrets, as a cheap place that has the +additional advantage of being nearest to the moon. From these high +windows sonnets are thrown, on a windy night. Rhymes and fancies are +roused by gazing on the stars. The rumble of the lower city is potent to +start a metaphor. "These fringes of lamplight," it is written, +"struggling up through smoke and thousandfold exhalation, some fathoms +into the ancient reign of Night, what thinks Bootes of them, as he leads +his Hunting-dogs over the Zenith in their leash of sidereal fire? That +stifled hum of Midnight, when Traffic has lain down to rest...." + +Here, under a sloping roof, the poet sits, blowing at his fingers. +Hogarth has drawn him--the _Distressed Poet_--cold and lean and shabby. +That famous picture might have been copied from the life of any of a +hundred creatures of "The Dunciad," and, with a change of costume, it +might serve our time as well. The poor fellow sits at a broken table in +the dormer. About him lie his scattered sheets. His wife mends his +breeches. Outside the door stands a woman with the unpaid milk-score. +There is not a penny in the place--and for food only half a loaf and +something brewing in a kettle. You may remember that when Johnson was a +young poet, just come to London, he lived with Mr. Cave in St. John's +Gate. When there were visitors he ate his supper behind a screen because +he was too shabby to show himself. I wonder what definition he gave the +poet in his dictionary. If he wrote in his own experience, he put him +down as a poor devil who was always hungry. But Chatterton actually died +of starvation in a garret, and those other hundred poets of his time and +ours got down to the bone and took to coughing. Perhaps we shall change +our minds about that sonnet which we tossed lightly to the moon. The +wind thrusts a cold finger through chink and rag. The stars travel on +such lonely journeys. The jest loses its relish. Perhaps those merry +verses to the Christmas--the sleigh bells and the roasted goose--perhaps +those verses turn bitter when written on an empty stomach. + +But do poets ever write in gardens? Swift, who was by way of being a +poet, built himself a garden-seat at Moor Park when he served Sir +William Temple, but I don't know that he wrote poetry there. Rather, it +was a place for reading. Pope in his prosperous days wrote at +Twickenham, with the sound of his artificial waterfall in his ears, and +he walked to take the air in his grotto along the Thames. But do poets +really wander beneath the moon to think their verses? Do they compose +"on summer eve by haunted stream"? I doubt whether Gray conceived his +Elegy in an actual graveyard. I smell oil. One need not see the thing +described upon the very moment. Shelley wrote of mountains--the awful +range of Caucasus--but his eye at the time looked on sunny Italy. Ibsen +wrote of the north when living in the south. When Bunyan wrote of the +Delectable Mountains he was snug inside a jail. Shakespeare, doubtless, +saw the giddy cliffs of Dover, the Rialto, the Scottish heath, from the +vantage of a London lodging. + +Where did Andrew Marvell stand or sit or walk when he wrote about +gardens? Wordsworth is said to have strolled up and down a gravel path +with his eyes on the ground. I wonder whether the gardener ever broke +in--if he had a gardener--to complain about the drouth or how the +dandelions were getting the better of him. Or perhaps the lawn-mower +squeaked--if he had a lawn-mower--and threw him off. But wasn't it +Wordsworth who woke up four times in one night and called to his wife +for pens and paper lest an idea escape him? Surely he didn't take to the +garden at that time of night in his pajamas with an inkpot. But did +Wordsworth have a wife? How one forgets! Coleridge told Hazlitt that he +liked to compose "walking over uneven ground, or breaking through the +straggling branches of a copse-wood." But then, you recall that a calf +broke into "Kubla Khan." On that particular day, at least, he was snug +in his study. + +No, I think that poets may like to sit in gardens and smoke their pipes +and poke idly with their sticks, but when it comes actually to composing +they would rather go inside. For even a little breeze scatters their +papers. No poet wishes to spend his precious morning chasing a frisky +sonnet across the lawn. Even a heavy epic, if lifted by a sudden squall, +challenges the swiftest foot. He puts his stick on one pile and his pipe +on another and he holds down loose sheets with his thumb. But it is +awkward business, and it checks the mind in its loftier flight. + +Nor do poets care to suck their pencils too long where someone may see +them--perhaps Annie at the window rolling her pie-crust. And they can't +kick off their shoes outdoors in the hot agony of composition. And also, +which caps the argument, a garden is undeniably a sleepy place. The bees +drone to a sleepy tune. The breeze practices a lullaby. Even the +sunlight is in the common conspiracy. At the very moment when the poet +is considering Little Miss Muffet and how she sat on a tuffet--doubtless +in a garden, for there were spiders--even at the very moment when she +sits unsuspectingly at her curds and whey, down goes the poet's head and +he is fast asleep. Sleepiness is the plague of authors. You may remember +that when Christian--who, doubtless, was an author in his odd +moments--came to the garden and the Arbour on the Hill Difficulty, "he +pulled his Roll out of his bosom and read therein to his comfort.... +Thus pleasing himself awhile, he at last fell into a slumber." I have no +doubt--other theories to the contrary--that "Kubla Khan" broke off +suddenly because Coleridge dropped off to sleep. A cup of black coffee +might have extended the poem to another stanza. Mince pie would have +stretched it to a volume. Is not Shakespeare allowed his forty winks? +Has it not been written that even the worthy Homer nods? + + "A pleasing land of drowsyhed it was: + Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; + And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, + For ever flushing round a summer sky." + +No, if one has a bit of writing to put out of the way, it is best to +stay indoors. Choose an uncomfortable, straight-backed chair. Toss the +sheets into a careless litter. And if someone will pay the milk-score +and keep the window mended, a garret is not a bad place in which to +write. + +Novelists--unless they have need of history--can write anywhere, I +suppose, at home or on a journey. In the burst of their hot imagination +a knee is a desk. I have no doubt that Mr. Hugh Walpole, touring in this +country, contrives to write a bit even in a Pullman. The ingenious Mr. +Oppenheim surely dashes off a plot on the margin of the menu-card +between meat and salad. We know that "Pickwick Papers" was written +partly in hackney coaches while Dickens was jolting about the town. + +An essayist, on the other hand, needs a desk and a library near at hand. +Because an essay is a kind of back-stove cookery. A novel needs a hot +fire, so to speak. A dozen chapters bubble in their turn above the +reddest coals, while an essay simmers over a little flame. Pieces of +this and that, an odd carrot, as it were, a left potato, a pithy bone, +discarded trifles, are tossed in from time to time to enrich the +composition. Raw paragraphs, when they have stewed all night, at last +become tender to the fork. An essay, therefore, cannot be written +hurriedly on the knee. Essayists, as a rule, chew their pencils. Their +desks are large and are always in disorder. There is a stack of books on +the clock shelf. Others are pushed under the bed. Matches, pencils and +bits of paper mark a hundred references. When an essayist goes out from +his lodging he wears the kind of overcoat that holds a book in every +pocket. His sagging pockets proclaim him. He is a bulging person, so +stuffed, even in his dress, with the ideas of others that his own +leanness is concealed. An essayist keeps a notebook, and he thumbs it +for forgotten thoughts. Nobody is safe from him, for he steals from +everyone he meets. + +An essayist is not a mighty traveler. He does not run to grapple with a +roaring lion. He desires neither typhoon nor tempest. He is content in +his harbor to listen to the storm upon the rocks, if now and then, by a +lucky chance, he can shelter someone from the wreck. His hands are not +red with revolt against the world. He has glanced upon the thoughts of +many men; and as opposite philosophies point upon the truth, he is +modest with his own and tolerant toward the opinion of others. He looks +at the stars and, knowing in what a dim immensity we travel, he writes +of little things beyond dispute. There are enough to weep upon the +shadows, he, like a dial, marks the light. The small clatter of the city +beneath his window, the cry of peddlers, children chalking their games +upon the pavement, laundry dancing on the roofs and smoke in the +winter's wind--these are the things he weaves into the fabric of his +thoughts. Or sheep upon the hillside--if his window is so lucky--or a +sunny meadow, is a profitable speculation. And so, while the novelist is +struggling up a dizzy mountain, straining through the tempest to see the +kingdoms of the world, behold the essayist snug at home, content with +little sights. He is a kind of poet--a poet whose wings are clipped. He +flaps to no great heights and sees neither the devil, the seven oceans +nor the twelve apostles. He paints old thoughts in shiny varnish and, as +he is able, he mends small habits here and there. And therefore, as +essayists stay at home, they are precise--almost amorous--in the posture +and outlook of their writing. Leigh Hunt wished a great library next his +study. "But for the study itself," he writes, "give me a small snug +place, almost entirely walled with books. There should be only one +window in it looking upon trees." How the precious fellow scorns the +mountains and the ocean! He has no love, it seems, for typhoons and +roaring lions. "I entrench myself in my books," he continues, "equally +against sorrow and the weather. If the wind comes through a passage, I +look about to see how I can fence it off by a better disposition of my +movables." And by movables he means his books. These were his screen +against cold and trouble. But Leigh Hunt had been in prison for his +political beliefs. He had grappled with his lion. So perhaps, after all, +my argument fails. + +Mr. Edmund Gosse had a different method to the same purpose. He "was so +anxious to fly all outward noise" that he desired a library apart from +the house. Maybe he had had some experience with Annie and her +clattering broomstick. "In my sleep," he writes, "'Where dreams are +multitude' I sometimes fancy that one day I shall have a library in a +garden. The phrase seems to contain the whole felicity of man.... It +sounds like having a castle in Spain, or a sheep-walk in Arcadia." + +Montaigne's study was a tower, walled all about with books. At his table +in the midst he was the general focus of their wisdom. Hazlitt wrote +much at an inn at Winterslow, with Salisbury Plain around the corner of +his view. Now and then, let us hope, when the London coach was due, he +received in his nostrils a savory smell from the kitchen stove. I taste +pepper, sometimes, and sharp sauces in his writing. Stevenson, except +for ill-health and a love of the South Seas (here was the novelist +showing himself), would have preferred a windy perch over--looking +Edinburgh. + +It does seem as if a rather richer flavor were given to a book by +knowing the circumstance of its composition. Consequently, readers, as +they grow older, turn more and more to biography. It is chiefly not the +biographies that deal with great crises and events, but rather the +biographies that are concerned with small circumstance and agreeable +gossip, that attract them most. The life of Gladstone, with its hard +facts of British policy, is all very well; but Mr. Lucas's life of Lamb +is better. Who would willingly neglect the record of a Thursday night at +Inner Temple Lane? In these pages Talfourd, Procter, Hazlitt and Hunt +have written their memories of these gatherings. It was to his partner +at whist, as he was dealing, that Lamb once said, "If dirt was trumps, +what hands you would hold!" Nights of wit and friendly banter! Who would +not crowd his ears with gossip of that mirthful company?--George Dyer, +who forgot his boots until half way home (the dear fellow grew forgetful +as the smoking jug went round)--Charles Lamb feeling the stranger's +bumps. Let the Empire totter! Let Napoleon fall! Africa shall be +parceled as it may. Here will we sit until the cups are empty. + +Lately, in a bookshop at the foot of Cornhill, I fell in with an old +scholar who told me that it was his practice to recommend four books, +which, taken end on end, furnished the general history of English +letters from the Restoration to a time within our own memory. These +books were "Pepys' Diary," "Boswell's Johnson," the "Diary and Letters +of Madame d'Arblay" and the "Diary of Crabb Robinson." + +Beginning almost with the days of Cromwell here is a chain of pleasant +gossip across the space of more than two hundred years. Perhaps, at the +first, there were old fellows still alive who could remember +Shakespeare--who still sat in chimney corners and babbled through their +toothless gums of Blackfriars and the Globe. And at the end we find a +reference to President Lincoln and the freeing of the slaves. + +Here are a hundred authors--perhaps a thousand--tucking up their cuffs, +looking out from their familiar windows, scribbling their large or +trivial masterpieces. + +[Illustration] + + + + +After-Dinner Pleasantries. + + +There is a shop below Fourteenth Street, somewhat remote from fashion, +that sells nothing but tricks for amateur and parlor use. It is a region +of cobblers, tailors and small grocers. Upstairs, locksmiths and +buttonhole cutters look through dusty windows on the L, which, under +some dim influence of the moon, tosses past the buildings here its human +tide, up and down, night and morning. The Trick Shop flatters itself on +its signboard that it carries the largest line of its peculiar trickery +on the western hemisphere--hinting modestly that Baluchistan, perhaps, +or Mesopotamia (where magic might be supposed to flourish) may have an +equal stock. The shop does not proclaim its greatness to the casual +glance. Its enormity of fraud offers no hint to the unsuspecting curb. +There must be caverns and cellars at the rear--a wealth of baffling sham +un-rumored to the street, shelves sagging with agreeable deception, huge +bales of sleight-of-hand and musty barrels of old magic. + +But to the street the shop reveals no more than a small show-window, of +a kind in which licorice-sticks and all-day-suckers might feel at home. +It is a window at which children might stop on their way from school and +meditate their choice, fumbling in their pockets for their wealth. + +I have stood at this window for ten minutes together. There are cards +for fortune tellers and manuals of astrology, decks with five aces and +marked backs, and trick hats and boxes with false bottoms. There are +iron cigars to be offered to a friend, and bleeding fingers, and a +device that makes a noise like blowing the nose, "only much louder." +Books of magic are displayed, and conjurers' outfits--shell games and +disappearing rabbits. There is a line of dribble-glasses--a humorous +contrivance with little holes under the brim for spilling water down the +front of an unwary guest. This, it is asserted, breaks the social ice +and makes a timid stranger feel at home. And there are puzzle pictures, +beards for villains and comic masks--Satan himself, and other painted +faces for Hallowe'en. + +Some persons, of course, can perform their parlor tricks without this +machinery and appliance. I know a gifted fellow who can put on the +expression of an idiot. Or he wrinkles his face into the semblance of +eighty years, shakes with palsy and asks his tired wife if she will love +him when he's old. Again he puts a coffee cup under the shoulder of his +coat and plays the humpback. On a special occasion he mounts a table--or +two kitchen chairs become his stage--and recites Richard and the winter +of his discontent. He needs only a pillow to smother Desdemona. And then +he opens an imaginary bottle--the popping of the cork, the fizzing, the +gurgle when it pours. Sometimes he is a squealing pig caught under a +fence, and sometimes two steamboats signaling with their whistles in a +fog. + +I know a young woman--of the newer sort--who appears to swallow a +lighted cigarette, with smoke coming from her ears. This was once a +man's trick, but the progress of the weaker sex has shifted it. On +request, she is a nervous lady with a fear of monkeys, taking five +children to the circus. She is Camille on her deathbed. I know a man, +too, who can give the Rebel yell and stick a needle, full length, into +his leg. The pulpy part above his knee seems to make an excellent +pincushion. And then there is the old locomotive starting on a slippery +grade (for beginners in entertainment), the hand-organ man and his +infested monkey (a duet), the chicken that is chased around the +barnyard, Hamlet with the broken pallet (this is side-splitting in any +company) and Moriarty on the telephone. I suppose our best vaudeville +performers were once amateurs themselves around the parlor lamp. + +And there is Jones, too, who plays the piano. Jones, when he is asked, +sits at the keyboard and fingers little runs and chords. He seems to be +thinking which of a hundred pieces he will play. "What will you have?" +he asks. And a fat man wants "William Tell," and a lady with a powdered +nose asks for "Bubbles." But Jones ignores both and says, "Here's a +little thing of Schumann. It's a charming bit." On the other hand, when +Brown is asked to sing, it is generally too soon after dinner. Brown, +evidently, takes his food through his windpipe, and it is, so to speak, +a one-way street. He can hardly permit the ascending "Siegfried" to +squeeze past the cheese and crackers that still block the crowded +passage. + +There is not a college dinner without the mockery of an eccentric +professor. A wag will catch the pointing of his finger, his favorite +phrase. Is there a lawyers' dinner without its imitation of Harry +Lauder? Isn't there always someone who wants to sing "It's Nice to Get +Up in the Mornin'," and trot up and down with twinkling legs? Plumbers +on their lodge nights, I am told, have their very own Charlie Chaplin. +And I suppose that the soda clerks' union--the dear creatures with their +gum--has its local Mary Pickford, ready with a scene from _Pollyanna_. +What jolly dinners dentists must have, telling one another in dialect +how old Mrs. Finnigan had her molars out! Forceps and burrs are their +unwearied jest across the years. When they are together and the doors +are closed, how they must frolic with our weakness! + +And undertakers! Even they, I am informed, throw off their solemn +countenance when they gather in convention. Their carnation and mournful +smile are gone--that sober gesture that waves the chilly relations to +the sitting-room. But I wonder whether their dismal shop doesn't cling +always just a bit to their mirth and songs. That poor duffer in the poem +who asked to be laid low, wrapped in his tarpaulin jacket--surely, +undertakers never sing of him. They must look at him with disfavor for +his cheap proposal. He should have roused for a moment at the end, with +a request for black broadcloth and silver handles. + +I once sat with an undertaker at a tragedy. He was of a lively sympathy +in the earlier parts and seemed hopeful that the hero would come through +alive. But in the fifth act, when the clanking army was defeated in the +wings and Brutus had fallen on his sword, then, unmistakably his +thoughts turned to the peculiar viewpoint of his profession. In fancy he +sat already in the back parlor with the grieving Mrs. Brutus, arranging +for the music. + +To undertakers, Caesar is always dead and turned to clay. Falstaff is +just a fat old gentleman who drank too much sack, a' babbled of green +fields and then needed professional attention. Perhaps at the very pitch +of their meetings when the merry glasses have been three times filled, +they pledge one another in what they are pleased to call the embalmers' +fluid. This jest grows rosier with the years. For these many centuries +at their banquets they have sung that it was a cough that carried him +off, that it was a coffin--Now then, gentlemen! All together for the +chorus!--that it was a coffin they carried him off in. + +I dined lately with a man who could look like a weasel. When this was +applauded, he made a face like the Dude of _Palmer Cox's Brownies_. Even +Susan, the waitress, who knows her place and takes a jest soberly, broke +down at the pantry door. We could hear her dishes rattling in +convulsions in the sink. And then our host played the insect with his +fingers on the tablecloth, smelling a spot of careless gravy from the +roast with his long thin middle finger. He caught the habit that insects +have of waving their forward legs. + +I still recall an uncle who could wiggle his ears. He did it every +Christmas and Thanksgiving Day. It was as much a part of the regular +program as the turkey and the cranberries. It was a feature of his +engaging foolery to pretend that the wiggle was produced by rubbing the +stomach, and a circle of us youngsters sat around him, rubbing our +expectant stomachs, waiting for the miracle. A cousin brought a guitar +and played the "Spanish Fandango" while we sat around the fire, sleepy +after dinner. And there was a maiden aunt with thin blue fingers, who +played waltzes while we danced, and she nodded and slept to the drowsy +sound of her own music. + +Of my own after-dinner pleasantries I am modest. I have only one trick. +Two. I can recite the fur-bearing animals of North America--the bison, +the bear, the wolf, the seal, and sixteen others--and I can go +downstairs behind the couch for the cider. This last requires little +skill. As the books of magic say, it is an easy and baffling trick. With +every step you crook your legs a little more, until finally you are on +your knees, hunched together, and your head has disappeared from view. +You reverse the business coming up, with tray and glasses. + +But these are my only tricks. There is a Brahms waltz that I once had +hopes of, but it has a hard run on the second page. I can never get my +thumb under in time to make connections. My best voice, too, covers only +five notes. You cannot do much for the neighbors with that cramped kind +of range. "A Tailor There Sat on His Window Ledge" is one of the few +tunes that fall inside my poverty. He calls to his wife, you may +remember, to bring him his old cross-bow, and there is a great Zum! Zum! +up and down in the bass until ready, before the chorus starts. On a +foggy morning I have quite a formidable voice for those Zums. But +after-dinner pleasantries are only good at night and then my bass is +thin. "A Sailor's Life, Yo, Ho!" is a very good tune but it goes up to +D, and I can sing it only when I am reckless of circumstance, or when I +am taking ashes from the furnace. I know a lady who sings only at her +sewing-machine. She finds a stirring accompaniment in the whirling of +the wheel. Others sing best in tiled bathrooms. Sitting in warm and +soapy water their voices swell to Caruso's. Laundresses, I have noticed, +are in lustiest voice at their tubs, where their arms keep a vigorous +rhythm on the scrubbing-board. But I choose ashes. I am little short of +a Valkyr, despite my sex, when I rattle the furnace grate. + +With hymns I can make quite a showing in church if the bass part keeps +to a couple of notes. I pound along melodiously on some convenient low +note and slide up now and then, by a happy instinct, when the tune seems +to require it. The dear little lady, who sits in front of me, turns what +I am pleased to think is an appreciative ear, and now and then, for my +support, she throws in a pretty treble. But I have no tolerance with a +bass part that undertakes a flourish and climbs up behind the tenor. +This is mere egotism and a desire to shine. "Art thou there, true-penny? +You hear this fellow in the cellarage?" That is the proper bass. + +Dear me! Now that I recall it, we have guests--guests tonight for +dinner. Will I be asked to sing? Am I in voice? I tum-a-lum a little, up +and down, for experiment. The roar of the subway drowns this from my +neighbors, but by holding my hand over my mouth I can hear it. Is my low +F in order? No--undeniably, it is not. Thin. And squeaky. The Zums would +never do. And that fast run in Brahms? Can I slip through it? Or will my +thumb, as usual, catch and stall? Have my guests seen me go +down--stairs behind the couch for the cider? Have they heard the +fur-bearing animals--the bison, the bear, the wolf, the seal, the +beaver, the otter, the fox and raccoon? + +Perhaps--perhaps it will be better to stop at the Trick Shop and buy a +dribble-glass and a long black beard to amuse my guests. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Little Candles. + + +High conceit of one's self and a sureness of one's opinion are based so +insecurely in experience that one is perplexed how their slight +structure stands. One marvels why these emphatic builders trust again +their glittering towers. Surely anyone who looks into himself and sees +its void or malformation ought by rights to shrink from adulation of +self, and his own opinion should appear to him merely as one candle +among a thousand. + +And yet this conceit of self outlasts innumerable failures, and any new +pinnacle that is set up, neglecting the broken rubble on the ground and +all the wreckage at the base, boasts again of its sure communion with +the stars. A man, let us say, has gone headlong from one formula of +belief into another. In each, for a time, he burns with a hot +conviction. Then his faith cools. His god no longer nods. But just when +you think that failure must have brought him modesty, again he amazes +you with the golden prospect of a new adventure. He has climbed in his +life a hundred hillocks, thinking each to be a mountain. He has +journeyed on many paths, but always has fallen in a bog. Conceit is a +thin bubble in the wind, it is an empty froth and breath, yet, hammered +into ship-plates, it defies the U-boat. + +On every sidewalk, also, we see some fine fellow, dressed and curled to +his satisfaction, parading in the sun. An accident of wealth or birth +has marked him from the crowd. He has decked his outer walls in gaudy +color, but is bare within. He is a cypher, but golden circumstance, like +a figure in the million column, gives him substance. Yet the void cries +out on all matters in dispute with firm conviction. + +But this cypher need not dress in purple. He is shabby, let us say, and +pinched with poverty. Whose fault? Who knows? But does misfortune in +itself give wisdom? He is poor. Therefore he decides that the world is +sick with pestilence, and accordingly he proclaims himself a doctor. Or +perhaps he sits at ease in middle circumstance. He judges that his is an +open mind because he lets a harsh opinion blow upon his ignorance until +it flames with hatred. He sets up to be a thinker, and he is resolved to +shatter the foundations of a thousand years. + +The outer darkness stretches to such a giddy distance! And these +thousand candles of belief, flickering in the night, are so insufficient +even in their aggregate! Shall a candle wink at flaming Jupiter as an +equal? By what persuasion is one's own tiny wick, shielded in the +fingers from misadventure, the greatest light? + +Who is there who has read more than a single chapter in the book of +life? Most of us have faltered through scarcely a dozen paragraphs, yet +we scribble our sure opinion in the margin. We hear a trifling pebble +fall in a muddy pool, and we think that we have listened to the pounding +of the sea. We hold up our little candle and we consider that its light +dispels the general night. + +But it has happened once in a while that someone really strikes a larger +light and offers it to many travelers for their safety. He holds his +candle above his head for the general comfort. And to it there rush the +multitude of those whose candles have been gutted. They relight their +wicks, and go their way with a song and cry, to announce their +brotherhood. If they see a stranger off the path, they call to him to +join their band. And they draw him from the mire. + +And sometimes this company respects the other candles that survive the +wind. They confess with good temper that their glare, also, is +sufficient; that there is, indeed, more than one path across the night. +But sometimes in their intensity--in their sureness of exclusive +salvation--they fall to bickering. One band of converts elbows another. +There is a mutual lifting of the nose in scorn, an amused contempt, or +they come to blows and all candles are extinguished. And sometimes, +with candles out, they travel onward, still telling one another of their +band how the darkness flees before them. + +We live in a world of storm, of hatred, of blind conceit, of shrill and +intolerant opinion. The past is worshiped. The past is scorned. Some +wish only to kiss the great toe of old convention. Others shout that we +must run bandaged in the dark, if we would prove our faith in God and +man. It is the best of times, and the worst of times. It is the dawn. We +grope toward midnight. Our fathers were saints in judgment. Our fathers +were fools and rogues. Let's hold minutely to the past! Any change is +sacrilege. Let's rip it up! Let's destroy it altogether! + +We'll kill him and stamp on him: He's a Montague. We'll draw and quarter +him: He's a Capulet. He's a radical: He must be hanged. A conservative: +His head shall decorate our pike. + +A plague on both your houses! + +Panaceas are hawked among us, each with a magic to cure our ills. +Universal suffrage is a leap to perfection. Tax reform will bring the +golden age. With capital and interest smashed, we shall live in heaven. +The soviet, the recall from office, the six-hour day, the demands of +labor, mark the better path. The greater clamor of the crowd is the +guide to wisdom. Men with black beards and ladies with cigarettes say +that machine-guns and fire and death are pills that are potent for our +good. We live in a welter of quarrel and disagreement. One pictures a +mighty shelf with bottles, and doctors running to and fro. The poor +world is on its back, opening its mouth to every spoon. By the hubbub in +the pantry--the yells and scuffling at the sink--we know that drastic +and contrary cures are striving for the mastery. + +There was a time when beacons burned on the hills to be our guidance. +The flames were fed and moulded by the experience of the centuries. Men +might differ on the path--might even scramble up a dozen different +slopes--but the hill-top was beyond dispute. + +But now the great fires smoulder. The Constitution, it is said,--pecked +at since the first,--must now be carted off and sold as junk. Art has +torn down its older standards. The colors of Titian are in the dust. +Poets no longer bend the knee to Shakespeare. + +Conceit is a pilot who scorns the harbor lights-- + +Modesty was once a virtue. Patience, diligence, thrift, humility, +charity--who pays now a tribute to them? Charity is only a sop, it +seems, that is thrown in fright to the swift wolves of revolution. +Humility is now a weakness. Diligence is despised. Thrift is the advice +of cowards. Who now cares for the lessons that experience and tested +fact once taught? Ignorance sits now in the highest seat and gives its +orders, and the clamor of the crowd is its high authority. + +And what has become of modesty? A maid once was prodigal if she unmasked +her beauty to the moon. Morality? Let's all laugh together. It's a +quaint old word. + +Tolerance is the last study in the school of wisdom. Lord! Lord! Tonight +let my prayer be that I may know that my own opinion is but a candle in +the wind! + + + + +A Visit to a Poet. + + +Not long ago I accepted the invitation of a young poet to visit him at +his lodging. As my life has fallen chiefly among merchants, lawyers and +other practical folk, I went with much curiosity. + +My poet, I must confess, is not entirely famous. His verses have +appeared in several of the less known papers, and a judicious printer +has even offered to gather them into a modest sheaf. There are, however, +certain vile details of expense that hold up the project. The printer, +although he confesses their merit, feels that the poet should bear the +cost. + +His verses are of the newer sort. When read aloud they sound pleasantly +in the ear, but I sometimes miss the meaning. I once pronounced an +intimate soul-study to be a jolly description of a rainy night. This was +my stupidity. I could see a soul quite plainly when it was pointed out. +It was like looking at the moon. You get what you look for--a man or a +woman or a kind of map of Asia. In poetry of this sort I need a hint or +two to start me right. But when my nose has been rubbed, so to speak, +against the anise-bag, I am a very hound upon the scent. + +The street where my friend lives is just north of Greenwich Village, and +it still shows a remnant of more aristocratic days. Behind its shabby +fronts are long drawing-rooms with tarnished glass chandeliers and +frescoed ceilings and gaunt windows with inside blinds. Plaster cornices +still gather the dust of years. There are heavy stairways with black +walnut rails. Marble Lincolns still liberate the slaves in niches of the +hallway. Bronze Ladies of the Lake await their tardy lovers. Diana runs +with her hunting dogs upon the newel post. In these houses lived the +heroines of sixty years ago, who shopped for crinoline and spent their +mornings at Stewart's to match a Godey pattern. They drove of an +afternoon with gay silk parasols to the Crystal Palace on Forty-second +Street. In short, they were our despised Victorians. With our +advancement we have made the world so much better since. + +I pressed an electric button. Then, as the door clicked, I sprang +against it. These patent catches throw me into a momentary panic. I feel +like one of the foolish virgins with untrimmed lamp, just about to be +caught outside--but perhaps I confuse the legend. Inside, there was a +bare hallway, with a series of stairways rising in the gloom--round and +round, like the frightful staircase of the Opium Eater. At the top of +the stairs a black disk hung over the rail--probably a head. + +"Hello," I said. + +"Oh, it's you. Come up!" And the poet came down to meet me, with +slippers slapping at the heels. + +There was a villainous smell on the stairs. "Something burning?" I +asked. + +At first the poet didn't smell it. "Oh, _that_ smell!" he said at last. +"That's the embalmer." + +"The embalmer?" + +We were opposite a heavy door on the second floor. He pointed his thumb +at it. "There's an embalmer's school inside." + +"Dear me!" I said. "Has he any--anything to practice on?" + +The poet pushed the door open a crack. It was very dark inside. It +smelled like Ptolemy in his later days. Or perhaps I detected Polonius, +found at last beneath the stairs. + +"Bless me!" I asked, "What does he teach in his school?" + +"Embalming, and all that sort of thing." + +"It never occurred to me," I confessed, "that undertakers had to learn. +I thought it came naturally. Ducks to water, you know. They look as if +they could pick up a thing like embalming by instinct. I don't suppose +you knew old Mr. Smith." + +"No." + +"He wore a white carnation on business afternoons." + +We rounded a turn of the black walnut stair. + +"There!" exclaimed the poet. "That is the office of the _Shriek_." + +I know the _Shriek_. It is one of the periodicals of the newer art that +does not descend to the popular taste. It will not compromise its +ideals. It prints pictures of men and women with hideous, distorted +bodies. It is solving sex. Once in a while the police know what it is +talking about, and then they rather stupidly keep it out of the mails +for a month or so. + +Now I had intended for some time to subscribe to the _Shriek_, because I +wished to see my friend's verses as they appeared. In this way I could +learn what the newer art was doing, and could brush out of my head the +cobwebs of convention. Keats and Shelley have been thrown into the +discard. We have come a long journey from the older poets. + +"I would like to subscribe," I said. + +The poet, of course, was pleased. He rapped at a door marked "Editor." + +A young woman's head in a mob-cap came into view. She wore a green and +purple smock, and a cigarette hung loosely from her mouth. She looked at +me at first as if I were an old-fashioned poem or a bundle of modest +drawings, but cheered when I told my errand. There was a cup of steaming +soup on an alcohol burner, and half a loaf of bread. On a string across +the window handkerchiefs and stockings were hung to dry. A desk was +littered with papers. + +I paid my money and was enrolled. I was given a current number of the +_Shriek_, and was told not to miss a poem by Sillivitch. + +"Sillivitch?" I asked. + +"Sillivitch," the lady answered. "Our greatest poet--maybe the greatest +of all time. Writes only for the _Shriek_. Wonderful! Realistic!" + +"Snug little office," I said to the poet, when we were on the stairs. +"She lives in there, too?" + +"Oh, yes," he said. "Smart girl, that. Never compromises. Wants reality +and all that sort of thing. You must read Sillivitch. Amazing! Doesn't +seem to mean anything at first. But then you get it in a flash." + +We had now come to the top of the building. + +"There isn't much smell up here," I said. + +"You don't mind the smell. You come to like it," he replied. "It's +bracing." + +At the top of the stairs, a hallway led to rooms both front and back. +The ceiling of these rooms, low even in the middle, sloped to windows of +half height in dormers. The poet waved his hand. "I have been living in +the front room," he said, "but I am adding this room behind for a +study." + +We entered the study. A man was mopping up the floor. Evidently the room +had not been lived in for years, for the dirt was caked to a half inch. +A general wreckage of furniture--a chair, a table with marble top, a +carved sideboard with walnut dingles, a wooden bed with massive +headboard, a mattress and a broken pitcher--had been swept to the middle +of the room. There was also a pile of old embalmer's journals, and a +great carton that seemed to contain tubes of tooth-paste. + +"You see," said the poet, "I have been living in the other room. This +used to be a storage--years ago, for the family that once lived here, +and more recently for the embalmer." + +"Storage!" I exclaimed. "You don't suppose that they kept any--?" + +"No." + +"Well," I said, "it's a snug little place." + +I bent over and picked up one of the embalmer's journals. On the cover +there was a picture of a little boy in a night-gown, saying his prayer +to his mother. The prayer was printed underneath. "And, mama," it read, +"have God make me a good boy, and when I grow up let me help papa in his +business, and never use anything but _Twirpp's Old Reliable Embalming +Fluid_, the kind that papa has always used, and grandpa before him." + +Now, Charles Lamb, I recall, once confessed that he was moved to +enthusiasm by an undertaker's advertisement. "Methinks," he writes, "I +could be willing to die, in death to be so attended. The two rows all +round close-drove best black japanned nails,--how feelingly do they +invite, and almost irresistibly persuade us to come and be fastened +down." But the journal did not stir me to this high emotion. + +I crossed the room and stooped to look out of the dormer window--into a +shallow yard where an abandoned tin bath-tub and other unprized +valuables were kept. A shabby tree acknowledged that it had lost its +way, but didn't know what to do about it. It had its elbow on the fence +and seemed to be in thought. A wash-stand lay on its side, as if it +snapped its fingers forever at soap and towels. Beyond was a tall +building, with long tables and rows of girls working. + +One of the girls desisted for a moment from her feathers with which she +was making hats, and stuck out her tongue at me in a coquettish way. I +returned her salute. She laughed and tossed her head and went back to +her feathers. + +The young man who had been mopping up the floor went out for fresh +water. + +"Who is that fellow?" I asked. + +"He works downstairs." + +"For the _Shriek?_" + +"For the embalmer. He's an apprentice." + +"I would like to meet him." + +Presently I did meet him. + +"What have you there?" I asked. He was folding up a great canvas bag of +curious pattern. + +"It's when you are shipped away--to Texas or somewhere. This is a little +one. You'd need--" he appraised me from head to foot--"you'd need a +number ten." + +He desisted from detail. He shifted to the story of his life. Since he +had been a child he had wished to be an undertaker. + +Now I had myself once known an undertaker, and I had known his son. The +son went to Munich to study for Grand Opera. I crossed on the steamer +with him. He sang in the ship's concert, "Oh, That We Two Were Maying." +It was pitched for high tenor, so he sang it an octave low, and was +quite gloomy about it. In the last verse he expressed a desire to lie +at rest beneath the churchyard sod. The boat was rolling and I went out +to get the air. And then I did not see him for several years. We met at +a funeral. He wore a long black coat and a white carnation. He smiled at +me with a gentle, mournful smile and waved me to a seat. He was Tristan +no longer. Valhalla no more echoed to his voice. He had succeeded to his +father's business. + +Here the poet interposed. "The Countess came to see me yesterday." + +"Mercy," I said, "what countess?" + +"Oh, don't you know her work? She's a poet and she writes for the people +downstairs. She's the Countess Sillivitch." + +"Sillivitch!" I answered, "of course I know her. She is the greatest +poet, maybe, of all time." + +"No doubt about it," said the poet excitedly, "and there's a poem of +hers in this number. She writes in italics when she wants you to yell +it. And when she puts it in capitals, my God! you could hear her to the +elevated. It's ripping stuff." + +"Dear me," I said, "I should like to read it. Awfully. It must be +funny." + +"It isn't funny at all," the poet answered. "It isn't meant to be funny. +Did you read her 'Burning Kiss'?" + +"I'm sorry," I answered. + +The poet sighed. "It's wonderfully realistic. There's nothing +old-fashioned about that poem. The Countess wears painted stockings." + +"Bless me!" I cried. + +"Stalks with flowers. She comes from Bulgaria, or Esthonia, or +somewhere. Has a husband in a castle. Incompatible. He stifles her. +Common. In business. Beer spigots. She is artistic. Wants to soar. And +tragic. You remember my study of a soul?" + +"The rainy night? Yes, I remember." + +"Well, she's the one. She sat on the floor and told me her troubles." + +"You don't suppose that I could meet her, do you?" I asked. + +The poet looked at me with withering scorn. "You wouldn't like her," he +said. "She's very modern. She says very startling things. You have to be +in the modern spirit to follow her. And sympathetic. She doesn't want +any marriage or government or things like that. Just truth and freedom. +It's convention that clips our wings." + +"Conventions are stupid things," I agreed. + +"And the past isn't any good, either," the poet said. "The past is a +chain upon us. It keeps us off the mountains." + +"Exactly," I assented. + +"That's what the Countess thinks. We must destroy the past. Everything. +Customs. Art. Government. We must be ready for the coming of the dawn." + +"Naturally," I said. "Candles trimmed, and all that sort of thing. You +don't suppose that I could meet the Countess? Well, I'm sorry. What's +the bit of red paper on the wall? Is it over a dirty spot?" + +"It's to stir up my ideas. It's gay and when I look at it I think of +something." + +"And then I suppose that you look out of that window, against that brick +wall and those windows opposite, and write poems--a sonnet to the girl +who stuck out her tongue at me." + +"Oh, yes." + +"Hot in summer up here?" + +"Yes." + +"And cold in winter?" + +"Yes." + +"And I suppose that you get some ideas out of that old tin bath-tub and +those ash-cans." + +"Well, hardly." + +"And you look at the moon through that dirty skylight?" + +"No! There's nothing in that old stuff. Everybody's fed up on the moon." + +"It's a snug place," I said. And I came away. + +I circled the stairs into the denser smell which, by this time, I found +rather agreeable. The embalmer's door was open. In the gloom inside I +saw the apprentice busied in some dark employment. "I got somethin' to +show you," he called. + +"Tomorrow," I answered. + +As I was opening the street door, a woman came up the steps. She was a +dark, Bulgarian sort of woman. Or Esthonian, perhaps. I held back the +door to let her pass. She wore long ear-rings. Her skirt was looped high +in scollops. She wore sandals--and painted stockings. + + + + +Autumn Days. + + +It was rather a disservice when the poet wrote that the melancholy days +were come. His folly is inexplicable. If he had sung through his nose of +thaw and drizzle, all of us would have pitched in to help him in his +dismal chorus. But October and November are brisk and cheerful months. + +In the spring, to be sure, there is a languid sadness. Its beauty is too +frail. Its flowerets droop upon the plucking. Its warm nights, its +breeze that blows from the fragrant hills, warn us how brief is the +blossom time. In August the year slumbers. Its sleepy days nod across +the heavy orchards and the yellow grain fields. Smoke looks out from +chimneys, but finds no wind for comrade. For a penny it would stay at +home and doze upon the hearth, to await a playmate from the north. The +birds are still. Only the insects sing. A threshing-machine, far off, +sinks to as drowsy a melody as theirs, like a company of grasshoppers, +but with longer beard and deeper voice. The streams that frolicked to +nimble tunes in May now crawl from pool to pool. The very shadows linger +under cover. They crouch close beneath shed and tree, and scarcely stir +a finger until the fiery sun has turned its back. + +September rubs its eyes. It hears autumn, as it were, pounding on its +bedroom door, and turns for another wink of sleep. But October is +awakened by the frost. It dresses itself in gaudy color. It flings a +scarlet garment on the woods and a purple scarf across the hills. The +wind, at last, like a merry piper, cries out the tune, and its brisk and +sunny days come dancing from the north. + +Yesterday was a holiday and I went walking in the woods. Although it is +still September it grows late, and there is already a touch of October +in the air. After a week of sultry weather--a tardy remnant from last +month--a breeze yesterday sprang out of the northwest. Like a good +housewife it swept the dusty corners of the world. It cleared our path +across the heavens and raked down the hot cobwebs from the sky. Clouds +had yawned in idleness. They had sat on the dull circle of the earth +like fat old men with drooping chins, but yesterday they stirred +themselves. The wind whipped them to their feet. It pursued them and +plucked at their frightened skirts. It is thus, after the sleepy season, +that the wind practices for the rough and tumble of November. It needs +but to quicken the tempo into sixteenth notes, to rouse a wholesome +tempest. + +Who could be melancholy in so brisk a month? The poet should hang his +head for shame at uttering such a libel. These dazzling days could hale +him into court. The jury, with one voice, without rising from its box, +would hold for a heavy fine. Apples have been gathered in. There is a +thirsty, tipsy smell from the cider presses. Hay is pitched up to the +very roof. Bursting granaries show their golden produce at the cracks. +The yellow stubble of the fields is a promise that is kept. And who +shall say that there is any sadness in the fallen leaves? They are a gay +and sounding carpet. Who dances here needs no bell upon his ankle, and +no fiddle for the tune. + +And sometimes in October the air is hazy and spiced with smells. Nature, +it seems, has cooked a feast in the heat of summer, and now its viands +stand out to cool. + +November lights its fires and brings in early candles. This is the +season when chimneys must be tightened for the tempest. Their mighty +throats roar that all is strong aloft. Dogs now leave a stranger to go +his way in peace, and they bark at the windy moon. Windows rattle, but +not with sadness. They jest and chatter with the blast. They gossip of +storms on barren mountains. + +Night, for so many months, has been a timid creature. It has hid so long +in gloomy cellars while the regal sun strutted on his way. But now night +and darkness put their heads together for his overthrow. In shadowy +garrets they mutter their discontent and plan rebellion. They snatch the +fields by four o'clock. By five they have restored their kingdom. They +set the stars as guardsmen of their rule. + +Now travelers are pelted into shelter. Signboards creak. The wind +whistles for its rowdy company. Night, the monarch, rides upon the +storm. + +A match! We'll light the logs. We'll crack nuts and pass the cider. How +now, master poet, is there no thirsty passage in your throat? I offer +you a bowl of milk and popcorn. Must you brood tonight upon the barren +fields--the meadows brown and sear? Who cares now how the wind grapples +with the chimneys? Here is snug company, warm and safe. Here are syrup +and griddle-cakes. Do you still suck your melancholy pen when such a +feast is going forward? + + + + +On Finding a Plot. + + +A young author has confessed to me that lately, in despair at hitting on +a plot, he locked himself in his room after breakfast with an oath that +he would not leave it until something was contrived and under way. He +did put an apple and sandwich prudently at the back of his desk, but +these, he swore, like the locusts and wild honey in the wilderness, +should last him through his struggle. By a happy afterthought he took +with him into retirement a volume of De Maupassant. Perhaps, he +considered, if his own invention lagged and the hour grew late, he might +shift its characters into new positions. Rather than starve till dawn he +could dress a courtezan in honest cloth, or tease a happy wife from her +household in the text to a mad elopement. Or by jiggling all the plots +together, like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope, the pieces might +fall into strange and startling patterns. + +This is not altogether a new thought with him. While sucking at his pen +in a former drouth he considered whether a novel might not be made by +combining the characters of one story with the circumstance of another. +Let us suppose, for example, that Carmen, before she got into that ugly +affair with the Toreador, had settled down in Barchester beneath the +towers. Would the shadow of the cloister, do you think, have cooled her +southern blood? Would she have conformed to the decent gossip of the +town? Or, on the contrary, does not a hot color always tint the colder +mixture? Suppose that Carmen came to live just outside the Cathedral +close and walked every morning with her gay parasol and her pretty +swishing skirts past the Bishop's window. + +We can fancy his pen hanging dully above his sermon, with his eyes on +space for any wandering thought, as if the clouds, like treasure ships +upon a sea, were freighted with riches for his use. The Bishop is +brooding on an address to the Ladies' Sewing Guild. He must find a text +for his instructive finger. It is a warm spring morning and the +daffodils are waving in the borders of the grass. A robin sings in the +hedge with an answer from his mate. There is wind in the tree-tops with +lively invitation to adventure, but the Bishop is bent to his sober +task. Carmen picks her way demurely across the puddles in the direction +of the Vicarage. Her eyes turn modestly toward his window. Surely she +does not see him at his desk. That dainty inch of scarlet stocking is +quite by accident. It is the puddles and the wind frisking with her +skirt. + +"Eh! Dear me!" The good man is merely human. He pushes up his spectacles +for nearer sight. He draws aside the curtain. "Dear me! Bless my soul! +Who is the lady? Quite a foreign air. I don't remember her at our little +gatherings for the heathen." A text is forgotten. The clouds are empty +caravels. He calls to Betsy, the housemaid, for a fresh neck-cloth and +his gaiters. He has recalled a meeting with the Vicar and goes out +whistling softly, to disaster. + +Alas! In my forgetfulness I have skimmed upon the actual plot. You have +recalled already how La Signora Madeline descended on the Bishop's +Palace. Her beauty was a hard assault. Except for her crippled state she +might herself have toppled the Bishop over. But she pales beside the +dangerous Carmen. + +Suppose, for a better example, that the cheerful Mark Tapley who always +came out strong in adversity, were placed in a modern Russian novel. As +the undaunted Taplovitch he would have shifted its gloom to a sunny +ending. Fancy our own dear Pollyanna, the glad girl, adopted by an aunt +in "Crime and Punishment." Even Dostoyevsky must have laid down his +doleful pen to give her at last a happy wedding--flower-girls and +angel-food, even a shrill soprano behind the hired palms and a table of +cut glass. + +Oliver Twist and Nancy,--merely acquaintances in the original +story,--with a fresh hand at the plot, might have gone on a bank holiday +to Margate. And been blown off shore. Suppose that the whole excursion +was wrecked on Treasure Island and that everyone was drowned except +Nancy, Oliver and perhaps the trombone player of the ship's band, who +had blown himself so full of wind for fox-trots on the upper deck that +he couldn't sink. It is Robinson Crusoe, lodging as a handsome bachelor +on the lonely island,--observe the cunning of the plot!--who battles +with the waves and rescues Nancy. The movie-rights alone of this are +worth a fortune. And then Crusoe, Oliver, Friday and the trombone player +stand a siege from John Silver and Bill Sikes, who are pirates, with +Spanish doubloons in a hidden cove. And Crusoe falls in love with Nancy. +Here is a tense triangle. But youth goes to youth. Crusoe's whiskers are +only dyed their glossy black. The trombone player, by good luck (you see +now why he was saved from the wreck), is discovered to be a retired +clergyman--doubtless a Methodist. The happy knot is tied. And then--a +sail! A sail! Oliver and Nancy settle down in a semi-detached near +London, with oyster shells along the garden path and cat-tails in the +umbrella jar. The story ends prettily under their plane-tree at the +rear--tea for three, with a trombone solo, and the faithful Friday and +Old Bill, reformed now, as gardener, clipping together the shrubs +against the sunny wall. + +Was there a serpent in the garden at peaceful Cranford? Suppose that one +of the gay rascals of Dumas, with tall boots and black moustachios, had +got in when the tempting moon was up. Could the gentle ladies in their +fragile guard of crinoline have withstood this French assault? + +Or Camille, perhaps, before she took her cough, settled at Bath and +entangled Mr. Pickwick in the Pump Room. Do not a great hat and feather +find their victim anywhere? Is not a silken ankle as potent at Bath as +in Bohemia? Surely a touch of age and gout is no prevention against the +general plague. Nor does a bald head tower above the softer passions. +Camille's pretty nose is powdered for the onslaught. She has arranged +her laces in dangerous hazard to the eye. And now the bold huzzy +undeniably winks at Mr. Pickwick over her pint of "killibeate." She +drops her fan with usual consequence. A nod. A smile. A word. At the +Assembly--mark her sudden progress and the triumphant end!--they sit +together in the shadows of the balcony. "My dear," says Mr. Pickwick, +gazing tenderly through his glasses, "my love, my own, will you--bless +my soul!--will you share my lodgings at Mrs. Bardell's in Goswell +Street?" We are mariners, all of us, coasting in dangerous waters. It is +the syren's voice, her white beauty gleaming on the shoal--it is the +moon that throws us on the rocks. + +And then a dozen dowagers breed the gossip. Duchesses, frail with years, +pop and burst with the pleasant secret. There is even greater commotion +than at Mr. Pickwick's other disturbing affair with the middle-aged lady +in the yellow curl-papers. This previous affair you may recall. He had +left his watch by an oversight in the taproom, and he went down to get +it when the inn was dark. On the return he took a false direction at the +landing and, being misled by the row of boots along the hall, he entered +the wrong room. He was in his nightcap in bed when, peeping through the +curtains, he saw the aforesaid lady brushing her back hair. A duel was +narrowly averted when this startling scandal came to the ears of the +lady's lover, Mr. Peter Magnus. Camille, I think, could have kept this +sharper scandal to herself. At most, with a prudent finger on her lips, +she would have whispered the intrigue harmlessly behind her fan and set +herself to snare a duke. + +I like to think, also, of the incongruity of throwing Rollo (Rollo the +perfect, the Bayard of the nursery, the example of our suffering +childhood)--Rollo grown up, of course, and without his aseptic Uncle +George--into the gay scandal, let us say, of the Queen's Necklace. +Perhaps it is forgotten how he and his little sister Jane went to the +Bull Fight in Rome on Sunday morning by mistake. They were looking for +the Presbyterian Church, and hand in hand they followed the crowd. It is +needless to remind you how Uncle George was vexed. Rollo was a prig. He +loved his Sunday school and his hour of piano practice. He brushed his +hair and washed his face without compulsion. He even got in behind his +ears. He went to bed cheerfully upon a hint. Thirty years ago--I was so +pestered--if I could have met Rollo in the flesh I would have lured him +to the alleyway behind our barn and pushed him into the manure-pit. In +the crisp vernacular of our street, I would have punched the everlasting +tar out of him. + +It was circumstance that held the Bishop and Rollo down. Isn't +Cinderella just a common story of sordid realism until the fairy +godmother appears? Except for the pumpkin and a very small foot she +would have married the butcher's boy, and been snubbed by her sisters +to the end. It was only luck that it was a prince who awakened the +Sleeping Beauty. The plumber's assistant might have stumbled by. What +was Aladdin without his uncle, the magician? Do princesses still sleep +exposed to a golden kiss? Are there lamps for rubbing, discarded now in +attics? + +Sinbad, with a steady wife, would have stayed at home and become an +alderman. Romeo might have married a Montague and lived happily ever +after. It was but chance that Titania awakened in the Ass's +company--chance that Viola was cast on the coast of Illyria and found +her lover. Any of these plots could have been altered by jogging the +author's elbow. A bit of indigestion wrecks the crimson shallop. Comedy +or tragedy is but the falling of the dice. By the flip of a coin comes +the poisoned goblet or the princess. + +But my young author's experiment with De Maupassant was not successful. +He tells me that hunger caught him in the middle of the afternoon, and +that he went forth for a cup of malted milk, which is his weakness. His +head was as empty as his stomach. + +And yet there are many novels written and even published, and most of +them seem to have what pass for plots. Bipeds, undeniably, are set up +with some likeness to humanity. They talk from page to page without any +squeak of bellows. They live in lodgings and make acquaintance across +the air-shaft. They wrestle with villains. They fall in love. They +starve and then grow famous. And at last, in all good books, journeys +end in lovers' meeting. It is as easy as lying. Only a plot is needed. + +And may not anyone set up the puppets? Rich man, poor man, beggarman, +thief! You have only to say _eenie meenie_ down the list, and trot out a +brunette or a blonde. There is broadcloth in the tiring-box, and swords +and velvet; and there is, also, patched wool, and shiny elbows. Your +lady may sigh her soul to the Grecian tents, or watch for honest Tom on +his motor-cycle. On Venetian balcony and village stoop the stars show +alike for lovers and everywhere there are friendly shadows in the night. + +Like a master of marionettes, we may pull the puppets by their strings. +It is such an easy matter--if once a plot is given--to lift a beggar or +to overthrow a rascal. A virtuous puppet can be hoisted to a tinsel +castle. A twitching of the thumb upsets the wicked King. Rollo is +pitched to his knees before a scheming beauty. And would it not be fun +to dangle before the Bishop that little Carmen figure with her daring +lace and scarlet stockings?--or to swing the bold Camille by the strings +into Mr. Pickwick's arms as the curtain falls? + +Was it not Hawthorne who died leaving a notebook full of plots? And +Walter Scott, when that loyal, harassed hand of his was shriveled into +death, must have had by him a hundred hints for projected books. One +author--I forget who he was--bequeathed to another author--the name has +escaped me--a memorandum of characters and events. At any author's +death there must be a precious salvage. Among the surviving papers there +sits at least one dusty heroine waiting for a lover. Here are notes for +the Duchess's elopement. Here is a sketch how the deacon proved to be a +villain. As old ladies put by scraps of silk for a crazy quilt, shall +not an author, also, treasure in his desk shreds of character and odds +and ends to make a plot? + +Now the truth is, I suspect, that the actual plot has little to do with +the merits of a great many of the best books. It is only the bucket that +fetches up the water from the well. It is the string that holds the +shining beads. Who really cares whether Tom Jones married Sophia? And +what does it matter whether Falstaff died in bed or in his boots, or +whether Uncle Toby married the widow? It is the mirth and casual +adventure by the way that hold our interest. + +Some of the best authors, indeed, have not given a thought to their +plots until it is time to wind up the volume. When Dickens sent the +Pickwick Club upon its travels, certainly he was not concerned whether +Tracy Tupman found a wife. He had not given a thought to Sam's romance +with the pretty housemaid at Mr. Nupkins's. The elder Mrs. Weller's +fatal cough was clearly a happy afterthought. Thackeray, at the start, +could hardly have foreseen Esmond's marriage. When he wrote the early +chapters of "Vanity Fair," he had not traced Becky to her shabby garret +of the Elephant at Pumpernickel. Dumas, I have no doubt, wrote from +page to page, careless of the end. Doubtless he marked Milady for a bad +end, but was unconcerned whether it would be a cough or noose. Victor +Hugo did no more than follow a trail across the mountains of his +invention, content with the kingdoms of each new turning. + +In these older and more deliberate books, if a young lady smiled upon +the hero, it was not already schemed whether they would be lovers, with +the very manner of his proposal already set. The glittering moon was not +yet bespoken for the night. "My dear young lady," this older author +thinks, "you have certainly very pretty eyes and I like the way that +lock of brown hair rests against your ear, but I am not at all sure that +I shall let you marry my hero. Please sit around for a dozen chapters +while I observe you. I must see you in tweed as well as silk. Perhaps +you have an ugly habit of whining. Or safe in a married state you might +wear a mob-cap in to breakfast. I'll send my hero up to London for his +fling. There is an actress I must have him meet. I'll let him frolic +through the winter. On his return he may choose between you." + +"My dear madam," another of these older authors meditates, "how can I +judge you on a first acquaintance? Certainly you talk loosely for an +honest wife. It is too soon, as yet, to know how far your flirtation +leads. I must observe you with Mr. Fopling in the garden after dinner. +If, later, I grow dull and my readers nod, your elopement will come +handy." + +Nor was a lady novelist of the older school less deliberate. When a +bold adventurer appears, she holds her heroine to the rearward of her +affection. "I'll make no decision yet for Lady Emily," she thinks. "This +gay fellow may have a wife somewhere. His smooth manner with the ladies +comes with practice. It is soon enough if I decide upon their affair in +my second volume. Perhaps, after all, the captain may prove to be the +better man." + +And yet this spacious method requires an ample genius. A smaller writer +must take a map and put his finger beforehand on his destination. When a +hero fares forth singing in the dawn, the author must know at once his +snug tavern for the night. The hazard of the morning has been matched +already with a peaceful twilight. The seeds of time are planted, the +very harvest counted when the furrow's made. My heart goes out to that +young author who sits locked in his study, munching his barren apple. He +must perfect his scenario before he starts. How easy would be his task, +if only he could just begin, "Once upon a time," and follow his careless +contrivance. + +I know a teacher who has a full-length novel unpublished and concealed. +Sometimes, I fancy, at midnight, when his Latin themes are marked, he +draws forth its precious pages. He alters and smooths his sentences +while the household sleeps. And even in his classroom, as he listens to +the droning of a conjugation, he leaps to horse. Little do his students +suspect, as they stutter with their verbs, that with their teacher, +heedless of convention, rides the dark lady of his swift adventure. + +I look with great awe on an acquaintance who averages more than one +story a week and publishes them in a periodical called _Frisky Stories_. +He shifts for variety among as many as five or six pen-names. And I +marvel at a friend who once wrote a story a day for a newspaper +syndicate. But his case was pathetic. When I saw him last, he was +sitting on a log in the north forest, gloomily estimating how many of +his wretched stories would cover the wood-pulp of the state. His health +was threatened. He was resting from the toil + + "Of dropping buckets into empty wells, + And growing old in drawing nothing up." + +From all this it must appear that the real difficulty is in finding a +sufficient plot. The start of a plot is easy, but it is hard to carry it +on and end it. I myself, on any vacant morning, could get a hero tied +hand and foot inside a cab, but then I would not know where to drive +him. I have thought, in an enthusiastic moment, that he might be lowered +down a manhole through the bottom of the cab. This is an unprecedented +villainy, and I have gone so far as to select a lonely manhole in +Gramercy Park around the corner from the Players' Club. But I am lost +how my hero could be rescued. Covered with muck, I could hardly hope +that his lady would go running to his arms. I have, also, a pretty +pencil for a fight in the ancient style, with swords upon a stairway. +But what then? And what shall I do with the gallant Percival de Vere, +after he has slid down the rope from his beetling dungeon tower? As for +ladies--I could dress up the pretty creatures, but would they move or +speak upon my bidding? No one would more gladly throw a lady and +gentleman on a desert island. At a pinch I flatter myself I could draw a +roaring lion. But in what circumstance should the hungry cannibals +appear? These questions must tax a novelist heavily. + +Or might I not, for copy, strip the front from that building opposite? + + "The whole of the frontage shaven sheer, + The inside gaped: exposed to day, + Right and wrong and common and queer, + Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay." + +Every room contains a story. That chair, the stove, the very tub for +washing holds its secrets. The stairs echo with the tread of a dozen +lives. And in every crowd upon the street I could cast a stone and find +a hero. There is a seamstress somewhere, a locksmith, a fellow with a +shovel. I need but the genius to pluck out the heart of their mystery. +The rumble of the subway is the friction of lives that rub together. The +very roar of cities is the meshing of our human gear. + +I dream of this world I might create. In romantic mood, a castle lifts +its towers into the blue dome of heaven. I issue in spirit with Jeanne +d'Arc from the gate of Orleans, and I play the tragedy with changing +scene until the fires of Rouen have fallen into ashes. I sail the seas +with Raleigh. I scheme with the hump-backed Richard. Out of the north, +with wind and sunlight, my hero comes singing to his adventures. + +It would be glorious fun to create a world, to paint a valley in autumn +colors and set up a village at the crossroads. Housewives chatter at +their wash-lines. Wheels rattle on the wooden bridge. Old men doze on +the grocery bench. And now let's throw the plot, at a hazard, around the +lovely Susan, the grocer's clerk. For her lover we select a young +garage-man, the jest of the village, who tinkers at an improvement of a +carburetor. The owner of a thousand acres on the hill shall be our +villain--a wastrel and a gambler. There is a mortgage on his acres. He +is pressed for payment. He steals the garage-man's blueprints. And now +it is night. Susan dearly loves a movie. The Orpheum is eight miles off. +Painted Cupids. Angels with trumpets. The villain. An eight-cylindered +runabout. Susan. B-r-r-r-r! The movie. The runabout again. A lonely +road. Just a kiss, my pretty girl. Help! Help! Chug! Chug! Aha! Foiled! +The garage-man. You cur! You hound! Take that! And that! Susan. The +garage-man. The blueprints. Name the happy day. Oh, joy! Oh, bliss! + +It would be fun to model these little worlds and set them up to cool. + +Is it any wonder that there are a million stars across the night? God +Himself enjoyed the vast creation of His worlds. It was the evening and +the morning of the sixth day when He set his puppets moving in their +stupendous comedy. + +[Illustration] + + + + +Circus Days. + + +There have been warm winds out of the south for several days, soft rains +have teased the daffodils into blossom along the fences, and this +morning I heard the first clicking of a lawn-mower. It seems but +yesterday that winter was tugging at the chimneys, that March freshets +were brawling in the gutters; but, with the shifting of the cock upon +the steeple, the spring comes from its hiding in the hills. At this +moment, to prove the changing of the season, a street organ plays +beneath my window. It is a rather miserable box and is stocked with +sentimental tunes for coaxing nickels out of pity. Its inlaid mahogany +is soiled with travel. It has a peg-leg and it hangs around the +musician's neck as if weary of the road. "Master," it seems to say, "may +we sit awhile? My old stump is wearing off." And yet on this warm +morning in the sunlight there is almost a touch of frolic in the box. A +syncopation attempts a happier temper. It has sniffed the fragrant air, +and desires to put a better face upon its troubles. + +The housemaid next door hangs out the Monday's garments to dry, and +there is a pleasant flapping of legs and arms as if impatient for +partners in a dance. Must a petticoat sit unasked when the music plays? +Surely breeches and stockings will not hold back when a lively skirt +shall beckon. A slow waltz might even tempt aunty's night-gown off the +line. If only a vegetable man would come with a cart of red pieplant and +green lettuce and offer his gaudy wares along the street, then the +evidence of spring would be complete. + +But there is even better evidence at hand. This morning I noticed that a +circus poster had been pasted on the billboard near the school-house. +Several children and I stopped to see the wonders that were promised. +Then the school-bell rang and they dawdled off. At Stratford, also, once +upon a time, boys with shining morning faces crept like snails to +school. Were there circus billboards in so remote a day? The pundits, +bleared with search, are strangely silent. This morning it will be a +shrewd lesson that keeps the children's thoughts from leaping out the +window. Two times two will hardly hold their noses on the desk. + +On the billboard there is the usual blonde with pink legs, balanced on +one toe on a running horse. The clown holds the paper hoop. The band is +blowing itself very red in the face. An acrobat leaps headlong from a +high trapeze. There are five rings, thirty clowns, an amazing variety of +equestrian and slack-wire genius, a galaxy of dazzling beauties; and +every performance includes a dizzy, death-defying dive by a dauntless +dare-devil--on a bicycle from the top of the tent. And of course there +are elephants and performing dogs and fat ladies. One day only--two +performances--rain or shine. + +Does not this kind of billboard stir the blood in these languid days of +spring? It is a tonic to the sober street. It is a shining dial that +marks the coming of the summer. In the winter let barns and fences +proclaim the fashion of our dress and tease us with bargains for the +kitchen. But in the spring, when the wind is from the south, fences have +a better use. They announce the circus. What child now will not come +upon a trot? What student can keep to his solemn book? There is a sleepy +droning from the school-house. The irregular verbs--lawless rascals with +a past--chafe in a dull routine. The clock loiters through the hour. + +It was by mere coincidence that last night on my way home I stopped at a +news-stand for a daily paper, and saw a periodical by the name of the +_Paste-Brush_. On a gay cover was the picture of another blonde--a +sister, maybe, of the lady of the billboard. She was held by an ankle +over a sea of up-turned faces, but by her happy, inverted smile she +seemed unconscious of her danger. + +The _Paste-Brush_ is new to me. I bought a copy, folded its scandalous +cover out of sight and took it home. It proves to be the trade journal +of the circus and amusement-park interests. It announces a circulation +of seventy thousand, which I assume is largely among acrobats, +magicians, fat ladies, clowns, liniment-venders, lion-tamers, Caucasian +Beauties and actors on obscure circuits. + +Now it happens that among a fairly wide acquaintance I cannot boast a +single acrobat or liniment-vender. Nor even a professional fat man. A +friend of mine, it is true, swells in that direction as an amateur, but +he rolls night and morning as a corrective. I did once, also, pass an +agreeable hour at a County Fair with a strong man who bends iron bars in +his teeth. He had picked me from his audience as one of convincing +weight to hang across the bar while he performed his trick. When the +show was done, he introduced me to the Bearded Beauty and a talkative +Mermaid from Chicago. One of my friends, also, has told me that she is +acquainted with a lady--a former pupil of her Sunday school--who leaps +on holidays in the park from a parachute. The bantam champion, too, many +years ago, lived behind us around the corner; but he was a distant hero, +sated with fame, unconscious of our youthful worship. But these meetings +are exceptional and accidental. Most of us, let us assume, find our +acquaintance in the usual walks of life. Last night, therefore, having +laid by the letters of Madame d'Arblay, on whose seven volumes I have +been engaged for a month, I took up the _Paste-Brush_ and was carried at +once into another and unfamiliar world. + +The frontispiece is the big tent of the circus with side-shows in the +foreground. There is a great wheel with its swinging baskets, a +merry-go-round, a Funny Castle, and a sword-swallower's booth. By a +dense crowd around a wagon I am of opinion that here nothing less than +red lemonade is sold. Certainly Jolly Maude, "that mountain of flesh," +holds a distant, surging crowd against the ropes. + +An article entitled "Freaks I Have Known" is worth the reading. You may +care to know that a celebrated missing-link--I withhold the lady's +name--plays solitaire in her tent as she waits her turn. Bearded ladies, +it is asserted, are mostly married and have a fondness for crocheting +out of hours. A certain three-legged boy, "the favorite of applauding +thousands," tried to enlist for the war, but was rejected because he +broke up a pair of shoes. The Wild Man of Borneo lived and died in +Waltham, Massachusetts. If the street and number were given, it would +tempt me to a pilgrimage. Have I not journeyed to Concord and to +Plymouth? Perhaps an old inhabitant--an antique spinster or rheumatic +grocer--can still remember the pranks of the Wild Man's childhood. + +But in the _Paste-Brush_ the pages of advertisement are best. Slot +machines for chewing-gum are offered for sale--Merry-Widow swings, beach +babies (a kind of doll), genuine Tiffany rings that defy the expert, +second-hand saxophones, fountain pens at eight cents each and sofa +pillows with pictures of Turkish beauties. + +But let us suppose that you, my dear sir, are one of those seventy +thousand subscribers and are by profession a tattooer. On the day of +publication with what eagerness you scan its columns! Here is your +opportunity to pick up an improved outfit--"stencils and supplies +complete, with twelve chest designs and a picture of a tattooed lady in +colors, twelve by eighteen, for display. Send for price list." Or if you +have skill in charming snakes and your stock of vipers is running low, +write to the Snake King of Florida for his catalogue. "He treats you +right." Here is an advertisement of an alligator farm. Alligator-wrestlers, +it is said, make big money at popular resorts on the southern circuit. +You take off your shoes and stockings, when the crowd has gathered, and +wade into the slimy pool. It needs only a moderate skill to seize the +fierce creature by his tail and haul him to the shore. A deft movement +throws him on his back. Then you tickle him under the ear to calm him +and pass the hat. + +Here in the _Paste-Brush_ is an announcement of a ship-load of monkeys +from Brazil. Would you care to buy a walrus? A crocodile is easy money +on the Public Square in old-home week. Or perhaps you are a glass-blower +with your own outfit, a ventriloquist, a diving beauty, a lyric tenor or +a nail-eater. If so, here is an agent who will book you through the +West. The small cities and large towns of Kansas yearn for you. Or if +you, my dear madam, are of good figure, the Alamo Beauties, touring in +Mississippi, want your services. Long season. No back pay. + +Would you like to play a tuba in a ladies' orchestra? You are wanted in +Oklahoma. The Sunshine Girls--famous on western circuits--are looking to +augment their number. "Wanted: Woman for Eliza and Ophelia. Also a child +for Eva. Must double as a pony. State salary. Canada theatres." + +It is affirmed that there is money in box-ball, that hoop-la yields a +fortune, that "you mop up the tin" with a huckley-buck. It sounds easy. +I wonder what a huckley-buck is like. I wonder if I have ever seen one. +It must be common knowledge to the readers of the _Paste-Brush_, for the +term is not explained. Perhaps one puts a huckley-buck in a wagon and +drives from town to town. Doubtless it returns a fortune in a County +Fair. Is this not an opportunity for an underpaid school-teacher or slim +seamstress? No longer must she subsist upon a pittance. Here is rest for +her blue, old fingers. Let her write today for a catalogue. She should +choose a huckley-buck of gaudy color, with a Persian princess on the +side, to draw the crowd. Let her stop by the village pump and sound a +stirring blast upon her megaphone. + +Or perhaps you, my dear sir, have been chafing in an indoor job. You +have been hooped through a dreary winter upon a desk. If so, your gloomy +disposition can be mended by a hoop-la booth, whatever it is. "This +way, gentlemen! Try your luck! Positively no blanks. A valuable prize +for everybody." Your stooped shoulders will straighten. Your digestion +will come to order in a month. Or why not run a stand at the beach for +walking-sticks, with a view in the handle of a "dashing French actress +in a daring pose, or the latest picture of President and Mrs. Wilson at +the Peace Conference." + +Or curiosities may be purchased--"two-headed giants, mermaids, +sea-serpents, a devil-child and an Egyptian mummy. New lists ready." A +mummy would be a quiet and profitable companion for our seamstress in +the long vacation. It would need less attention than a sea-serpent. She +should announce the dusty creature as the darling daughter of the +Ptolemies. When the word has gone round, she may sit at ease before the +booth in scarlet overalls and count the dropping nickels. With what +vigor will she take to her thimble in the autumn! + +Out in Gilmer, Texas, there is a hog with six legs--"alive and healthy. +Five hundred dollars take it." Here is a merchant who will sell you +"snake, frog and monkey tights." After your church supper, on the stage +of the Sunday school, surely, in such a costume, my dear madam, you +could draw a crowd. Study the trombone and double your income. Can you +yodle? "It can be learned at home, evenings, in six easy lessons." + +A used popcorn engine is cut in half. A waffle machine will be shipped +to you on trial. Does no one wish to take the road with a five-legged +cow? Here is one for sale--an extraordinary animal that cleaned up sixty +dollars in one afternoon at a County Fair in Indiana. "Walk up, ladies +and gentlemen! The marvel of the age. Plenty of time before the big show +starts. A five-legged cow. Count 'em. Answers to the name of Guenevere. +Shown before all the crowned heads of Europe. Once owned by the Czar of +Russia. Only a dime. A tenth of a dollar. Ten cents. Show about to +start." + +Or perhaps you think it more profitable to buy a steam calliope--some +very good ones are offered second-hand in the _Paste-Brush_--and tour +your neighboring towns. Make a stand at the crossroads under the +soldiers' monument. Give a free concert. Then when the crowd is thick +about you, offer them a magic ointment. Rub an old man for his +rheumatism. Throw away his crutch, clap him on the back and pronounce +him cured. Or pull teeth for a dollar each. It takes but a moment for a +diagnosis. When once the fashion starts, the profitable bicuspids will +drop around you. + +And Funny Castles can be bought. Perhaps you do not know what they are. +They are usual in amusement parks. You and a favorite lady enter, hand +in hand. It is dark inside and if she is of an agreeable timidity she +leans to your support. Only if you are a churl will you deny your arm. +Then presently a fiery devil's head flashes beside you in the passage. +The flooring tilts and wobbles as you step. Here, surely, no lady will +wish to keep her independence. Presently a picture opens in the wall. It +is souls in hell, or the Queen of Sheba on a journey. Then a sharp draft +ascends through an opening in the floor. Your lady screams and minds her +skirts. A progress through a Funny Castle, it is said, ripens the +greenest friendship. Now take the lady outside, smooth her off and +regale her with a lovers' sundae. Funny Castles, with wind machines, a +Queen of Sheba almost new, and devil's head complete, can be purchased. +Remit twenty-five per cent with order. The balance on delivery. + +Perhaps I am too old for these high excitements. Funny Castles are +behind me. Ladies of the circus, alas! who ride in golden chariots are +no longer beautiful. Cleopatra in her tinsel has sunk to the common +level. Clowns with slap-sticks rouse in me only a moderate delight. + +At this moment, as I write, the clock strikes twelve. It is noon and +school is out. There is a slamming of desks and a rush for caps. The +boys scamper on the stairs. They surge through the gate. The acrobat on +the billboard greets their eyes--the clown, also the lady with the pink +legs. They pause. They gather in a circle. They have fallen victims to +her smile. They mark the great day in their memory. + +The wind is from the south. The daffodils flourish along the fences. The +street organ hangs heavily on its strap. There will be a parade in the +morning. The freaks will be on their platforms by one o'clock. The great +show starts at two. I shall buy tickets and take Nepos, my nephew. + +[Illustration] + + + + +In Praise of a Lawn-Mower. + + +I do not recall that anyone has written the praises of a lawn-mower. I +seem to sow in virgin soil. One could hardly expect a poet to lift up +his voice on such a homely theme. By instinct he prefers the more +rhythmic scythe. Nor, on the other hand, will mechanical folk pay a full +respect to a barren engine without cylinders and motive power. But to me +it is just intricate enough to engage the interest. I can trace the +relation of its wheels and knives, and see how the lesser spinning +starts the greater. In a printing press, on the contrary, I hear only +the general rattle. Before a gas-engine, also, I am dumb. Its sixteen +processes to an explosion baffle me. I could as easily digest a machine +for setting type. I nod blankly, as if a god explained the motion of the +stars. Even when I select a motor I take it merely on reputation and by +bouncing on the cushions to test its comfort. + +It has been a great many years since I was last intimate with a +lawn-mower. My acquaintance began in the days when a dirty face was the +badge of freedom. One early Saturday morning I was hard at work before +breakfast. Mother called down through the upstairs shutters, at the +first clicking of the knives, to ask if I wore my rubbers in the dew. +With the money earned by noon, I went to Conrad's shop. The season for +tops and marbles had gone by. But in the window there was a peerless +baseball with a rubber core, known as a _cock-of-the-walk_. By +indecision, even by starting for the door, I bought it a nickel off +because it was specked by flies. + +It did not occur to me last week, at first, that I could cut the grass. +I talked with an Irishman who keeps the lawn next door. He leaned on his +rake, took his pipe from his mouth and told me that his time was full. +If he had as many hands as a centipede--so he expressed himself--he +could not do all the work that was asked of him. The whole street +clamored for his service. Then I talked with an Italian on the other +side, who comes to work on a motor-cycle with his lawn-mower across his +shoulder. His time was worth a dollar an hour, and he could squeeze me +in after supper and before breakfast. But how can I consistently write +upstairs--I am puttering with a novel--with so expensive a din sounding +in my ears? My expected royalties shrink beside such swollen pay. So I +have become my own yard-man. + +Last week I had the lawn-mower sharpened, but it came home without +adjustment. It went down the lawn without clipping a blade. What a +struggle I had as a child getting the knives to touch along their entire +length! I remember it as yesterday. What an ugly path was left when they +cut on one side only! My bicycle chain, the front wheel that wobbled, +the ball-bearings in the gear, none of these things were so perplexing. +Last week I got out my screw-driver with somewhat of my old feeling of +impotence. I sat down on the grass with discouragement in contemplation. +One set of screws had to be loosened while another set was tightened, +and success lay in the delicacy of my advance. What was my amazement to +discover that on a second trial my mower cut to its entire width! Even +when I first wired a base-plug and found that the table lamp would +really light, I was not more astonished. + +This success with the lawn-mower has given me hope. I am not, as I am +accused, all thumbs. I may yet become a handy man around the house. Is +the swirl of furnace pipes inside my intellect? Perhaps I can fix the +leaky packing in the laundry tubs, and henceforth look on the plumber as +an equal brother. My dormant brain cells at last are wakened. But I must +curb myself. I must not be too useful. There is no rest for a handy man. +It is ignorance that permits a vacant holiday. At most I shall admit a +familiarity with base-plugs and picture-wire and rubber washers--perhaps +even with canvas awnings, which smack pleasantly of the sea--but I shall +commit myself no further. + +Once in a while I rather enjoy cleaning the garage--raking down the +cobwebs from the walls and windows with a stream from the hose--puddling +the dirt into the central drain. I am ruthless with old oil cans and +with the discarded clothing of the chauffeur we had last month. Why is +an old pair of pants stuffed so regularly in the tool drawer? There is a +barrel at the alley fence--but I shall spare the details. It was the +river Alpheus that Hercules turned through the Augean stables. They had +held three thousand oxen and had not been cleaned for thirty years. Dear +me! I know oxen. I rank this labor ahead of the killing of the Hydra, or +fetching the golden apples of the Hesperides. Our garage can be +sweetened with a hose. + +But I really like outside work. Last week I pulled up a quantity of dock +and dandelions that were strangling the grass. And I raked in seed. This +morning, when I went out for the daily paper, I saw a bit of tender +green. The Reds, as I noticed in the headline of the paper, were +advancing on Warsaw. France and England were consulting for the defense +of Poland, but I ignored these great events and stood transfixed in +admiration before this shimmer of new grass. + +Our yard, fore and aft, is about an afternoon's work. And now that I +have cut it once I have signed up for the summer. It requires just the +right amount of intelligence. I would not trust myself to pull weeds in +the garden. M---- has the necessary skill for this. I might pull up the +Canterbury bells which, out of season, I consider unsightly stalks. And +I do not enjoy clipping the grass along the walks. It is a kind of +barber's job. But I like the long straightaways, and I could wish that +our grass plot stretched for another hundred feet. + +And I like the sound of a lawn-mower. It is such a busy click and +whirr. It seems to work so willingly. Not even a sewing-machine has +quite so brisk a tempo. And when a lawn-mower strikes a twig, it stops +suddenly on its haunches with such impatience to be off again. "Bend +over, won't you," it seems to say, "and pull out that stick. These trees +are a pesky nuisance. They keep dropping branches all the while. Now +then! Are we ready? Whee! What's an apple? I can cut an apple all to +flinders. You whistle and I'll whirr. Let's run down that slope +together!" + + + + +On Dropping Off to Sleep. + + +I sleep too well--that is, I go to sleep too soon. I am told that I pass +a few minutes of troubled breathing--not vulgar snores, but a kind of +uneasy ripple on the shore of wakefulness--then I drift out with the +silent tide. Doubtless I merit no sympathy for my perfection--and yet-- + +Well, in the first place, lately we have had windy, moonlit nights and +as my bed sets at the edge of the sleeping porch and the rail cuts off +the earth, it is like a ride in an aeroplane to lie awake among the torn +and ragged clouds. I have cast off the moorings of the sluggish world. +Our garden with its flowering path, the coop for our neighbor's +chickens, the apple tree, all have sunk from sight. The prow of my plane +is pitched across the top of a waving poplar. Earth's harbor lights are +at the stern. The Pleiades mark the channel to the open sky. I must hang +out a lantern to fend me from the moon. + +I shall keep awake for fifteen minutes, I think. Perhaps I can recall +Keats's sonnet to the night: + + "When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, + Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance--" + +and those lines of Milton about the moon rising in clouded majesty, +unveiling her peerless light. + +Here a star peeps out. Presently its companions will show themselves +and I shall know the constellation. Are they playing like little +children at hide-and-seek? Do I catch Arcturus looking from its cover? +Shall I shout hi-spy to Alpha Lyra? A shooting star, that has crouched +behind a cloud, runs home to the goal untagged. Surely these glistening +worlds cannot be hard-fisted planets like our own, holding a close +schedule across the sky. They have looted the shining treasure of the +sunset. They sail the high fantastic seas like caravels blown from +India. In the twilight they have lifted vagrant anchors and they will +moor in strange havens at the dawn. + +Are not these ragged clouds the garment of the night? Like the beggar +maiden of an ancient tale she runs with flying raiment. She unmasks her +beauty when the world's asleep. And the wind, like an eager prince upon +his wooing, rides out of the stormy north. + +And then! Poof! Sleep draws its dark curtain across the glittering +pageant-- + +Presently I hear Annie, the cook, on the kitchen steps below, beating me +up to breakfast. She sounds her unwelcome reveille on a tin pan with an +iron spoon. Her first alarm I treat with indifference. It even weaves +itself pleasantly into my dreams. I have been to a circus lately, let us +say, and this racket seems to be the tom-tom of a side-show where a thin +gentleman swallows snakes. Nor does a second outburst stir me. She only +tries the metal and practices for the later din. At the third alarm I +rise, for now she nurses a mighty wrath. I must humor the angry creature +lest in her fury she push over a shelf of crockery. There is a cold +jump for slippers--a chilly passage. + +I passed a week lately at a country hotel where there were a number of +bad sleepers--men broken by the cares of business, but convalescent. +Each morning, as I dressed, I heard them on the veranda outside my +window, exchanging their complaints. "Well," said one, "I slept three +hours last night." "I wish I could," said a second. "I never do," said a +third. No matter how little sleep the first man allowed himself, the +second clipped off an hour. The third man told the bells he had +heard--one and two and three and four--both Baptist and Methodist--and +finished with his preceding competitor at least a half hour down. But +always there was an old man--an ancient man with flowing beard--who +waited until all were done, and concluded the discussion just at the +breakfast gong: _"I never slept a wink."_ This was the perfect score. +His was the golden cup. Whereupon the insomnious veranda hung its +defeated head with shame, and filed into the dining-room to be soothed +and comforted with griddle-cakes. + +This daily contest recalled to me the story of the two men drowned in +the Dayton and Johnstown floods who boasted to each other when they came +to heaven. Has the story gone the rounds? For a while they were the +biggest lions among all the angels, and harps hung untuned and neglected +in their presence. As often as they met in the windy portico of heaven, +one of these heroes, falling to reminiscence of the flood that drowned +him, lifted the swirling water of Johnstown to the second floor. The +other hero, not to be outdone, drenched the Dayton garrets. The first +was now compelled to submerge a chimney. Turn by turn they mounted in +competition to the top of familiar steeples. But always an old man sat +by--an ancient man with flowing beard--who said "Fudge!" in a tone of +great contempt. Must I continue? Surely you have guessed the end. It was +the old mariner himself. It was the survivor of Ararat. It was Noah. +Once, I myself, among these bad sleepers on the veranda, boasted that I +had heard the bells at two o'clock, but I was scorned as an unfledged +novice in their high convention. + +Sleeping too well seems to argue that there is nothing on your mind. +Your head, it is asserted by the jealous, is a vacancy that matches the +empty spaces of the night. It is as void as the untwinkling north. If +there has been a rummage, they affirm, of important matters all day +above your ears, it can hardly be checked at once by popping the tired +head down upon a pillow. These fizzing squibs of thought cannot be +smothered in a blanket. When one has planned a railroad or a revolution, +the mighty churning still progresses in the dark. A dubious franchise +must be gained. Villains must be pricked down for execution. Or bankers +have come up from Paraguay, and one meditates from hour to hour on the +sureness of the loan. Or perhaps an imperfect poem searches for a rhyme, +or the plot of a novel sticks. + +It is the shell, they say, which is fetched from the stormy sea that +roars all night. My head, alas, by the evidence, is a shell which is +brought from a stagnant shore. + +Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep! Sleep that knits up the +ravell'd sleave of care! That is all very well, and pretty poetry, but I +am afraid, when everything is said, that I am a sleepy-head. I do not, +of course, have to pinch myself at a business meeting. At high noon I do +not hear the lotus song. I do not topple, full of dreams, off the +platform of a street-car. The sleepy poppy is not always at my nose. + +Nor do I yawn at dinner behind a napkin, or doze in the firelight when +there are guests about. My manners keep me from this boorishness. In an +extremity, if they sit too late, I stir the fire, or I put my head out +of doors for the wind to waken me. I show a sudden anxiety whether the +garage is locked. I pretend that the lawn-mower is left outside, or that +the awnings are loose and flapping. But I do not dash out the lights +when our guests are still upon the steps. I listen at the window until I +hear their motor clear the corner. Then I turn furiously to my buttons. +I kick off my shoes upon the staircase. + +Several of us were camping once in the woods north of Lake Superior. As +we had no guides we did all the work ourselves, and everyone was of +harder endurance than myself. Was it not Pippa who cried out "Morning's +at seven"? Seven! I look on her as being no better than a slug-a-bed. +She should have had her dishes washed and been on her way by six. Our +day began at five. Our tents had to be taken down, our blankets and +duffle packed. We were regularly on the water an hour before Pippa +stirred a foot. And then there were four or five hours of paddling, +perhaps in windy water. And then a new camp was made. Our day matched +the exertions of a traveling circus. In default of expert knowledge I +carried water, cut brouse for the beds and washed dishes. Little jobs, +of an unpleasant nature, were found for me as often as I paused. Others +did the showy, light-fingered work. I was housemaid and roustabout from +sunrise to weary sunset. I was never allowed to rest. Nor was I +permitted to flop the bacon, which I consider an easy, sedentary +occupation. I acquired, unjustly,--let us agree in this!--a reputation +for laziness, because one day I sat for several hours in a blueberry +patch, when work was going forward. + +And then one night, when all labor seemed done and there was an hour of +twilight, I was asked to read aloud. Everyone settled himself for a +feast of Shakespeare's sonnets. But it was my ill luck that I selected +the sonnet that begins, "Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed." A great +shout went up--a shout of derision. That night I read no more. I carried +up six or eight pails of water from the spring and followed the +sonneteer's example. + +There are a great many books that I would like to read of a winter's +evening if I could stay awake--all of the histories, certainly, of +Fiske. And Rhodes, perhaps. I might even read "The Four Horsemen," +"Trilby" and "The Education of Henry Adams," so as not to be alone. It +is snug by the fire, and the very wind taps on the window as if it asked +for invitation to share the hearth. I could compile a list, a five-foot +shelf, for these nights of tempest. There is a writer in a Boston paper +who tells us every week the books that he would like to read. His is a +prospect rather than a review, for it is based on his anticipation. But +does he ever read these books? Perhaps he, too, dozes. His book slips +off his knee and his chin drops to comfort on his front. Let me inform +him that a wood fire--if the logs are hardly dry--is a corrective. Its +debility, as water oozes at the end, requires attendance every five +minutes. Even Wardle's fat boy at Manor Farm could have lasted through +the evening if the poker had been forced into his hand so often. "I +read," says Tennyson, "before my eyelids dropt their shade." And wasn't +Alice sitting with her book when she fell asleep and down the +rabbit-hole? "And so to bed," writes Pepys. He, too, then, is one of us. + +I wonder if that phrase--he who runs may read--has not a deeper +significance than lies upon the surface. Perhaps the prophet--was it +Habakkuk who wrote the line?--it does not matter--perhaps the bearded +prophet had himself the sleepy habit, and kept moving briskly for remedy +around his study. I can see him in dressing-gown and slippers, with book +in hand--his whiskers veering in the wind--quickening his lively pace +around the kerosene lamp, steering among the chairs, stumbling across +the cat-- + +In ambition I am a night-hawk. I would like to sit late with old books +and reconstruct the forgotten world at midnight. These bells that I hear +now across the darkness are the mad bells of Saint Bartholomew. With +that distant whistle--a train on the B. & O.--Guy Fawkes gathers his +villains to light the fuse. Through my window from the night I hear the +sounds of far-off wars and kingdoms falling. + +And I would like, also, at least in theory, to sit with a merry company +of friends, and let the cannikin clink till dawn. + +I would like to walk the streets of our crowded city and marvel at the +windows--to speculate on the thousand dramas that weave their webs in +our common life. Here is mirth that shakes its sides when its neighbors +sleep. Here is a hungry student whose ambition builds him rosy castles. +Here is a light at a fevered pillow where hope burns dim. + +On some fairy night I would wish to wander in the woods, when there are +dancing shadows and a moon. Here Oberon holds state. Here Titania +sleeps. I would cross a silver upland. I would stand on a barren +hill-top, like the skipper of the world in its whirling voyage. + +But these high accomplishments are beyond me. Habakkuk and the fat boy, +and Alice and Pepys and I, and all the others, must be content. Even the +wet wood and the poker fail. The very wind grows sleepy at the window. +Our chins fall forward. Our books slip off our knees. + +And now, at last, our buoyant bed floats among the stars. I have cast +off the moorings of the sluggish world. Earth's harbor lights are at the +stern. The Pleiades mark the channel to the moon-- + +Poof! Sleep draws again its dark curtain across the glittering pageant. + + + + +Who Was Jeremy? + + +Who was Jeremy Bentham? I have run on his name recently two or three +times. I could, of course, find out. The Encyclopedia--volume _Aus to +Bis_--would enlighten me. Right now, downstairs in the bookcase--up near +the top where the shabby books are kept--among the old Baedekers--there +is a life of him by Leslie Stephen. No! That is a life of Hobbes. I +don't know anything about Hobbes either. It seems to me that he wrote +the "Leviathan," whatever that was. But there is a Bentham somewhere +around the house. But I have not read it. + +In a rough way I know who Bentham was. He lived perhaps a hundred years +ago and he had a theory of utility. Utility was to clean the infected +world. Even the worst of us were to rise out of the tub white and +perfect. It was Bentham who wished to revisit the world in a hundred +years to see how sweet and clean we had become. He was to utility what +Malthus was to population. Malthus! There is another hard one. It is the +kind of name that is cut round the top of a new City Hall to shame +citizens by their ignorance. + +I can go downstairs this minute and look up Bentham. Is it worth while? +But then I might be called to dinner in the middle of the article, or I +might be wanted to move the refrigerator. There is a musty smell, it +seems, in the drain pipe, and the stubborn casters are turned sidewise. +It hardly seems worth the chance and effort. + +There are a great many things that really do stir my curiosity, and even +those things I don't look up. Or tardily, after my ignorance has been +exposed. The other day the moon arose--as a topic--at the round table of +the club where I eat lunch. It had really never occurred to me that we +had never seen its other side, that we never could--except by a +catastrophe--unless it smashed into a planet and was thrown heels up. +How does it keep itself so balanced that one face is forever hid? Try to +roll an apple around a pumpkin and meanwhile spin the pumpkin. Try this +on your carpet. I take my hat off to the moon. + +I have been very ignorant of the moon. All of these years I have +regarded it as a kindly creature that showed itself now and then merely +on a whim. It was just jogging around of an evening, so I supposed, and +looked us up. It was an old neighbor who dropped in after dinner, as it +were, for a bit of gossip and an apple. But even the itinerant +knife-grinder--whose whirling wheel I can hear this minute below me in +the street--even the knife-grinder has a route. He knows at what season +we grow dull. What necessity, then, of ours beckons to the moon? Perhaps +it comes with a silver brush to paint the earth when it grows shabby +with the traffic of the day. Perhaps it shows itself to stir a lover who +halts coldly in his suit. The pink god, they say, shoots a dangerous +arrow when the moon is full. + +The extent of my general ignorance is amazing. And yet, I suppose, by +persistence and energy I could mend it. Old Doctor Dwight used to advise +those of us who sat in his classroom to read a hard book for half an +hour each day. How those half hours would mount up through the years! +What a prodigious background of history, of science, of literature, one +would gain as the years revolved! If I had followed his advice I would +today be bursting with knowledge of Jeremy Bentham; I would never have +been tripped upon the moon. + +How ignorant most of us are of the times in which we live! We see the +smoke and fires of revolution in Europe. We hear the cries of famine and +disease, but our perception is lost in the general smudge. How are the +Balkans parceled? How is the nest of nationalities along the Danube +disposed? This morning there is revolt in Londonderry. What parties are +opposite in the quarrel? Trouble brews in Chile. Is Tacni-Arica a +district or a mountain range? The Aland Islands breed war in the north. +Today there is a casualty list from Bagdad. The Bolsheviki advance on +Warsaw. Those of us who are cobblers tap our shoes unruffled, tailors +stitch, we bargain in the market--all of us go about on little errands +without excitement when the news is brought. + +And then there is mechanics. This is now so preeminently a mechanical +world that no one ought to be entirely ignorant of cylinders and cogs +and carburetors. And yet my own motor is as dark as Africa. I am as +ignorant of a carburetor as of the black stomach of a zebra. Once a +carpenter's bench was given me at Christmas, fitted up with all manner +of tricky tools. The bookshelves I built in my first high enthusiasm +have now gone down to the basement to hold the canned fruit, where they +lean with rickets against the wall. Even the box I made to hold the milk +bottles on the back steps has gone the way of flesh. Any chicken-coop of +mine would topple in the wind. Well-instructed hens would sit around on +fence-posts and cackle at my efforts with a saw. Certainly, if a company +of us were thrown on a desert island, it would not be I who proved the +Admirable Crichton. Not by my shrewdness could we build a hut. Robinson +Crusoe contrived a boat. If I tied a raft together it would be sure to +sink. + +Where are the Virgin Islands? What makes a teapot bubble? What forces +bring the rain and tempest? + +In cooking I go no farther than an egg. Birds, to me, are either +sparrows or robins. I know an elm and a maple, but hemlocks and pines +and firs mix me up. I am not to be trusted to pull the weeds. Up would +come the hollyhocks. Japanese prints and Chinese vases sit in a world +above me. + +I can thump myself in front without knowing whether I jar my stomach or +my liver. I have no notion where my food goes when it disappears. When +once I have tilted my pudding off its spoon my knowledge ceases. It is +as a child of Israel on journey in the wilderness. Does it pass through +my thorax? And where do my lungs branch off? + +I know nothing of etchings, and I sit in gloomy silence when friends +toss Whistler and Rembrandt across the table. I know who our mayor is, +but I scratch my head to name our senator. And why does the world +crumple up in hills and mountains? + +I could look up Jeremy Bentham and hereafter I would know all about him. +And I could look up the moon. And Hobbes. And Leslie Stephen, who wrote +a book about him. And a man named Maitland who wrote a life of Stephen. +Somebody must have written about Maitland. I could look him up, too. And +I could read about the Balkans and tell my neighbors whether they are +tertiary or triassic. I could pursue the thorax to its lair. Saws and +chicken-coops, no doubt, are an engaging study. I might take a tree-book +to the country, or seek an instructive job in a garage. + +But what is the use? Right in front of Jeremy Bentham, in _Aus to Bis_, +is George Bentham, an English botanist. To be thorough I would have to +read about him also. Then following along is Bentivoglio, and Benzene--a +long article on benzene. And Beowulf! No educated person should be quite +ignorant of him. Albrecht Bitzius was a Swiss novelist. Somehow he has +escaped me entirely. And Susanna Blamire, "the muse of Cumberland"! She +sounds engaging. Who is there so incurious that he would not give an +evening to Borneo? And the Bryophyta?--which I am glad to learn include +"the mosses and the liverworts." Dear me! it is quite discouraging. + +And then, when I am gaining information on Hobbes, the Hittites, right +in front, take my eye. Hilarius wrote "light verses of the goliardic +type"--whatever that means. And the hippopotamus! "the largest +representative of the non-ruminating artiodactyle ungulate mammals." I +must sit with the hippopotamus and worm his secret. + +And after I have learned to use the saw, I would have to take up the +plane. And then the auger. And Whistler. And Japanese prints. And a bird +book. + +It is very discouraging. + +I stand with Pope. Certainly, unless one is very thirsty and has a great +deal of vacant time, it is best to avoid the Pierian spring. + +Jeremy can go and hang himself. I am learning to play golf. + + + + +A Chapter for Children. + + +Once upon a time--for this is the way a story should begin--there lived +in a remote part of the world a family of children whose father was busy +all day making war against his enemies. And so, as their mother, also, +was busy (clubs, my dear, and parties), they were taken care of and had +their noses wiped--but in a most kindly way--by an old man who loved +them very much. + +Now this old man had been a jester in his youth. For these were the +children of a king and so, of course, they had a jester, just as you and +I, if we are rich, have a cook. He had been paid wages--I don't know how +many kywatskies--merely to stand in the dining-room and say funny +things, and nobody asked him to jump around for the salt or to hurry up +the waffles. And he didn't even brush up the crumbs afterward. + +I do not happen to know the children of any king--there is not a single +king living on our street--yet, except for their clothes, they are much +like other children. Of course they wear shinier clothes. It is not the +shininess that comes from sliding down the stair rail, but a royal +shininess, as though it were always eleven o'clock on Sunday morning and +the second bell of the Methodist church were ringing, with several +deacons on the steps. For if one's father is a king, ambassadors and +generals keep dropping in all the time, and queens, dressed up in +brocade so stiff you can hear them breathe. + +One day the children had been sliding down hill in the snow--on Flexible +Flyers, painted red--and their mittens and stockings were wet. So the +old man felt their feet--tickling their toes--and set them, bare-legged, +in a row, in front of the nursery fire. And he told them a story. + +"O children of the king!" he began, and with that he wiped their noses +all round, for it had been a cold day, when even the best-mannered +persons snuffle now and then. "O children of the king!" he began again, +and then he stopped to light a taper at the fire. For he was a wise old +man and he knew that when there is excitement in a tale, a light will +keep the bogies off. This old man could tell a story so that your eyes +opened wider and wider, as they do when Annie brings in ice-cream with +raspberry sauce. And once in a while he said Odd Zooks, and God-a-Mercy +when he forgot himself. + +"Once upon a time," he began, "there lived a king in a far-off country. +To get to that country, O children of a king, you would have to turn and +turn, and spell out every signpost. And then you climb up the sides of +seventeen mountains, and swim twenty-three streams precisely. Here you +wait till dusk. But just before the lamps are lighted, you get down on +all-fours--if you are a boy (girls, I believe, don't have +all-fours)--and crawl under the sofa. Keep straight on for an hour or so +with the coal-scuttle three points starboard, but be careful not to let +your knees touch the carpet, for that wears holes in them and spoils the +magic. Then get nurse to pull you out by the hind legs--and--_there you +are_. + +"Once upon a time, then, there lived a king with a ferocious moustache +and a great sword which rattled when he walked around the house. He made +scratches all over the piano legs, but no one felt like giving him a +paddy-whack. This king had a pretty daughter. + +"Now it is a sad fact that there was a war going on. It was between this +king who had the pretty daughter and another king who lived near by, on +an adjoining farm, so to speak. And the first king had sworn by his +halidome--and at this his court turned pale--that he would take his +enemy by his blasted nose. + +"Both of these kings lived in castles whose walls were thick and whose +towers were high. And around their tops were curious indentings that +looked as your teeth would look if every other one were pulled. These +castles had moats with lily pads and green water in them, which was not +at all healthful, except that persons in those days did not know about +it and were consequently just as well off. And there were jousting +fields and soup caldrons (with a barrel of animal crackers) and a tun of +lemonade (six glasses to a lemon)--everything to make life comfortable. + +"Here's a secret. The other king who lived near by was in love with the +first king's daughter. Here are two kings fighting each other, and one +of them in love with the other's daughter, but not saying a word about +it. + +"Now the second king--the one in love--was not very fierce, and his name +was King Muffin--which suggests pleasant thoughts--whereas the first +king with the beautiful daughter was called King Odd Zooks, Zooks the +Sixth, for he was the sixth of his powerful line. And my story is to +show how King Muffin got the better of King Zooks and married his +daughter. It was a clever piece of business, for the walls of the castle +were high, and the window of the Princess was way above the trees. King +Muffin didn't even know which her window was, for it did not have any +lace curtains and it looked no better than the cook's, except that the +cook sometimes on Monday tied her stockings to the curtain cord to dry. +And of course if King Muffin had come openly to the castle, the guards +would have cut him all to bits. + +"One day in June King Muffin was out on horseback. He had left his crown +at home and was wearing his third-best clothes, so you would have +thought that he was just an ordinary man. But he was a good horseman; +that is, he wasn't thinking every minute about falling off, but sat +loosely, as one might sit in a rocking-chair. + +"The country was beautiful and green, and in the sky there were puffy +clouds that looked the way a pop-over looks before it turns brown--a big +pop-over that would stuff even a hungry giant up to his ears. And there +was a wind that wiggled everything, and the noise of a brook among the +trees. Also, there were birds, but you must not ask me their names, for +I am not good at birds. + +"King Muffin, although he was a brave man, loved a pleasant day. So he +turned back his collar at the throat in order that the wind might tickle +his neck and he dropped his reins on his horse's back in a careless way +that wouldn't be possible on a street where there were trolley-cars. In +this fashion he rode on for several miles and sang to himself a great +many songs. Sometimes he knew the words and sometimes he said _tum tum +te tum tum_, but he kept to the tune. + +"King Muffin enjoyed his ride so much that before he knew it he was out +of his own kingdom and at least six parasangs in the kingdom of King +Zooks. _My dear, use your handkerchief!_ + +"And even then King Muffin would not have realized it, except that on +turning a corner he saw a young man lying under a tree in a suit that +was half green and half yellow. King Muffin knew him at once to be a +jester--but whose? King Zooks's jester, of course, his mortal enemy. For +jesters have to go off by themselves once in a while to think up new +jokes, and no other king lived within riding distance. Really, the +jester was thinking of rhymes to _zithern_, which is the name of the +curious musical instrument he carried, and is a little like a mandolin, +only harder to play. It cannot be learned in twelve easy lessons. And +the jester was making a sorry business of it, for it is a difficult +word to find rhymes to, as you would know if you tried. He was terribly +woeful. + +"King Muffin said 'Whoa' and stopped his horse. Then he said 'Good +morning, fellow,' in the kind of superior tone that kings use. + +"The jester got off the ground and, as he did not know that Muffin was a +king, he sneezed; for the ground was damp. It was a slow sneeze in +coming, for the ground was not very wet, and he stood waiting for it +with his mouth open and his eyes squinting. So King Muffin waited too, +and had a moment to think. And as kings think very fast, very many +thoughts came to him. So, by the time the sneeze had gone off like a +shower bath, and before the pipes filled up for another, some +interesting things had occurred to him. Well! things about the Princess +and how he might get a chance to speak with her. But he said: + +"'Ho, ho! Methinks King Zooks's jester has the snuffles.' + +"At this, Jeppo--for that was the jester's name--looked up with a wry +face, for he still kept a sneeze inside him which he couldn't dislodge. + +"'By my boots and spurs!' the King cried again, 'you are a woeful +jester.' + +"Jeppo _was_ woeful. For on this very night King Zooks was to give a +grand dinner--not a simple dinner such as you have at home with Annie +passing dishes and rattling the pie around the pantry--but a dinner for +a hundred persons, generals and ambassadors, all dressed in lace and +eating from gold plates. And of course everyone would look to Jeppo for +something funny--maybe a new song with twenty verses and a +_rol-de-rol-rol chorus_, which everyone could sing even if he didn't +know the words. And Jeppo didn't know a single new thing. He had tried +to write something, but had stuck while trying to think of a rhyme for +_zithern_. So of course he was woeful. And King Muffin knew it. + +"All this while King Muffin was thinking hard, although he didn't scowl +once, for some persons can think without scowling. He wished so much to +see the Princess, and yet he knew that if he climbed the tallest tree he +couldn't reach her window. And even if he found a ladder long enough, as +likely as not he would lean it up against the cook's window, not +noticing the stockings on the curtain cord. King Muffin should have +looked glum. But presently he smiled. + +"'Jeppo,' he said, 'what would you say if I offered to change places +with you? Here you are fretting about that song of yours and the dinner +only a few hours off. You will be flogged tomorrow, sure, for being so +dull tonight. Just change clothes with me and go off and enjoy yourself. +Sit in a tavern! Spend these kywatskies!' Here King Muffin rattled his +pocket. 'I'll take your place. I know a dozen songs, and they will +tickle your king until, goodness me! he will cry into his soup.' King +Muffin really didn't give King Zooks credit for ordinary manners, but +then he was his mortal enemy, and prej'iced. + +"Well, Jeppo _was_ terribly woeful and that word _zithern_ was +bothering him. There was _pithern_ and _dithern_ and _mithern_. He had +tried them all, but none of them seemed to mean anything. So he looked +at King Muffin, who sat very straight on his horse, for he wasn't at all +afraid of him, although he was a tall horse and had nostrils that got +bigger and littler all the time; and back legs that twitched. Meanwhile +King Muffin twirled a gold chain in his fingers. Then Jeppo looked at +King Muffin's clothes and saw that they were fashionable. Then he looked +at his hat and there was a yellow feather in it. And those kywatskies. +King Muffin, just to tease him, twirled his moustache, as kings will. + +"So the bargain was made. There was a thicket near, so dense that it +would have done for taking off your clothes when you go swimming. In +this thicket King Muffin and Jeppo exchanged clothes. Of course Jeppo +had trouble with the buttons for he had never dressed in such fine +clothes before, and many of a king's buttons are behind. + +"And now, when the exchange was made, Jeppo inquired where he would find +an expensive tavern with brass pull-handles on the lemonade vat, and he +rode off, licking his lips and jingling his kywatskies. But King Muffin, +dressed as a jester, vaulted on his horse and trotted in the direction +of King Zooks's castle, which had indentings around the top like a row +of teeth if every other one were pulled. + +"And after a little while it became night. It is my private opinion, my +dear, which I shall whisper in the middle of your ear--the outer flap +being merely ornamental and for 'spection purposes--that the sun is +afraid of the dark, because you never see him around after nightfall. +Bless you, he goes off to bed before twilight and tucks himself to the +chin before you or I would even think of lighting a candle. And, on my +word, he prefers to sleep in the basement. He goes down the back stairs +and cuddles behind the furnace. And he has the bad habit, mercy! of +reading in bed. A good half hour after he should be sound asleep, you +can see the reflection of his candle on the evening clouds." + +At this point the old man paused a bit, to see if the children were +still awake. Then he wiped their noses all around, not forgetting the +youngest with the fat legs, and began again. + +"During all this time King Zooks had been getting ready for the party, +trying on shiny coats, and getting his silk stockings so that the seams +at the back went straight up and didn't wind around, which is the way +they naturally do unless you are particular. And he put a clean +handkerchief into every pocket, in case he sneezed in a hurry--for King +Zooks was a lavish dresser. + +"His wife was dressing in another room, keeping three maids busy with +safety pins and powder-puffs, and getting all of the snarls out of her +hair. And, in still another room of the castle, his daughter was +dressing. Now his wife was a nice-looking woman, like nurse, except that +she wore stiff brocade and didn't jounce. But his daughter was +beautiful and didn't need a powder-puff. + +"When they were all dressed they met outside, just to ask questions of +one another about handkerchiefs and noses and behind the ears. The +Queen, also, wished to be very sure that there wasn't a hole in the heel +of her stocking, for she wore black stockings, which makes it worse. +King Zooks was fond of his wife and fond of his daughter, and when he +was with them he did not look so fierce. He kissed both of them, but +when he kissed his daughter--which was the better fun--he took hold of +her nose--but in a most kindly way--so that her face wouldn't slip. + +"Then they went down the marble stairs, with flunkies bowing up and +down. + +"But how worried King Zooks would have been if he had known that at that +very moment his enemy, King Muffin, was coming into the castle, +disguised as a jester. Nobody stopped King Muffin, for wandering jesters +were common in those days. + +"And now the party started with all its might. + +"King Zooks offered his arm to the wife of the Ambassador, and Queen +Zooks offered hers to the General of the army. There was a fight around +the Princess, but she said _eenie meenie minie moe, catch a nigger by +the toe_ and counted them all out but one. And so they went down another +marble stairway to the dining-room, where a band was blowing itself red +in the face--the trombonist, in particular, seeming to be in great +distress. + +"And where was King Muffin? + +"King Muffin came in by the postern--the back stoop, my dear--and he +washed his hands and ears at the kitchen sink and went right up to the +dining-room. And there he was standing behind the King's chair, where +King Zooks couldn't see him but the Princess could. You can see from +this what a crafty person King Muffin was. Queen Zooks, to be sure, +could see him, but she was an unsuspicious person, and was very hungry. +There were waffles for dinner, and when there were waffles she didn't +even talk very much. + +"King Muffin was very funny. He told jokes which were old at his own +castle, but were new to King Zooks. And King Zooks, thinking he was a +real jester, laughed until he cried--only his tears did not get into his +soup, for by that time the soup had been cleared away. A few of them, +however--just a splatter--did fall on his fish, but it didn't matter as +it was a salt fish anyway. But all the guests, inasmuch as they were +eating away from home, had to be more particular. And when the +_rol-de-rol-rol_ choruses came, how King Zooks sang, throwing back his +head and forgetting all about his ferocious moustache! + +"No one enjoyed the fun more than King Muffin. Whenever things quieted +down a bit he said something even funnier than the last. But during all +this time it had not occurred to King Zooks to inquire for Jeppo, or to +ask why a new fool stood behind his chair. He just laughed and nudged +the wife of the Ambassador with his elbow and ate his waffles and +enjoyed himself. + +"So the dinner grew merrier and merrier until at last everyone had had +enough to eat. They would have pushed back a little from the table to be +more comfortable in front, except for their manners. King Zooks was the +last to finish, for the dinner ended with ice-cream and he was fond of +it. He didn't have it ordinary days. In fact he was so eager to get the +last bit that he scraped his spoon round and round upon the dish until +Queen Zooks was ashamed of him. When, finally, he was all through, the +guests folded their napkins and pushed back their chairs until you never +heard such a squeak. A few of them--but these had never been out to +dinner before--had spilled crumbs in their laps and had to brush them +off. + +"And now there was a dance. + +"So King Zooks offered his arm to the wife of the Ambassador and Queen +Zooks offered hers to the General of the army, and they started up the +marble stairway to the ballroom. But what should King Muffin do but skip +up to the Princess while she was still smoothing out her skirts. (Yellow +organdie, my dear, and it musses when you sit on it.) Muffin made a low +bow and kissed her hand. Then he asked her for the first dance. It was +so preposterous that a jester should ask her to dance at all, that +everyone said it was the funniest thing he had done, and they went into +a gale about it on the marble stairway. Even Queen Zooks, who ordinarily +didn't laugh much at jokes, threw back her head and laughed quite +loud--but in a minute, when everybody else was done. And then to +everyone's surprise the Princess consented to dance with King Muffin, +although the General of the army stood by in a kind of empty fashion. +But everybody was so merry, and in particular King Zooks, that no one +minded. + +"King Muffin, when he danced with the Princess, looked at her very hard +and softly, and she looked back at him as if she didn't mind it a bit. +Evidently she knew him despite his disguise. And naturally she knew that +he was in love with her. + +"Now King Muffin hadn't had a thing to eat, for jesters are supposed to +eat at a little table afterwards. If they ate at the big table they +would forget and sing sometimes with their mouths full and you know how +that would sound. So he and the Princess went downstairs to the pantry, +where he ate seven cream puffs and three floating islands, one after the +other, never spilling a bit on his blouse. He called them 'floatin' +Irelands,' having learned it that way as a child, his nurse not +correcting him. Then he felt better and they returned to the ballroom, +where the dance was still going on with all its might. + +"King Muffin took the Princess out on the balcony, which was the place +where young gentlemen, even in those days, took ladies when they had +something particular to say. He shut the door carefully and looked all +around to make sure that there were no spies about, under the chairs, +inside the vases. He even wiggled the rug for fear that there might be +a trapdoor beneath. + +"Did the Princess love King Muffin? Of course she did. But she wasn't +going to let him know it all at once. Ladies never do things like that. +So she looked indifferent, as though she might yawn at any moment. +Despite that, King Muffin told her what was on his mind, and when he was +finished, he looked for an answer. But she didn't say anything, but just +sat quiet and pretended there was a button off her dress. So King Muffin +told it again, and moved up a bit. And this time her head nodded ever so +little. But he saw it. So he reached down in his side pocket, so far +that he had to straighten out his leg to get to the bottom. He brought +up a ring. Then he slipped it on her finger, the next to the longest one +on her left hand. After that he kissed her in a most affectionate way. + +"This was all very well, but of course King Zooks would never consent to +their marriage. And if he discovered that the new jester was King +Muffin, his guards would cut him all to slivers. For a minute they were +woeful. Then a bright idea came to King Muffin-- + +"Meanwhile the dance had been going on with all its might. First the +General of the army danced with Queen Zooks. He was a very manly dancer +and was quite stiff from the waist up, and she bounced around on +tip-toe. Then the Ambassador danced with her, but his sword kept getting +in her way. Then both of them, having done their duty, looked around +for the Princess. They went to the lemonade room, for that was the first +place naturally to look. Then they went to the cardroom, where the older +persons were playing casino, and were sitting very solemn, as if it were +not a party at all. + +"Then they went to King Zooks, who was jiggling on his toes, with his +back to the fire, full and happy. 'Where is your daughter, Majestical +Majesty?' they asked. But as King Zooks didn't know he joined the +search, and Queen Zooks, too. But she wasn't much good at it, for she +had a long train and she couldn't turn a corner sharp, although her +maids trotted after her and whisked it about as fast as possible. + +"But they couldn't find the Princess anywhere inside the castle. + +"After a while it occurred to King Zooks that the cook might know. She +had gone to bed--leaving her dishes until morning--so up they climbed. +She answered from under the covers, 'Whajuwant?' which shows that she +didn't talk English and was probably a Spanish cook or an Indian +princess captured very young. So she got up, all excited. My! how she +scuffed around, looking for her slippers, trying to find her clothes and +getting one or two things on wrong side out! She was so confused that +she thought it was morning and brushed her teeth. + +"By this time an hour had passed and King Zooks was fidgety. He told his +red-faced band to lean their trombones and other things up against the +wall, so that he could think. Then he stroked his chin, while the court +stood by and tried to think also. Finally the King sent a herald to +proclaim around the castle how fidgety he was and that his daughter must +be brought to him. But the Princess was not found. Meantime the band ate +ice-cream and cocoanut macaroons, and appeared to enjoy itself. + +"In a tall tower that stands high above the trees there was a great +clock, and, by and by, it began to strike the hour. It did not stop +until it had struck ten times. So you see it was growing late and the +King had the right to be getting fidgety. When the clock had done, those +guests who were not in the habit of sitting up so late, began to grow +sleepy; only, of course, they did not yawn out loud, but behind fans and +things. + +"Meanwhile King Muffin had gone downstairs to the stable. He brought out +his horse with the flaring nostrils and another horse also. He took them +around to the Princess, who sat waiting for him on a marble bench in the +shadow of a tree. + +"'Climb up, beautiful Princess,' he said. + +"She hopped into her saddle and he into his. They were off like the +wind. + +"They heard the clock strike ten and they saw the great tower rising +above the castle with the silver moon upon it, but they galloped on and +on. Through the forest they galloped, over bridges and streams. And the +moon climbed off the tower and kept with them--as it does with all good +folk--plunging through the clouds like a ship upon the ocean. And still +they galloped on. Presently they met Jeppo returning from the tavern +with the brass pull-handles. 'Yo, ho!' called out the King, and they +passed him in a flash. _Clackety-clack-clack, clackety-clack-clack, +clack-clack, clackety-clack!_ + +"And peasants, who usually slept right through the night, awoke at the +sound of their hoofs and although they were very sleepy, they ran and +looked out of their windows--being careful to put on slippers so as not +to get the snuffles. And King Muffin and the Princess galloped by with +the moonlight upon them, and the peasants wondered who they were. But as +they were very sleepy, presently they went back to bed without finding +out. One of them did, however, stumble against a chair, right on the +toe, and had to light a candle to see if it were worth mending. + +"But in the morning the peasants found a bauble near the lodge-gate, a +cap and bells on the ravine bridge, and on the long road to the border +of King Muffin's land they found a jester's coat. + +"And to this day, although many years have passed, their children and +their children's children, on the way from school, gather the lilies of +the valley which flourish in the woods and along the roads. And they +think that they are jesters' bells which were scattered in the flight." + +Whereupon the old man, having finished his story, wiped the noses of the +children, not forgetting the youngest one with the fat legs, and sent +them off to bed. + +[Illustration] + + + + +The Crowded Curb. + + +Recently I came on an urchin in the crowded city, pitching pennies by +himself, in the angle of an abutment. Three feet from his patched +seat--a gay pattern which he tilted upward now and then--there moved a +thick stream of shoppers. He was in solitary contest with himself, his +evening papers neglected in a heap, wrapped in his score, unconscious of +the throng that pressed against him. He was resting from labor, as a +greater merchant takes to golf for his refreshment. The curb was his +club. He had fetched his recreation down to business, to the vacancy +between editions. Presently he will scoop his earnings to his pocket and +will bawl out to his advantage our latest murder. + +How mad--how delightful our streets would be if all of us followed as +unreservedly, with so little self-consciousness or respect of small +convention, our innocent desires! + +Who of us even whistles in a crowd?--or in the spring goes with a skip +and leap? + +A lady of my acquaintance--who grows plump in her early forties--tells +me that she has always wanted to run after an ice-wagon and ride up +town, bouncing on the tail-board. It is doubtless an inheritance from a +childhood which was stifled and kept in starch. A singer, also, of +bellowing bass, has confided to me that he would like above all things +to roar his tunes down town on a crowded crossing. The trolley-cars, he +feels, the motors and all the shrill instruments of traffic, are no more +than a sufficient orchestra for his lusty upper register. An old lady, +too, in the daintiest of lace caps, with whom I lately sat at dinner, +confessed that whenever she has seen hop-scotch chalked in an eddy of +the crowded city, she has been tempted to gather up her skirts and join +the play. + +But none of these folk obey their instinct. Opinion chills them. They +plod the streets with gray exterior. Once, on Fifth Avenue, to be sure, +when it was barely twilight, I observed a man, suddenly, without +warning, perform a cart-wheel, heels over head. He was dressed in the +common fashion. Surely he was not an advertisement. He bore no placard +on his hat. Nor was it apparent that he practiced for a circus. Rather, +I think, he was resolved for once to let the stiff, censorious world go +by unheeded, and be himself alone. + +On a night of carnival how greedily the crowd assumes the pantaloon! A +day that was prim and solemn at the start now dresses in cap and bells. +How recklessly it stretches its charter for the broadest jest! Observe +those men in women's bonnets! With what delight they swing their merry +bladders at the crowd! They are hard on forty. All week they have bent +to their heavy desks, but tonight they take their pay of life. The years +are a sullen garment, but on a night of carnival they toss it off. Blood +that was cold and temperate at noon now feels the fire. Scratch a man +and you find a clown inside. It was at the celebration of the Armistice +that I followed a sober fellow for a mile, who beat incessantly with a +long iron spoon on an ash-can top. Almost solemnly he advanced among the +throng. Was it joy entirely for the ending of the war? Or rather was he +not yielding at last to an old desire to parade and be a band? The glad +occasion merely loosed him from convention. That lady friend of mine, in +the circumstance, would have bounced on ice-wagons up to midnight. + +For it is convention, rather than our years--it is the respect and fear +of our neighbors that restrains us on an ordinary occasion. If we +followed our innocent desires at the noon hour, without waiting for a +carnival, how mad our streets would seem! The bellowing bass would pitch +back his head and lament the fair Isolde. The old lady in lace cap would +tuck up her skirts for hop-scotch and score her goal at last. + +Is it not the French who set aside a special night for foolery, when +everyone appears in fancy costume? They should set the celebration +forward in the day, and let the blazing sun stare upon their mirth. +Merriment should not wait upon the owl. + +The Dickey Club at Harvard, I think, was fashioned with some such +purpose of release. Its initiation occurs always in the spring, when the +blood of an undergraduate is hottest against restraint. It is a vent +placed where it is needed most. Zealously the candidates perform their +pranks. They exceed the letter of their instruction. The streets of +Boston are a silly spectacle. Young men wear their trousers inside out +and their coats reversed. They greet strangers with preposterous speech. +I once came on a merry fellow eating a whole pie with great mouthfuls on +the Court House steps, explaining meantime to the crowd that he was the +youngest son of Little Jack Horner. And, of course, with such a hardened +gourmand for an ancestor, he was not embarrassed by his ridiculous +posture. + +But it is not youth which needs the stirring most. Nor need one +necessarily play an absurd antic to be natural. And therefore, here at +home, on our own Soldiers' Monument--on its steps and pediment that +mount above the street--I offer a few suggestions to the throng. + +Ladies and gentlemen! I invite you to a carnival. Here! Now! At noon! I +bid you to throw off your solemn pretense. And be yourself! That sober +manner is a cloak. Your dignity scarcely reaches to your skin. Does no +one desire to play leap-frog across those posts? Do none of you care to +skip and leap? What! Will no one accept my invitation? + +You, my dear sirs, I know you. You play chess together every afternoon +in your club. One of you carries at this moment a small board in his +waistcoat pocket. Why hurry to your club, gentlemen? Here on this step +is a place to play your game. Surely your concentration is proof against +the legs that swing around you. And you, my dear sir! I see that you +are a scholar by your bag of books. You chafe for your golden studies. +Come, sit alongside! Here is a shady spot for the pursuit of knowledge. +Did not Socrates ply his book in the public concourse? + +My dear young lady, it is evident that a desire has seized you to +practice your soprano voice. Why do you wait for your solitary piano to +pitch the tune? On these steps you can throw your trills up heaven-ward. + +An ice-wagon! With a tail-board! Is there no lady in her forties, prim +in youth, who will take her fling? Or does no gentleman in silk hat wish +a piece of ice to suck? + +Observe that good-natured father with his son! They have shopped for +toys. He carries a bundle beneath his arm. It is doubtless a mechanical +bear--a creature that roars and walks on the turning of a key. After +supper these two will squat together on the parlor carpet and wind it up +for a trial performance. But must such an honest pleasure sit for the +coming of the twilight? Break the string! Insert the key! Let the +fearful creature stride boldly among the shoppers. + +Here is an iron balustrade along the steps. A dozen of you desire, +secretly, to slide down its slippery length. + +My dear madam, it is plain that the heir is naughty. Rightfully you have +withdrawn his lollypop. And now he resists your advance, stiff-legged +and spunky. Your stern eye already has passed its sentence. You merely +wait to get him home. I offer you these steps in lieu of nursery or +woodshed. You have only to tip him up. Surely the flat of your hand +gains no cunning by delay. + +And you, my dear sir--you who twirl a silk moustache--you with the young +lady on your arm! If I am not mistaken you will woo your fair companion +on this summer evening beneath the moon. Must so good a deed await the +night? Shall a lover's arms hang idle all the day? On these steps, my +dear sir, a kiss, at least, may be given as a prelude. + +Hop-scotch! Where is my old friend of the lace cap? The game is already +chalked upon the stones. + +Is there no one in the passing throng who desires to dance? Are there no +toes that wriggle for release? My dear lady, the rhythmic swish of your +skirt betrays you. A tune for a merry waltz runs through your head. +Come! we'll find you a partner in the crowd. Those silk stockings of +yours must not be wasted in a mincing gait. + +Have lawyers, walking sourly on their business, any sweeter nature to +display to us? Our larger merchants seem covered with restraint and +thought of profit. That physician with his bag of pellets seems not to +know that laughter is a panacea. Has Labor no desire to play leap-frog +on its pick and go shouting home to supper? Housewives follow their +unfaltering noses from groceries to meats. Will neither gingham nor +brocade romp and cut a caper for us? + +Ladies and gentlemen! Why wait for a night of carnival? Does not the +blood flow red, also, at the noon hour? Must the moon point a silly +finger before you start your merriment? I offer you these steps. + +Is there no one who will whistle in the crowd? Will none of you, even in +the spring, go with a skip and leap upon your business? + +[Illustration] + + + + +A Corner for Echoes. + + +Sometimes in a quiet hour I see in the memory of my childhood a frame +house across a wide lawn from a pleasant street. There are no trees +about the yard, in itself a defect, yet in its circumstance, as the +house arises in my view, the barrenness denotes no more than a breadth +of sunlight across those endless days. + +There was, indeed, in contrast and by way of shadowy admonishment, a +church near by, whose sober bell, grieving lest our joy should romp too +long, recalled us to fearful introspection on Sunday evening, and it +moved me chiefly to the thought of eternity--eternity everlasting. +Reward or punishment mattered not. It was Time itself that plagued me, +Time that rolled like a wheel forever until the imagination reeled and +sickened. And on Thursday evening also--another bad intrusion on the +happy week--again the sexton tugged at the rope for prayer and the +dismal clapper answered from above. It is strange that a man in friendly +red suspenders, pipe in mouth as he pushed his lawn-mower through the +week, should spread such desolation. But presently, when our better +neighbors were stiffly gathered in and had composed their skirts, a +brisker hymn arose. Tenor and soprano assured one another vigorously +from pew to pew that they were Christian soldiers marching as to war. +When they were off at last for the fair Jerusalem, the fret of eternity +passed from me. And yet, for the most part, we played in sunlight all +the week, and our thoughts dwelt happily on wide horizons. + +There was another church, far off across the housetops, seen only from +an attic window, whose bells in contrast were of a pleasant jangle. +Exactly where this church stood I never knew. Its towers arose above a +neighbor's barn and acknowledged no base or local habitation. Indeed, +its glittering and unsubstantial spire offered a hint that it was but an +imaginary creature of the attic, a pageant that mustered only to the +view of him who looked out through these narrow, cobwebbed windows. For +here, as in a kind of magic, the twilight flourished at the noon and its +shadows practiced beforehand for the night. Through these windows +children saw the unfamiliar, distant marvels of the world--towers and +kingdoms unseen by older eyes that were grown dusty with common sights. + +Yet regularly, out of a noonday stillness--except for the cries of the +butcher boy upon the steps--a dozen clappers of the tower struck their +sudden din across the city. It appeared that at the very moment of the +noon, having lagged to the utmost second, the frantic clappers had +bolted up the belfry stairs to call the town to dinner. Or perhaps to an +older ear their discordant and heterodox tongue hinted that Roman +infallibility had here fallen into argument and that various and +contrary doctrine was laboring in warm dispute. Certainly the clappers +were brawling in the tower and had come to blows. But a half mile off it +was an agreeable racket and did not rouse up eternity to tease me. + +Across from our house, but at the rear, with only an alley entrance, +there was a building in which pies were baked--a horrid factory in our +very midst!--and insolent smoke curled off the chimney and flaunted our +imperfection. Respectable ladies, long resident, wearing black poke +bonnets and camel's-hair shawls, lifted their patrician eyebrows with +disapproval. Scorn sat on their gentle up-turned noses. They held their +skirts close, in passing, from contamination. These pies could not count +upon their patronage. They were contraband even in a pinch, with +unexpected guests arrived. It were better to buy of Cobey, the grocer on +the Circle. And the building did smell heavily of its commodity. But +despite detraction, as one came from school, when the wind was north, +an agreeable whiff of lard and cooking touched the nostrils as a happy +prologue to one's dinner. Sometimes a cart issued to the street, boarded +close, full of pies on shelves, and rattled cityward. + +The fire station was around the corner and down a hill. We marveled at +the polished engine, the harness that hung ready from the ceiling, the +poles down which the firemen slid from their rooms above. It was at the +fire station that we got the baseball score, inning by inning, and other +news, if it was worthy, from the outside world. But perhaps we dozed in +a hammock or were lost with Oliver Optic in a jungle when the fire-bell +rang. If spry, we caught a glimpse of the hook-and-ladder from the top +of the hill, or the horses galloping up the slope. But would none of our +neighbors ever burn? we thought. Must all candles be overturned far off? + +Near the school-house was the reservoir, a mound and pond covering all +the block. Round about the top there was a gravel path that commanded +the city--the belching chimneys on the river, the ships upon the lake, +and to the south a horizon of wooded hills. The world lay across that +tumbled ridge and there our thoughts went searching for adventure. +Perhaps these were the foothills of the Himalaya and from the top were +seen the towers of Babylon. Perhaps there was an ocean, with white sails +which were blown from the Spanish coast. On a summer afternoon clouds +drifted across the sky, like mountains on a journey--emigrants, they +seemed, from a loftier range, seeking a fresh plain on which to erect +their fortunes. + +But the chief use of this reservoir, except for its wholly subsidiary +supply of water, was its grassy slope. It was usual in the noon +recess--when we were cramped with learning--to slide down on a barrel +stave and be wrecked and spilled midway. In default of stave a geography +served as sled, for by noon the most sedentary geography itched for +action. Of what profit--so it complained--is a knowledge of the world if +one is cooped always with stupid primers in a desk? Of what account are +the boundaries of Hindostan, if one is housed all day beneath a lid with +slate and pencils? But the geography required an exact balance, with +feet lifted forward into space, and with fingers gripped behind. Our +present geographies, alas, are of smaller surface, and, unless students +have shrunk and shriveled, their more profitable use upon a hill is +past. Some children descended without stave or book, and their +preference was marked upon their shining seats. + +It was Hoppy who marred this sport. Hoppy was the keeper of the +reservoir, a one-legged Irishman with a crutch. His superfluous +trouser-leg was folded and pinned across, and it was a general quarry +for patches. When his elbow or his knees came through, here was a remedy +at hand. Here his wife clipped, also, for her crazy quilt. And all the +little Hoppies--for I fancy him to have been a family man--were +reinforced from this extra cloth. But when Hoppy's bad profile appeared +at the top of the hill we grabbed our staves and scurried off. The cry +of warning--"Peg-leg's a-comin'"--still haunts my memory. It was Hoppy's +reward to lead one of us smaller fry roughly by the ear. Or he gripped +us by the wrist and snapped his stinging finger at our nose. Then he +pitched us through the fence where a wooden slat was gone. + +Hoppy's crutch was none of your elaborate affairs, curved and glossy. +Instead, it was only a stout, unvarnished stick, with a padded +cross-piece at the top. But the varlet could run, leaping forward upon +us with long, uneven strides. And I have wondered whether Stevenson, by +any chance, while he was still pondering the plot of "Treasure Island," +may not have visited our city and, seeing Hoppy on our heels, have +contrived John Silver out of him. He must have built him anew above the +waist, shearing him at his suspender buttons, scrapping his common upper +parts; but the wooden stump and breeches were a precious salvage. His +crutch, at the least, became John Silver's very timber. + +The Circle was down the street. In the center of this sunny park there +arose an artificial mountain, with a waterfall that trickled off the +rocks pleasantly on hot days. Ruins and blasted towers, battlements and +cement grottoes, were still the fashion. In those days masons built +stony belvederes and laid pipes which burst forth into mountain pools a +good ten feet above the sidewalk. The cliff upon our Circle, with its +path winding upward among the fern, its tiny castle on the peak and its +tinkle of little water, sprang from this romantic period. From the +terrace on top one could spit over the balustrade on the unsuspecting +folk who walked below. Later the town had a mechanical ship that sailed +around the pond. As often as this ship neared the cliffs the mechanical +captain on the bridge lifted his glasses with a startled jerk and gave +orders for the changing of the course. + +Tinkey's shop was on the Circle. One side of Tinkey's window was a +bakery with jelly-cakes and angel-food. This, as I recall, was my +earliest theology. Heaven, certainly, was worth the effort. The other +window unbent to peppermint sticks and grab-bags to catch our dirtier +pennies. But this meaner produce was a concession to the trade, and the +Tinkey fingers, from father down to youngest daughter, touched it with +scorn. Mrs. Tinkey, in particular, who, we thought, was above her place, +lifted a grab-bag at arm's length, and her nostrils quivered as if she +held a dead mouse by the tail. + +But in the essence Tinkey was a caterer and his handiwork was shown in +the persons of a frosted bride and groom who waited before a sugar altar +for the word that would make them man and wife. Her nose in time was +bruised--a careless lifting of the glass by the youngest Miss +Tinkey--but he, like a faithful suitor, stood to his youthful pledge. + +Beyond the shop was a room with blazing red wall paper and a fiery +carpet. In this hot furnace, out-rivaling the boasts of Abednego, the +neighborhood perspired pleasantly on August nights, and ate ice-cream. +If we arose to the price of a Tinkey layer-cake thick with chocolate, +the night stood out in splendor above its fellows. + +Around the corner was Conrad's bookstore. Conrad was a dumpy fellow with +unending good humor and a fat, soft hand. He sometimes called lady +customers, _My dear_, but it was only in his eagerness to press a sale. +I do not recall that he was a scholar. If you asked to be shown the +newest books, he might offer you the "Vicar of Wakefield" as a work just +off the press, and tell you that Goldsmith was a man to watch. A young +woman assistant read The Duchess between customers. In her fancy she +eloped daily with a duke, but actually she kept company with a grocer's +clerk. They ate sodas together at Tinkey's. How could he know, poor +fellow, when their fingers met beneath the table, that he was but a +substitute in her high romance? At the very moment, in her thoughts, she +was off with the duke beneath the moon. Conrad had also an errand boy +with a dirty face, who spent the day on a packing case at the rear of +the shop, where he ate an endless succession of apples. An orchard went +through him in the season. + +Conrad's shop was only moderate in books, but it spread itself in fancy +goods--crackers for the Fourth--marbles and tops in their season--and +for Saint Valentine's Day a range of sentiment that distanced his +competitors. A lover, though he sighed like furnace, found here mottoes +for his passion. Also there were "comics"--base insulting valentines of +suitable greeting from man to man. These were three for a nickel just as +they came off the pile, but two for a nickel with selection. + +At Christmas, Conrad displayed china inkstands. There was one of these +which, although often near a sale, still stuck to the shelves year after +year. The beauty of its device dwelt in a little negro who perched at +the rear on a rustic fence that held the penholders. But suddenly, when +choice was wavering in his favor, off he would pitch into the inkwell. +At this mischance Conrad would regularly be astonished, and he would +sell instead a china camel whose back was hollowed out for ink. Then he +laved the negro for the twentieth time and set him back upon the fence, +where he sat like an interrupted suicide with his dark eye again upon +the pool. + +Nor must I forget a line of Catholic saints. There was one jolly bit of +crockery--Saint Patrick, I believe--that had lost an arm. This defect +should have been considered a further mark of piety--a martyrdom +unrecorded by the church--a special flagellation--but although the price +in successive years sunk to thirty-nine and at last to the wholly +ridiculous sum of twenty-three cents--less than one third the price of +his unbroken but really inferior mates (Saint Aloysius and Saint +Anthony)--yet he lingered on. + +Nowhere was there a larger assortment of odd and unmatched letter paper. +No box was full and many were soiled. If pink envelopes were needed, +Conrad, unabashed, laid out a blue, or with his fat thumb he fumbled two +boxes into one to complete the count. Initialed paper once had been the +fashion--G for Gladys--and there was still a remnant of several letters +toward the end of the alphabet. If one of these chanced to fit a +customer, with what zest Conrad blew upon the box and slapped it! But +until Xenophon and Xerxes shall come to buy, these final letters must +rest unsold upon his shelves. + +Conrad was a dear good fellow (Bless me! he is still alive--just as fat +and bow-legged, with the same soft hand, just as friendly!) and when he +retired at last from business the street lost half its mirth and humor. + +Near Conrad's shop and the Circle was our house. By it a horse-car +jangled, one way only, cityward, at intervals of twelve minutes. In +winter there was straw on the floor. In front was a fare-box with +sliding shelves down which the nickels rattled, or, if one's memory +lagged, the thin driver rapped his whip-handle on the glass. He sat on a +high stool which was padded to eke out nature. + +Once before, as I have read, there was a corner for echoes. The +buildings were set so that the quiet folk who dwelt near by could hear +the sound of coming steps--steps far off, then nearer until they tramped +beneath the windows. Then, as they listened, the sounds faded. And it +seemed to him who chronicled the place that he heard the persons of his +drama coming--little steps that would grow to manhood, steps that +faltered already toward their final curtain. But there is no plot to +thicken around our corner. Or rather, there are a hundred plots. And +when I listen in fancy to the echoes, I hear the general tapping of our +neighbors--beloved feet that have gone into darkness for a while. + +I hear the footsteps of an old man. When he trod our street he was of +gloomy temper. The world was awry for him. He was sunk in despair at +politics, yet I recall that he relished an apple. As often as he stopped +to see us, he told us that the country had gone to the demnition +bow-wows, and he snapped at his apple as if it had been a Democrat. His +little dog ran a full block ahead of him on their evening stroll, and +always trotted into our gateway. He sat on the lowest step with his eyes +down the street. "Master," he seemed to say, "here we all are, waiting +for you." + +John Smith cut the grass on the Circle. He was a friend of children, +and, for his nod and greeting, I drove down street my span of tin horses +on a wheel. Hand in hand we climbed his rocky mountain to see where the +waterfall spurted from a pipe. Below, the neighbors' bonnets, with +baskets, went to shop at Cobey's. I still hear the click of his +lawn-mower of a summer afternoon. + +Darky Dan beat our carpets. He was a merry fellow and he sang upon the +street. Wild melodies they were, with head thrown back and crazy +laughter. He was a harmless, good-natured fellow, but nurse-maids +huddled us close until his song had turned the corner. + +I recall a crippled child--maybe of half wit only--who dragged a broken +foot. To our shame he seemed a comic creature and we pelted him with +snowballs and ran from his piteous anger. + +A match-boy with red hair came by on winter nights and was warmed beside +the fire. My father questioned him--as one merchant to another--about +his business, and mother kept him in mittens. In payment for bread and +jam he loosed his muffler and played the mouth-organ. In turn we blew +upon the vents, but as music it was naught. Gone is that melody. The +house is dark. + +There was an old lady lived near by in almost feudal state. Her steps +were the broadest on the street, her walnut doors were carved in the +deepest pattern, her fence was the highest. Her furniture, the year +around, was covered in linen cloths, and the great chairs with their +claw feet resembled the horses in panoply that draw the chariot of the +Nubian Queen in the circus parade. With this old lady there lived an old +cook, an old second-maid, an old laundress and an old coachman. The +second-maid thrust a platter at you as you sat at table and nudged you +in the ribs--if you were a child--"Eat it," she said, "it's good!" The +coachman nodded on his box, the laundress in her tubs, but the cook was +spry despite her years. In the yard there was a fountain--all yards had +fountains then--and I used to wonder whether this were the font of +Ponce de Leon that restored the aged to their youth. Here, surely, was +the very house to test the cure. And when the ancient laundress came by +I speculated whether, after a sudden splash, she would emerge a dazzling +princess. + +With this old lady there dwelt a niece, or a daughter, or a younger +sister--relationship was vague--and this niece owned a little black dog. +But the old lady was dull of sight and in the dark passages of her house +she waved her arm and kept saying, "Whisk, Nigger! Whisk, Nigger!" for +she had stepped once on the creature's tail. Every year she gave a +children's party, and we youngsters looked for magic in a mirror and +went to Jerusalem around her solemn chairs. She had bought toys and +trinkets from Europe for all of us. + +Then there was an old neighbor, a justice of the peace, who, being +devoid of much knowledge of the law, put his cases to my grandfather. +When he had been advised, he stroked his beard and said it was an +opinion to which he had come himself. He went down the steps mumbling +the judgment to keep it in his memory. + +It was my grandfather's custom in the late afternoon of summer, when the +sun had slanted, to pull a chair off the veranda and sit sprinkling the +lawn with his crutch beside him. Toward supper Mr. Hodge, a building +contractor and our neighbor, went by. His wagon usually rattled with +some bit of salvage--perhaps an iron bath-tub plucked from a building +before he wrecked it, or a kitchen sink. His yard was piled with the +fruitage of his profession. Mr. Hodge was of sociable turn and he cried +_whoa_ to his jogging horse. + +Now ensued a half-hour's gossip. It was the comedy of the occasion that +the horse, after having made several attempts to start and been stopped +by a jerking of the reins, took to craftiness. He put forward a hoof, +quite carelessly it seemed. If there was no protest, in time he tried a +diagonal hoof behind. It was then but a shifting of the weight to swing +forward a step. "Whoa!" yelled Mr. Hodge. "Yes, yes," the old horse +seemed to answer, "certainly, of course, yes, yes! But can't a fellow +shift his legs?" In this way the sly brute inched toward supper. My +grandfather enjoyed this comedy, and once, if I am not mistaken, I +caught him exchanging a wink with the horse. Certainly the beast was +glancing round to find a partner for his jest. A conversation, begun at +the standpipe, progressed to the telegraph pole, and at last came +opposite the kitchen. As my grandfather did not move his chair, Mr. +Hodge lifted his voice until the neighborhood knew the price of brick +and the unworthiness of plumbers. Mr. Hodge was a Republican and he +spoke in favor of the tariff. To clinch an argument he had a usual +formula. "It's neither here nor there," and he brought his fist against +the dashboard, _"it's right here."_ But finally the hungry horse +prevailed, Mr. Hodge slapped the reins in consent and they rattled home +to supper. + +Around this corner, also, there are echoes of children's feet--racing +feet upon the grass--feet that lag in the morning on the way to school +and run back at four o'clock--feet that leap the hitching posts or avoid +the sidewalk cracks. Girls' feet rustle in the fallen leaves, and they +think their skirts are silk. And I hear dimly the cries of hide-and-seek +and pull-away and the merriment of blindman's buff. One lad rises in my +memory who won our marbles. Another excelled us all when he threw his +top. His father was a grocer and we envied him his easy access to the +candy counter. + +And particularly I remember a little girl with yellow curls and blue +eyes. She was the Sleeping Beauty in a Christmas play. I had known her +before in daytime gingham and I had judged her to be as other +girls--creatures that tag along and spoil the fun. But now, as she +rested in laces for the picture, she dazzled my imagination; for I was +the silken Prince to awaken her. For a week I wished to run to sea, sink +a pirate ship, and be worthy of her love. But then a sewer was dug along +the street and I was a miner instead--recusant to love--digging in the +yellow sand for the center of the earth. + +But chiefly it is the echo of older steps I hear--steps whose sound is +long since stilled--feet that have crossed the horizon and have gone on +journey for a while. And when I listen I hear echoes that are fading +into silence. + +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Hints to Pilgrims, by Charles Stephen Brooks + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HINTS TO PILGRIMS *** + +***** This file should be named 37105.txt or 37105.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/1/0/37105/ + +Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images available at The Internet Archive) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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