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} - - div.clearpage, div.cleardoublepage - { margin: 10% 0; border: none; border-top: 1px solid gray; } - - .vfill { margin: 5% 10% } -} - -@media print { - div.clearpage { page-break-before: always; padding-top: 10% } - div.cleardoublepage { page-break-before: right; padding-top: 10% } - - .vfill { margin-top: 20% } - h2.title { margin-top: 20% } -} - -/* DIV */ -pre { font-family: monospace; font-size: 0.9em; white-space: pre-wrap } -</style> -<title>THE ROMANCE OF THE COMMONPLACE</title> -<meta name="DC.Created" content="1902" /> -<meta name="PG.Rights" content="Public Domain" /> -<meta name="PG.Title" content="The Romance of the Commonplace" /> -<meta name="PG.Released" content="2015-06-25" /> -<meta name="DC.Creator" content="Gelett Burgess" /> -<meta name="DC.Language" content="en" /> -<meta name="DC.Title" content="The Romance of the Commonplace" /> -<meta name="PG.Producer" content="Al Haines" /> -<meta name="PG.Id" content="49285" /> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/img-cover.jpg" /> - -<link rel="schema.DCTERMS" href="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" /> -<link rel="schema.MARCREL" href="http://id.loc.gov/vocabulary/relators/" /> -<meta content="The Romance of the Commonplace" name="DCTERMS.title" /> -<meta content="/home/ajhaines/romance/romance.rst" name="DCTERMS.source" /> -<meta content="en" name="DCTERMS.language" scheme="DCTERMS.RFC4646" /> -<meta content="2015-06-25T18:24:41.557753+00:00" name="DCTERMS.modified" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" /> -<meta content="Project Gutenberg" name="DCTERMS.publisher" /> -<meta content="Public Domain in the USA." name="DCTERMS.rights" /> -<link rel="DCTERMS.isFormatOf" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49285" /> -<meta content="Gelett Burgess" name="DCTERMS.creator" /> -<meta content="2015-06-25" name="DCTERMS.created" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" /> -<meta content="width=device-width" name="viewport" /> -<meta content="Ebookmaker 0.4.0a5 by Marcello Perathoner <webmaster@gutenberg.org>" name="generator" /> -</head> -<body> -<div class="document" id="the-romance-of-the-commonplace"> -<h1 class="center document-title level-1 pfirst title"><span class="x-large">THE ROMANCE OF THE COMMONPLACE</span></h1> - -<!-- this is the default PG-RST stylesheet --> -<!-- figure and image styles for non-image formats --> -<!-- default transition --> -<!-- default attribution --> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="clearpage"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="container language-en pgheader" id="pg-header" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States -and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no -restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the </span><a class="reference internal" href="#project-gutenberg-license">Project Gutenberg License</a><span> included with -this ebook or online at </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license">http://www.gutenberg.org/license</a><span>. If you -are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws -of the country where you are located before using this ebook.</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<div class="container" id="pg-machine-header"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>Title: The Romance of the Commonplace -<br /> -<br />Author: Gelett Burgess -<br /> -<br />Release Date: June 25, 2015 [EBook #49285] -<br /> -<br />Language: English -<br /> -<br />Character set encoding: UTF-8</span></p> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-start-line"><span>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>THE ROMANCE OF THE COMMONPLACE</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-produced-by"><span>Produced by Al Haines.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span></span></p> -</div> -<div class="container titlepage"> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold xx-large">THE ROMANCE OF -<br />THE COMMONPLACE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">Gelett Burgess</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<!-- --> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Now things there are that, upon him who sees,</em></div> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">A strong vocation lay; and strains there are</em></div> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">That whoso hears shall hear for evermore.</em></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">Paul Elder and Morgan Shepard : : : San Francisco</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="container verso"> -<p class="center pfirst"><em class="italics small">Copyright</em><span class="small">, 1902 -<br />by GELETT BURGESS</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><em class="italics small">Entered at</em><span class="small"> Stationer's Hall -<br /></span><em class="italics small">London</em></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">PRINTED BY THE STANLEY-TAYLOR COMPANY, SAN FRANCISCO</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="container dedication"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">To -<br />My Sisters, Ella and Ann: -<br />with whom -<br />This Philosophy was Proven</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold x-large">THE ROMANCE OF -<br />THE COMMONPLACE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">Contents</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"><a class="reference internal" href="#introduction">Introduction</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#april-essays">April Essays</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#getting-acquainted">Getting Acquainted</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#dining-out">Dining Out</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-uncharted-sea">The Uncharted Sea</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-art-of-playing">The Art of Playing</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-use-of-fools">The Use of Fools</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#absolute-age">Absolute Age</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-manual-blessing">The Manual Blessing</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-deserted-island">The Deserted Island</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-sense-of-humour">The Sense of Humour</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-game-of-correspondence">The Game of Correspondence</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-caste-of-the-articulate">The Caste of the Articulate</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-tyranny-of-the-lares">The Tyranny of the Lares</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#costume-and-custom">Costume and Custom</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#old-friends-and-new">Old Friends and New</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-defense-of-slang">A Defense of Slang</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-charms-of-imperfection">The Charms of Imperfection</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-play-s-the-thing">"The Play's the Thing"</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#living-alone">Living Alone</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#cartomania">Cartomania</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-science-of-flattery">The Science of Flattery</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#romance-en-route">Romance *en Route*</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#at-the-edge-of-the-world">At the Edge of the World</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-diary-habit">The Diary Habit</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-perfect-go-between">The Perfect Go-between</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#growing-up">Growing Up</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-pauper-s-monologue">A Pauper's Monologue</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-young-man-s-fancy">A Young Man's Fancy</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#where-is-bohemia">Where is Bohemia?</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-bachelor-s-advantage">The Bachelor's Advantage</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-confessions-of-an-ignoramus">The Confessions of an Ignoramus</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-music-box-recital">A Music-Box Recital</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-plea-for-the-precious">A Plea for the Precious</a><span> -<br /></span><a class="reference internal" href="#sub-rosa">Sub Rosa</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="introduction"><span class="bold large">Introduction</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>To let this book go from my hands without some one -more personal note than the didactic paragraphs of these -essays contained, has been, I must confess, a temptation -too strong for me to resist. The observing reader will -note that I have so re-written my theses that none of them begins -with an "I" in big type, and though this preliminary chapter -conforms to the rule also, it is for typographic rather than for any -more modest reasons. Frankly, this page is by way of a flourish -to my signature, and is the very impertinence of vanity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But this little course of philosophy lays my character and -temperament, not to speak of my intellect, so bare that, finished and -summed up for the printer, I am all of a shiver with shame. My -nonsense gave, I conceit myself, no clue by which my real self might -be discovered. My fiction I have been held somewhat responsible -for, but escape for the story-teller is always easy. Even in poetry a -man may so cloak himself in metaphor that he may hope to be well -enough disguised. But the essay is the most compromising form of -literature possible, and even such filmy confidences and trivial gaieties -as these write me down for what I am. Were they even critical in -character, I would have that best of excuses, a difference of taste, but -here I have had the audacity to attempt a discussion of life itself, -upon which every reader will believe himself to be a competent critic.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>By a queer sequence of circumstances, the essays, begun in the -</span><em class="italics">Lark</em><span>, were continued in the </span><em class="italics">Queen</em><span>, and, if you have read these -two papers, you will know that one magazine is as -remote in character from the other as San Francisco -is from London. But each has happened to fare far -afield in search of readers, and between them I may -have converted some few to my optimistic view of -every-day incident. To educate the British Matron and Young -Person was, perhaps, no more difficult an undertaking than to open -the eyes of the California Native Son. The fogs that fall over the -Thames are not very different to the mists that drive in through the -Golden Gate, after all!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still, I would not have you think that these lessons were -written with my tongue in my cheek. I have made believe so -long that now I am quite sincere in my conviction that we can -see pretty much whatever we look for; which should prove the -desirability of searching for amusement and profit rather than for -boredom and disillusion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We are in the day of homespun philosophy and hand-made -dogma. A kind of mental atavism has made science preposterous; -modern astrologers and palmists put old wine into new bottles, and -the discussion of Psychomachy bids fair to revolutionize the Eternal -Feminine. And so I, too, strike my attitude and apostrophize the -Universe. As being, in part, a wholesome reaction from the prevailing -cult, I might call my doctrine Pagan Science, for the type of my -proselyte is the Bornese war chief peripatetic on Broadway--the -amused wonderer. But I shall not begin all my nouns with capitals, -for it is my aim to write of romance with a small "r." Also my -philosophy must not be thought a mere </span><em class="italics">laissez faire</em><span>; it is an active, -not a passive creed. We are here not to be entertained, but to -entertain ourselves.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I might have called this book </span><em class="italics">A Guide Through -Middle Age</em><span>, for it is then that one needs enthusiasm -the most. We stagger gaily through Youth, and by -the time Old Age has come we have usually found a -practicable working philosophy, but at forty one is -likely to have a bitter hour at times, especially if one is still single. -Or, so they tell me; I shall never confess to that status, and shall -leap boldly into a white beard. A kindly euphemism calls this -horrid, half-way stage one's Prime. I have here endeavoured to -justify the usage, though I am opposed by a thousand poets.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If some of these essays seem but vaguely correlated to my -major theme, you must think of them as being mere illustrations or -practical solutions of the commonplace, solved by means of the -theory I have developed and iterated. It was hard, indeed, to know -when to stop, but, ragged as are my hints, I hope that in all -essentials I have covered the ground and formulated -the main rules of the Game of Living. One -does not even have to be an expert -to be able to do that!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="april-essays"><span class="bold x-large">THE ROMANCE OF -<br />THE COMMONPLACE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">April Essays</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>They were begun in the April of my life, and though it -is now well into mid-June, some of the glamour of the -Spring yet inspires me, and I am still a-wondering. I -have tried every charm to preserve my youth, and a drop -of wine and a girl or two into the bargain, but the game is near -played out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But what boots marbles and tops when one is initiated into the -mysteries of billiards and chess? It has taken me all these years to -find that there is sport for every season, and the rules vary. To -make a bold play at life, then, without cheating (which is due only -to a false conception of the reward), and with the progress, rather -than the particular stage reached, in mind, is my aim. So I have -tossed overboard all my fears and regrets, and gone in for the higher -problems of maturity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still, a few of the maxims I drew from my joys and sorrows in -the few calmer moments of reverie persist; and these all strengthen -me in the romantic view of life. A man must take his work or his -art seriously, and pursue it with a single intent; he must fix upon -the realities first of all, but there is room for imagination as well, and -with this I have savoured my duties, as one puts sauce to pudding. -Enough has been written upon the earnestness of motive, of sobriety -and all the catalogue of virtues usually dignified with capital initials. -I own allegiance to an empire beside all -that--another Forest of Arden--the tinkle of whose -laughter is a permanent sustained accompaniment to -the more significant notes of man's sober industries.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Must I be dubbed trifler then, because I make a -game of life? Every man of spirit and imagination must, I -think, be a true sportsman. It is in the blood of genius to -love play for its own sake, and whether one uses one's skill on -thrones or women, swords or pens, gold or fame, the game's the -thing! Surely, it is not only the reward that makes it worth -while, it is the problem--the study of each step on the way, -the disentangling of the knotted cord of fate, the sequence and -climax of move after move, the logical grasp of what is to come -upon the chess-board. As it is in the great, then, may it not be in -the small? To one of fancy and poetic vision, mere size is an -accident, a personal element, a relative, not an absolute quality of -things. The microscope reveals wonders to the scientist, as great -and as important as does the telescope. To the poet, "a primrose -by the river's brim" has the beauty of the Infinite. And so nothing -is commonplace, or to be taken for granted. One needs only the -fresh eye, the eagerness of interest, and this Universe of workaday -things which, with the animals, we get "for a penny, plain," may be -coloured with the twopence worth of mind by which we are richer -than they.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We have all passed through that phase of art-appreciation in -which familiar objects are endowed with an extrinsic æsthetic value. -The realist discovers a new sensation in a heap of refuse, the -impressionist in the purple shadows of the hills. In weaker intellects the -craving for this dignifying of the obvious leads to the gilding of the -rolling-pin or the decalcomanie decoration of the -bean-pot. With something of each of these methods, -I would practice upon every-day affairs, and make -them picturesque.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This is, perhaps, a characteristically Oriental -point of view of life. Undoubtedly it is the Japanese pose, -and it is well illustrated in their art. What by Korin would -be thought too insignificant for portrayal? He had but to -separate an object, or a group of objects, from its environment and -he beheld a design, with line, mass, colour and </span><em class="italics">notan</em><span>. Art -was to him not a question of subject, but of composition. He -held his frame before a tiny fragment of the visible world, any -fragment, indeed, and, placing that in its true position, not in -regard to its surroundings, but in regard to the frame, it became -a pattern. May we not, for our diversion, do thus with Life? If -we hold up our frame, disregarding the accidental shadows of -tradition and establishment, we may see bits of a new world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It is thus that the man from Mars would view our life and -manners. Unsophisticated, he would hold his frame in front of a -man, and, cutting him off from his family, his neighbours, his position -in Society, he would see a personage as real and as individual as -"the Man with the Glove," or "the Unknown Woman" is to us. -He would bring an uncorrupted eye and see strange pictures in the -facts of our jaded routine. He would see in accustomed meetings -and actions hidden possibilities and secret charms. He would -witness this drab life of ours as a bewilderingly endless romance. -Nothing would be presupposed, nothing foreseen, and each turn of -the kaleidoscope would exhibit another of the infinitely various -permutations of human relationship.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Such is the philosophy of youth. It denies the -conventional postulates of the Philistine. It will -not accept the axioms of the unimaginative; two -and two may prove to make five, upon due investigation, -seemingly parallel cases may widely diverge, -and the greater may not always include the less, in this -non-Euclidean Geometry of Life. It transmutes the prose of living into -the poetry of idealization, as love transmutes the physical fact of -osculation into the beatitude of a kiss. It makes mysteries of -well-known occurrences, and it turns accepted marvels into simple truths, -comprehensible and self-evident.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Civilization refines and analyzes. It seeks the invisible rays of -the spectrum and delights in overtones, subtle vibrations and delicate -nuances of thought. So this neglected philosophy of enthusiasm -also gleans the neglected and forgotten mysteries of humanity. Its -virtue is in its economy; it wrings the last drop of sensation from -experience. Like modern processes of manufacture it produces good -from what was considered but waste and tailings. By a positive -contribution to happiness it refutes the charge of trifling, for in the -practice of this art one does but pick up what has been thrown away. -All's fish that comes to its net.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But it is more than a science; it has more than an economic -value for happiness--it is a religion. The creed of hope bids one -wonder and hope and rejoice, it teaches us to listen for the whispered -voice, to see the spirit instead of the body of the facts of life. But -it does more; it is illuminating, and reveals a new conception of -beauty. There is an apocryphal legend of the Christ that tells how -He with His disciples were passing along a road, when they came -upon the body of a dead dog. Those with Him shrank from -the pitiful sight with loathing, and drew away. -But Jesus went calmly up to the decaying flesh and -leaning over it, said gently, "How beautifully white -are his teeth!" The customary moral drawn from -the story is one of gentleness and pity, the kindness -and charity of looking at the good, rather than the evil that is -present. But it has a more literal meaning, and teaches clearly -the lesson of beauty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For it has come to this: that even in our pleasures we -are influenced by prejudice and tradition. Some things are as -empirically branded beautiful or ugly, as others are declared -right or wrong, and to this dogma we conform. Korin, when he -held his frame before a clothes-line fluttering with damp garments, -saw not only an interesting design, but a beautiful one; yet the -Monday's wash might be taken as something typically vulgar and -ugly to the common mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We Anglo-Saxons have debased many facts of life, once rightly -thought of as exquisitely beautiful, into the category of the beast. -Sexual passion is the great example, but there are myriads of lesser -things which, viewed calmly, purely, as some strange god able to -see clearly without passion or prejudice, might view them, would -take on lovely aspects. When such situations approach the pathetic, -as the sight of some forlorn half-naked mother nursing her child on -a doorstep, or the housemaid, denied of the chance of seclusion, -embracing her lover in the publicity of the park, this diviner phase -of common human nature is patent to the casual observer. When -they approach the comic, also, it is easier to believe that every scene -may have its complimentary phase, and the most careless may read -the joke between the lines. But much of the more subtle delight -of life escapes us, like the tree-toad in the oak, -because it is so much a part of its surroundings; its -charm is of so intrinsic a value that we do not notice -it. We are used to finding our beauty within gilt -rectangles, set off from other things not so denominated -as especially worthy of regard; we expect it to be labelled -and highly coloured.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Two things alone remain safe from this bias of custom--Love -and Youth. To the lover, the tying of a shoe-lace on -his mistress's foot may be as sacred a rite and may contain as -much sentiment as the most impassioned caress. To the child, -the mud-pile has possibilities of infinite bliss. To the one -comes eternal beauty, to the other eternal mystery. And so, to -touch these forever, and to lose no intermediary sensation -of charm, whether it be humour, romance, pathos -or inspiration, to be bound by every link -that connects Youth to Love, -that was my April essay!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="getting-acquainted"><span class="bold large">Getting Acquainted</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Two lives moving in mysterious orbits are drawn -together, and for an instant, or maybe for ever after, whirl -side by side. We call the encounter an introduction, -and we usually proceed to stifle the wonder of it by impersonal -talk of art, books or the drama. It is an every-day affair -and does not commonly stir the imagination. And yet to the -connoisseur in living the meeting may be an event as well as an -episode. He is a discoverer come to an unknown shore--it may be -the margent of a boundless sea or not, but of a certain it is swung -by new tides and currents to be adventured and plumbed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How can we, supercivilized out of almost all real emotion, develop -the potential charm of this first glimpse of a new personality? -It is guarded by conventionality; the shutters are down, the door is -barricaded; you may knock in vain with polite interrogations, and -no one appears at the window. Must we perforce set the house afire, -smite or shriek aloud to bring this stranger's soul to his eyes for one -searching gaze, face to face? The time is so short--we must greet, -and pass on to the next; we exchange easy commonplaces, and so -the chance vanishes. Why not defy custom and boldly snatch in -that magic moment some satisfactory taste of warm human -intercourse?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Curiously enough, this strangeness--this lack of background in -new acquaintances--is one of the freshest charms of meeting. Who -would not throw off all restraint and talk frankly with a man from -the planet Mars or Venus? Could we resurrect an -inhabitant of Atlantis we could give him our whole -confidence--and even a South Sea Islander, were he -intelligent, might be our confessor. Where then shall -we draw the line of convention? Mars is some -140,000,000 miles away--San Francisco is but 9,000--the ratio is -inadequate but there is a guarantee of candour in mere distance. -May we not apply the same rule to nearer neighbours and look upon -them in this interesting light?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There is no such stimulating instant possible for old friends -for they are bound by preconceived ideals of personality--they are -pigeon-holed as this or that--circumscribed by mutual duty and -sacrifice; they must reconcile present whims to past vagaries; they are -held to strict account of consistency with previous moods; but on -our first meeting with another we are free of all this constraint, and -if we have courage may meet soul to soul without reserves. We -may confess unreliable things in that moment, for there is no -perspective of formulated opinion into which the confidence must be -fitted--the little secret is safe alone in the new mind, and will not be -held to intolerable account. We may even for this once state a -brutal truth, for we are unpledged to distressing considerations. We -may be in some few sacred thoughts more intimate with a stranger -than with an old friend. Such is the divine franchise of this first -sudden opportunity. No compact is yet sealed; you must take me -as you find me, like me or not, it matters little, since it is for us to -say whether or not we shall meet again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This play is, as Dickens says of melancholy, "one of the cheapest -and most accessible of luxuries," for the scene is always ready, -set in the nearest drawing-room. Every stranger has a possible -fascination and comes like a prince incognito. It is -probably your own fault, not his, if the disguise is not -dropped during the first impetuous flurry of talk. -Children do these things better, making friends not -inch by inch, but by bold advances of genuine confidence, -yet approaching each new mystery with respect. So we, too, -like the child, must dress these our dolls, and put them into their -first mental attitudes with sincerity and trust before they will come -to life. We must put much feeling into the relation--giving and -taking--so much that we cannot only confide our tenderest spiritual -aspirations, but invest trifles with unaccustomed worth and significance. -These are not impossible sensations even for such accidental -fellowship, for nothing is too unimportant to reveal personality and -orient one's point of view. But we must proceed from the inside, -outward--beginning with truths and thence to fancy. It is the </span><em class="italics">apriori</em><span> -method; not deducing the character of your neighbour from his -visible idiosyncracies of taste and habit, but boldly inducing a new -conception, making him what you will, and varying the picture by -successive approximations as his words and actions modify your -theory.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No one is too dull for the experiment, as no mummy is too -common to be unwrapped. Granted only that he is newly found, so that -you have imagination, romance and sentiment on your palette, you -may paint him as you will. The colours may wash, but for the -while he is your puppet and must dance to your piping, if, indeed, -you do not become his.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There are those, of course, who will but cry "Oh!" and "Ah!" -to your essays--dolts with neither wits nor words nor worth, who -take all and give nothing; no one can set such damp stuff afire. -Well, after all, though you have unmasked, retreat is -still possible. With how many duller friends have -you given your parole and cannot escape with honour!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Indeed, it is not so desirable that we should -always win, as that the game itself be worth the playing. -One must not expect to make a friend at each introduction. To -make the most of the minute in this way, then, to strike while the -iron is hot (and, better, to heat it yourself)--this is the art of -getting acquainted. It is the higher flirtation, not dependent upon sex -or temperament, but of many subtler dimensions, and though it -soon turns into the old familiar ruts, the first steps, made -picturesque by a common fancy, shall never lose their glamour, and one -shall remember to the very last how the first shots went home.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But do not confound playing with playing a part. One may -do all this sincerely, honestly giving good coin, and that is the only -game worth while; for of a sudden it may wake into new beauty like -a dream come true, and you will find yourself in Arcady. No -more fooling then, for the real you is walking by my side, hand -in hand. We shall not be sorry either, shall we, that we -hurried round the first corner into the open--that we -jumped a few hedges? Surely we have an infinite -friendship for our inaccessible goal, and though -the first rush was exhilarating, there are -more inspiring heights beyond!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="dining-out"><span class="bold large">Dining Out</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Why human beings are so fond of eating together and -making a ceremonial of the business it is hard to -say. Man is almost the only animal who prefers to -consume his food in company with his kind, for even -sheep and cattle wander apart as they graze, seeking private delicacies. -Early in the morning, it is true, most cultivated persons are -savages, preferring to breakfast in seclusion and </span><em class="italics">dishabille</em><span>; lunch -time finds them in a slightly barbarous state, and they tolerate -company; but by evening we all become gregarious and social, and we -resent the absence of an expected companion at the table as of a -course omitted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And so, whether we dine at home or abroad we call it a poor -dinner where we have good things only to eat. The dullest, most -provincial hostess has come to understand this, and each does what -she can, in inviting guests, to form partnerships or combinations -sympathetic and enlivening. There are, of course, always those -impossibles, poor relations or what-not, whom policy or politeness -imperatively demands, and every dinner-table is, in attempt at least, a -conversational constellation of stars of the first magnitude separated -by lesser lights.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>From these fixed stars radiate flashes of talk, and supplementing -this, the laughter of the connecting circle should follow as punctually -as thunder upon lightning. The hostess, like a beneficent sun, -kindles and warms and sways her little system, while the servants -revolve about the table in their courses, like orderly -planets.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But we might push the allegory a step farther. -Though the round of a score of dinners may exhibit -no more unusual a cosmogony than this, yet at every -thirty-third event, perhaps, we may encounter a comet! There is no -prognosticating his eccentric course; he comes and goes according to -a mysterious law, but wherever he appears, blazing with a new light, -foreign to all our conventions, he is a compelling attraction, drawing -the regular and steady orbs of fashion this way and that out of -their orbits, shifting their axes, and upsetting social tides and seasons.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To such an innovator a dinner is given not for food but for -pastime, and it is a game of which he may change the rules as soon -and as often as they hamper his enjoyment. It matters little to him -that he is dressed for a feast of propriety. To him alone it is not -a livery; he is not the servant of custom. If it pleases him to settle -a dispute out of hand, he will send the butler for the dictionary -while the discussion is hot, or more likely go himself forthright. If -he wishes to see a red rose in the hair of his host's daughter over -against him, he will whip round two corners to her place, and adjust -the decoration. And if it is necessary to his thesis that you, his -shocked or amused partner, help him illustrate a Spanish </span><em class="italics">jerabe</em><span>, you -too must up and help him in the pantomime if you would not have -such fine enthusiasm wasted for a scruple.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I knew one such once who retrieved an almost hopelessly -misarranged dinner by his generalship, usurping the power of the -hostess herself. The guests were distributed in a way to give the -greatest possible discomfort to the greatest number, though from -stupidity rather than from malice. Mr. Comet solved the problem -at a glance. He rose before the fish was served, with -a wine-glass in one hand and his serviette in the other. -"The gentlemen," he announced, "will all kindly -move to the left four places." It was before the day -of "progressive dinner parties," and the scheme was -new. The ladies gasped at his audacity, but after this change of -partners the function began to succeed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Your comet, then, must not only be a social anarchist but he -must convert the whole company, or he presents merely the sorry -spectacle of a man making a fool of himself, never a sight conducive -to appetite or to refined amusement, except perhaps to the cynic. -He must be able to swing the situation. He must believe, and -convince others, that the true object of a dinner is to amuse, and if it -should take all of the time devoted to the </span><em class="italics">entrée</em><span> for him to show -the pretty sculptress at his right how to model an angel out of bread, -his observing hostess should feel no pang that he has neglected his -brochette. After all, the elaborate supervision of the </span><em class="italics">ménu</em><span> was -undertaken, any modern hostess will acknowledge, only that, in the dire -case her guests did not succeed in amusing each other, they might -at least have good things to eat. Every dish untasted in the excitement -of conversation, then, should be a tribute to her higher skill in -experiments with human chemistry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If she can catch no comet, however, she must be contented with -lesser meteoric wits who make up for real brilliancy by saying what -they do say quickly and spontaneously; with the punsters, in short, -and such hair-trigger intellects. Failing these, the last class above -the bores-positive are those well-meaning diners-out who load -themselves with stories for a dinner as a soldier goes into an engagement -with a belt full of cartridges. They may not get a chance for -a shot very often, but, given an opening, their fire is -accurate and deadly till the last round is gone, when -they are at the mercy of a more inventive wit. Yet -even these welter-weights have their place at the table, -for we must have bread as well as wine.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was one of Lewis Carroll's pet fancies to have a dinner-table -in the shape of a ring, and half the guests seated inside upon a -platform which revolved slowly round the circle till each one had -circumnavigated the orbit and passed opposite every guest seated on the -outside of the table. But this would break up many of the little -secret schemes for which the modern dinner is planned, and many a -young man would suddenly find himself flirting with the wrong lady -across the board.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And this last hint carries me from the exoteric to the esoteric -charms of the dinner. Here, however, you must guess your own -way; I dare not tell you precisely what it means when Celestine -shifts her glass from left to right of her plate, nor what I answer -when I raise my serviette by one corner, for Celestine and I may -dine with you some day, and you may remember our little code. -You would better not invite me anyway, for, though I -am no comet, yet I admit I would be mad -enough to upset the claret purposely -rather than have nothing -exciting happen!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-uncharted-sea"><span class="bold large">The Uncharted Sea</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Ay, there's the rub! If we could but forecast our -dreams, who would care to keep awake? In that, we are -no further advanced than in the times of Pythagoras; -still clumsy, ignorant amateurs in this most fascinating -and mysterious game, played by every race and condition of men -under the moon. There are some, maybe, who do not dream, poor -half-made men and women, to whom a waking, literal prosaic life is -the whole of existence. They stay idly at home, while you and I -take ship upon the Unknown Sea and navigate uncharted waters -every night. Then we are poets, dunces, philosophers, clowns or -madcaps of sorts in a secret carnival, changing not only our costumes, -but often our very selves, doffing conscience, habit and taste, -to play a new part at each performance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If we could but manage this raree-show, and not be mere -marionettes, wired to the finger of the Magician, what tremendous -adventures might we not undertake! We have rare glimpses of the -Lesser Mysteries, but the inner secrets of that inconsequential empire -are still undiscovered. The revels confound us; we are whirled, -intoxicated or drugged, into a realm of confusion, and, out of touch -with senses, reason and will, we cannot quite keep our heads clear. -How many of us have tried to "dream true," like Peter Ibbetson, -even to obeying the foolish formula he described, lying, hands under -head, foot upon foot, murmuring his magic words?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Try as we may, those of us who are true dreamers can never -quite accept the psychologist's explanation of dreams. -Some cases may be easily understood, perhaps, such as -the pathological influence of a Welsh rarebit, a -superabundance of bed covers, or suggestive noises. We -may account, too, for those absurd visions that appear -so often on awakening, when one sense after another comes breaking -into our consciousness, and when the mind, summoned suddenly to -construct some reasonable relation between incongruous floating -pictures, seizes upon any explanation, however ridiculous. But of -deeper dreams, dreams logical or meaningful, dreams that recur or -are shared by others, modern science does not give any satisfactory -theory, and we are forced, willingly enough no doubt, to apply the -hypotheses of mysticism.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There are dreams, too, so progressive and educational that they -seem to involve a new science unknown in this workaday world. -So many of us have had experiences with levitation in our dream -life that we are, so to speak, a cult. I myself began by jumping, -timing each spring with the precise moment of alighting from a -previous leap, profiting by the rebound, and, after many experiments I -am now able to float freely, even accomplishing that most difficult -of all feats, rising in the air by a deliberate concentrated effort -of will, even while lying on my back. Yet all of us, jumpers, -flyers or floaters, must wait till that wonderful dream comes to us, -after months maybe, to indulge in that most exhilarating pastime.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Children's dreams are (until they are cruelly undeceived) quite -as real as their waking moments, and it may be that we shall, in time, -learn the forgotten art from them. It is dependent, no doubt, -upon their power of visualizing imagined objects while their eyes are -shut, but while still awake; but this ability to call up the images of -anything at will is as soon lost as their belief in -dreams. Though this habit fades and is forgotten in -the growing reality of our outward life, it may not be -impossible with practice to regain the proficiency, for -at times of great physical fatigue and mental exaltation -the power comes back, often intensified almost to the point of -hallucination. If we could train our imagination then, and learn to -see pictures when our eyes are shut, these might become more accurate -and real, so that at the moment of sinking into unconsciousness, -as we lose hold on tangible things, the vision would become one with -the reality, and, still imagining and creating, we might pass over the -footlights and dream true. To most of us there comes a recognizable -moment when we know we are just at the border of sleep; if -we could then with our last effort of will keep control of the -moving pictures we might go wherever we wished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We might learn, too, to remember more of what happens in the -night. We usually give what has passed in dream no more than an -indulgent smile, and forget the strangeness of it all as soon as we -are well awake. It is as if we had hurriedly turned the pages of an -illustrated book. We recall, here and there, a few striking pictures, -beautiful or comic, and the volume is replaced upon the shelves not -to be taken down till the next evening. It is a book from which -we learn little; its contents are not even amusing to anyone else, who -has as fanciful tales in his own dreamland library. If we could, upon -first awakening, impress our minds with the reality of our dreams, -we might be able to recall more and more, and find that in spite of -their incongruity there was some law which governed their visitation -and some meaning in their grotesque patterns.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To one who dreams frequently, bedtime cannot fail to be -something to look forward to, to hope and to prepare for -with efforts to capture in the net of sleep some -beautiful dream. May we not, sometime, find the proper -bait, and lie down confident that we shall be duly -enchanted in some delightful way, according to our -desires? Till then we must each buy our nightly ticket in Sleep's -lottery, and draw a blank or a prize, as Morpheus wills. Some say -that the most refreshing sleep is absolute unconsciousness of -time--that one should shut one's eyes, only to open them in the morning, -with the night all unaccounted for. But no true dreamer will assent -to this; he knows it is not so. I was told in my youth, that if -I turned the toes of my boots toward the bed, I should -have a nightmare. I confess I have never dared -try it. But, rather than not dream at all, I -believe I should be tempted to -hazard the experiment.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-art-of-playing"><span class="bold large">The Art of Playing</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Time was when we made our own toys; when a piece of -twine, a spool, a few nails and a bit of imagination could -keep us busy and happy all day long. There were no -new-fangled iron toys "made in Germany," so tiresome -in their inevitable little routine of performance, so easily got out of -order, and so hard, metallic and realistic as to be hardly worth the -purchase. A penny would, indeed, buy some funny carved wooden -thing that aroused a half-hour's excitement, but it was never quite -so alluring as when in the front window of the toy-shop. Such -queer animals never became thoroughly acclimated to the nursery, -and they lost their lustre in a half-holiday. The things that gave -permanent satisfaction were home-made, crude and capable of -transformation. A railway train might, with a small effort of the fancy, -become a ship or a dragon. Are there such amateur toy-builders -now, in this age when everything is perfect and literal, when even a -box of building-blocks contains a book of plans to supply imaginative -design to the modern child? Indeed, many children are nowayears -too lazy even to do their own playing. I have heard of one -who was used to sit on a chair and order his nurse to align his -ninepins and bowl them down for him!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Perhaps one notices the lack of creative ability in children more -in the city where ready-made toys are cheap and accessible, than in -the country where the whole world is full of wonderful possibilities -for entrancing pastime. Nature is the universal playmate, -perpetually parodying herself in miniature for the benefit of -those who love to amuse themselves with her toys. -Every brook is a little river, every pond an unfathomable -sea. She plants tiny forests of fern and raises -microscopic mountains in every sand-bank. Flowers -and plants furnish provender for Lilliputian groceries, the oak showers -acorn cups; what wonder we believe, as long as we can, in fairies?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And yet, strange to say, it is the city more often than the country -child who feels the charm of these marvels. The freshness and -the strangeness breed a fascinated wonder; it is, after flagged -pavements and brick walls, almost too good to be true. The juvenile -rustic is more familiar with Nature. It is his business to know when -the flowers come, where berries ripen and birds nest. It is scarcely -play to him, it is a science to be applied to his personal profit. The -woods and rivulets are his familiar domain, to be forayed and hunted -specifically for gain. And this, though it is delightful, is not play. -For him, there is no glamour over the fields until long after, when -his native countryside has become inaccessible.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Perhaps the art of playing is, after all, a matter more of -temperament than environment, for one sees, at times, good sport even -in the city streets, though it is rare nowadays. I had my own full -share of it, for my youth was an age of pure romance. My clan had -its own code and its own traditions. Every man of us had his suit -of wooden armour, his well-wrought weapons and his fiery steed. -We were all for Scott. We had our Order, small, but well up in -the technique of feudal ways, facile in sword-play, both with the thin, -sinewy hard-pine rapier, and the huge, two-handed, double-hiked -battle-sword that should stand just as high as one's head. On the brick -sidewalks we tilted on velocipedes, full in the view of the anxious -passers-by. </span><em class="italics">Cap-à-pie</em><span> in pine sheathed with tin, with -a shield blazoned with a tiger couchant, and inscribed -with a Latin motto out of the back of the dictionary, -many a long red lance I shivered, and many a wheel I -broke. On Warren Avenue I did it, opposite the -church. What would I not give, now, to see such sights in -town!--instead, I watch little boys smoking cigarettes upon the street -corners, waiting for their girls.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I knew a youngster, too, who organized in his town a postoffice -department, established letter-boxes and a regular service of boy -carriers. He drew and coloured the stamps himself--you will find them -in few collections, though they should have enormous value from -their rarity. Such games are consummate play, even though the -sport goes awry all too soon; it is too great to last!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It is the older brother who should give finesse to such sport. -Without him, complications arise which accomplish at last the ruin of -the game. Many of us do not truly learn to play until it is too -late to do so with dignity, and to these, the appreciation of the young -gives a fine excuse for prolonging the diversion. We fancy we -cannot, when grown up, play imaginative games for the pure joy of it, -as does the child; we think we must have an ulterior motive. Yet -the father, who whittles out a boat for his son, often gets more delight -than the child, who would far rather do it himself, no matter how -much more crudely accomplished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The theater is the typical play for grown-ups; the name itself, -"play," is significant of the unquenchable tendency of youth. And -this reminds me of a most amusing case where two grown-ups dared -to be absolutely ingenuous. It was upon a honeymoon, when if -ever, adults have the right to yield to juvenile impulses. As the -groom was titled and the bride fair, society took it ill -that the two should retire to their country house and -deny access to all neighbours. One at last called, too -important to be denied admittance by the servants, and -the astonished visitor discovered the happy pair -stretched over the dining-room table, training flies whose wings had -been clipped, to pull, in a harness of threads, little paper wagons! -This had been their absorbing occupation for ten blissful days!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An important element of play seems to be the doing of things -in miniature. See Stevenson, for instance, prone upon the floor, -involved in romantic campaigns, massing his troops of tin soldiers, -occupying strategic positions in hall and passage, skirmishing over the -upstairs "roads of the Third Class, impassable for artillery," -intercepting commissary trains labouring up from the Base of Operations -in the kitchen, deploying cavalry-screens upon the rug, and -out-manoeuvering the wily foe that defends the verandah, both -being bound by the strict treaties of the play. There is your -ideal big brother, and the game of toy soldiers is glorified into -weeks of excitement!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Japanese, immortal children, carry the game of diminution -to its extreme. The dwarfed trees and the excruciating carved -ivories are not the only symptoms of this delightful disease; for the -perfection of the spirit of play one must see their miniature gardens, -often the life-employment of the owners. No matter how small the -patch of ground employed, every inch is perfect. Pebble by pebble, -almost grain by grain, the area is arranged, the tiny rivulet is guided -between carefully curved banks, wee bridges span the shores, little -lanterns and pagodas are artfully placed, plants and flowers are sown, -trees planted, fishes are domiciled, till the garden is a replica of -Nature at her best. Each view is a toy landscape, and -without a scale, as seen in a photograph, for instance, one -might think it a garden of the gods. And yet, there -is a sort of play where one may use infinite distances, -macrocosms for microcosms, if one has the courage -and the power of visualization. These games are purely mental, -feats of the imagination, though not nearly so difficult as -might be thought. I know a sober, workaday lawyer, for -instance, who combines the two methods with extraordinary -cleverness. His income is not derived solely from his practice, I -need hardly say. You will not catch him at his fascinating -diversion, for his table is strewn with books and papers, and -his playthings are not noticeable amongst the professional litter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I have known him to sit for hours gazing at the table, -and, once in his confidence--for there is a fraternity of -players, and one must give the grip and prove fellowship--he will -tell you that he has shrunk to but an inch in height, so that, to -him, his desk seems to be some three hundred feet long by a -hundred feet wide, and its plateau is elevated some two hundred -feet above the floor; as high, that is, as a church. Assuming that he -has, by some miraculous means shrunk to one-fiftieth of his stature, -the size of everything visible is, of course, increased in a like -proportion. His diverting occupation, under this queer state of things, -is to explore his little domain, and exist as well as is possible. -What adventures has he not had! There was the terrific -combat with a cockroach as big as a dragon, which he finally slew -with a broken needle! There was the dust storm, when the -care-taker swept, and the huge snow crystals like white pie-plates, -that came in when the window was opened. He had an enormous -difficulty in getting water from a glass tumbler, and -he broke his teeth upon the crystals of sugar that, -as a lawyer, he had been thoughtful enough to -strew upon the table for the benefit of himself as an -Inchling. I believe he is now attempting to escape -to the floor by means of a spool of thread, if he cannot make up -his mind to risk a descent by means of a paper parachute. It is -a world of his own, as real to him as the child's toy paradise, -a retreat immune from the cares of his daily life, a -never-tiring playground, with perpetual discoveries -possible. He, if any one, has discovered not -only the art of playing, but has -applied the science as well!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-use-of-fools"><span class="bold large">The Use of Fools</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>What a dull world it would be if everyone were modest, -discreet and loyal to that conformity which is called -good taste! if, in short, there were no fools to keep us -amused. What would divert us from the deadly -routine of seriousness? What toy scandal would we have to discuss -at dinner? What would leaven this workaday world of common-places, -if everyone were gifted with common sense? Is it not, -when you stop to think of it, a bit inconsiderate to discountenance -buffoonery and to resent innocently interesting impropriety? Should -we not rather encourage eccentricity with what flattering hypocrisies -we may, so that we shall never be at a loss for things to smile at and -talk about?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A fair sprinkling of fools in the world is as enlivening as a -pinch of salt in a loaf of bread. They give a relish to life, and flavour -with a brisk spicery of nonsense what would otherwise be oppressively -flat. Civilized existence, if it were always cooked up and -served to us by Mrs. Grundy herself, would be unpalatable enough; -but luckily her infallible recipes are not always carried out, and a -few plums and cloves get into her pudding.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We may not care to play the part of public jesters ourselves, -but the least we can do is to be grateful to those who are willing to -become absurd for our benefit. Patronize them daintily, therefore, -lest they backslide into propriety; remember that there is such a -thing as enjoyment without ridicule. To make fun of a person -to his face is a brutal way of amusing one's self; be -delicate and cunning, and keep your laugh in your -sleeve, lest you frighten away your game.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But there will doubtless always be enough who -are willing to play the guy, whether we encourage -or condemn. The fool is a persistent factor in society, and yet the -common misconception of his status and economic function is silly -and unfair. With the prig and the crank, the fool has been -reviled from time immemorial, and persecuted out of all reason. -He is protected by no legislation; your fool is always in season, -and is the target for universal contempt. Instead of this perpetual -fusillade of wits, there should be a "close season" for fools to allow -them to propagate and grow fearless, after which we could make -game of them in safety of a full supply. Since he is, in a way, -the lubricator of the wheels of life, a coiner of smiles, he should -be carefully bred to give the greatest possible amount of diversion. -He should be trained like an actor that his best points may be -brought out; he should be paid a salary or kept in livery to amuse -the public, with no need or excuse for sobriety.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But, until the fool is properly appreciated and his place assured, -we must put up with the amateurs that haunt the street and drawing-room. -It is too much to hope for the sight of a zany every time we -go out doors, but, when we do encounter one, what a ray of sunshine -gleams athwart our strict fashions--poor sober dun slaves to style -and custom! If we chance upon a woman who dares perpetrate her -own radical theories of dress, who combines pink with red, or -commits a gay indiscretion in millinery, how superbly she is -distinguished, for the moment, from the ruck and swarm of victims to -good taste! She is at once an event and a portent. The afternoon -is quaintly illuminated with a phenomenon, and we -scan with new interest and expectation the dull and -sombre throng.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How small a deviation from the mode, indeed, -is necessary to provoke a revivifying smile! Every -such unconscious laughing-stock is a true benefactor, ministering -to our sense of superiority. Were we never to see the freaks, we -would not know how glorious is our own uncompromising regularity. -Truly, if we have sufficient conceit, every one in the world, -in a way of thinking, may be considered foolish relatively to our own -criterion. "All the world is queer except thee and me," said the -Quaker, "and even thee is a little queer!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Such praise of fools may seem extravagant or illogical, but if it -is so, it must be not because the fool is not helpful and stimulating -in society, but because, after all, he is not so easily identified as one -might suppose. Celestine tells me she never calls a man a fool, but -instead asks him why he does so,--and in this way she often learns -something. That is the most disagreeable trait of fools; often, upon -investigation, what appears to be genuine nonsense is but the consistent -carrying out of a clever and original idea, whose novelty alone -excites amusement. The fool thus cheats us of our due enjoyment -by being in the right. It seems dishonest of a fool to instruct; it is -beside the mark, and outside his proper sphere, and yet even -Confucius is said to have learned politeness from the impolite. To -see one's own faults and weaknesses caricatured spoils the laugh that -should testify to the folly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We cannot be sure, either, that the ass who amuses us by -his eccentric absurdities may not eventually cheat us of the final -victory by proving to be but the vanguard of a new custom -to which we or our children must, perforce, in time -succumb, and fall into line with him far behind, only -then to count our present attitude foolish and -old-fashioned. Let us therefore laugh while we may, for -your fool is but a chameleon who refuses to change -colour. What today is arrant silliness may tomorrow be good -horse-sense, wherefore it is wise to watch fools carefully when you find -them, lest the sport spoil overnight, and you yourself become -ridiculous, while the fool takes your place as the amused philosopher.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The word "fad," they say, was derived from the initial letters -of the phrase "for a day." So we, the followers of the latest mode -and mood, are, it would seem, the true ephemera, and the fools who -defy the local custom are immortal. The fool is merely an -anachronism. All inventors, most poets, and some statesmen have been -honoured with the title, since we laugh chiefly at what we do not -understand. There are more synonyms for "fool" than for any -other word in the language!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So we must take our chances and smile at all and sundry, at -men of one idea, hobby riders, cranks, </span><em class="italics">poseurs</em><span>, managing mammas -and antic youths, blushing brides and fond parents, bounders, -pedants, bigots and hens with their heads cut off. Laugh at them, -the character parts in the comedy of life, for the show is -amusing, but be not resentful if you find the privilege of laughing -is a common right, and you in your turn become -a victim. For, strange as it may seem, -many of these actors may be so -foolish as to think you -the fool yourself!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="absolute-age"><span class="bold large">Absolute Age</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>When I was a child, I invented a game so simple and -so passive, that its enjoyment was permitted even on -the rigorous Sundays of my youth. Upon a slate I -ruled vertical columns, and at the head of these I -wrote: "Men, women, boys, girls, babies, horses, dogs." Then, -seated at a window commanding the street, I made note of the -passers-by, and as fast as they appeared in sight I made a mark for -each in the appropriate column. The compilation of this petty -census was a pleasing pastime, and, moreover, it seemed to me that -my categories were obviously complete. There were, in my world, -but men and women, boys, girls and babies--what else, indeed?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But this primary classification of sex and years did not satisfy -me long, and I discovered that my system must be amended if I -would segregate--mentally now--the various types I encountered. -There were, for instance, good persons and bad ones, men educated -and ignorant, rich and poor, and I superimposed upon my first list -one after another of these modifying conditions. But with a larger -view of life these crude distinctions overlapped and became confused, -and I saw that the whole system was but a rude makeshift.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet until I could pigeon-hole a new acquaintance in my own -mind and put him with others of his kind I was never quite satisfied. -Up to a certain stage in development, what we are most struck with -is the difference between persons, but after the first intellectual -climacteric we begin to see resemblances, invisible before, that knit men -of different aspect together; and, that game of -synthesis once begun, we must play it till we die. -Every new acquaintance is an element of our -experience--a new fact refuting or corroborating our -theory of life, and, though we often may put the case -into a separate compartment and label the specimen "unique," -before long we shall probably have to reconsider the whole collection -and devise a new system of arrangement for the complex -characteristics of human nature.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But what analysis can we adopt which shall prove universally -satisfactory? If we rank men according to mental, moral or -spiritual attributes, one quality is sure to contradict or affect the -other, and it is hard to decide which trait is paramount. Friendship -is dependent upon none of these things, and yet in our affections we -recognize, almost unconsciously, grades and qualities of attraction -and kinship. Of a bunch of letters at our breakfast plate, we are -sure to open a special one first or last, as the expectation of pleasure -may decide. We accept this nearness, this intimate relationship, -without reasoning; it is manifested in the first flash of recognition of -the handwriting, at sight of a photograph, at the sound of a voice or -a name. Some are indubitably of our own clan, and others, however -their charm, or a temporary passion, may blind us for a time, are -foreigners, and speak another language of the emotions. There are -invisible groups of souls, mysteriously related, and the tie is -indissoluble.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So I have come to adopt as the final classification what, for want -of a better term, I must call Absolute Age--age or condition, that -is, not relative, not dependent upon the year of one's birth. No -one, surely, has failed to observe children who seem to be older than -their parents in possibility of development. One -knows that in a few years this child will have caught -up to and passed his father or mother in soundness -of judgment, in a sense of the relative importance of -things, in the power to distinguish sham, convention -and prejudice from things of vital import. This child is older in -point of Absolute Age. When his soul has served its juvenile -apprenticeship in the world of the senses he shall understand truths -his parents never knew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This capacity for comprehending life does not seem to be -dependent upon actual definite experience with the world. The -villager may have this hidden wisdom as clearly as the man who -has seen and done, who has fought, loved and travelled far and -well. The mystics hold that we have all lived before, and that -some have profited by their experiences in former lives and have -attained a fairer conception of the very truth. But, though this -illustrates what is meant by the term Absolute Age, it is by no -means necessary to accept such an explanation of the effects we -perceive. It is enough that we can definitely classify our friends by -their emotions and desires, and by their point of view on life. In -other words, some are philosophers and some are not. And even -the philosophers are of varying sects. Some have a keen, childlike -enthusiasm for the more obvious forms of excitement, for all that is -new and strange and marvellous, while others are incapable of being -shocked, surprised or embarrassed--they have poise, and prefer the -part of observer to that of actor in the game of life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And yet, too, there is a simplicity which comes from a greater -Absolute Age, a relish for real things that persists with enthusiasm. -It is by this simplicity one may distinguish the cult from those that -are merely </span><em class="italics">blasé</em><span> or worldly wise. The joy in the -taste of the fresh apple under the tongue, or in the -abandon of the child at play, in the strength of youth -and the grace of women,--this is a joy that does not -fade; no, not even for those who would not trouble -to go to the window if the king rode by! As a man can learn -much by travel without losing his capacity for enjoying his native -town, so one can enjoy life intellectually to the utmost without ever -losing one's grasp on one's self, without being intoxicated by excitement -or blinded by egoism, and yet feel still the clean, sane joys of -youth to the last.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We have come to our Absolute Age by different paths. If we -are of the same status, you and I, you may have learned one lesson -and I another, yet the sum of our experience is the same. We -are akin spiritually, although we have not had the same process of -development. You, perhaps, have fought down hate and I have -conquered dishonesty, but we are calmer and wiser, we think, -than those whom we smile at quietly when we view their eagerness -for things that no longer concern us. We recognize, too, -that there are others to whose attainments our own powers -are infantile. But in either case the superiority is -neither mental nor moral nor spiritual--it -is that mysterious inherent -quality we call "caste."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-manual-blessing"><span class="bold large">The Manual Blessing</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Surely if there is one sharp, active sensation that, in this -changeful life of ours, we never tire of, never outgrow, it is -in the satisfaction of creative manual work. There is a -conservation of pleasure as there is a conservation of energy, -and our taste is being continually transmuted and evolved. One by -one we outlive the joys of youth, the delights of physical exercise, -the zest of travel, the beatitude of emotion, the singing raptures of -love, passing from each to a more mature appeal, a more refined -appetite, a subtler demand of the intellect or of the spirit. The -familiar games lose their savour, the dance gives way to the drama, travel -to the calmer investigation of homely miracles. We tire of seeing -and begin to read, feasting peacefully at the banquet of the arts that -other men have spread. This is, for many of us, what age means--a -giving up of active for passive pleasures when the old games lose -their charm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the joy of creation does not fade, for in that lies our -divinity and our claim to eternity. Each new product arouses the same -thrill, the same spiritual excitement, the same pride of victory, and -yet, strangely enough, though we think we work only for the final -notch of accomplishment, it is not the completion but the construction -that holds us entranced. Not the last stroke, but every stroke -brings victory! It is like the climbing of a mountain. Do we -endure the toil merely for the sake of the view at the summit? No, -but for the primitive passion of conflict, the inch-by-inch fight -against odds, the heaping of endeavour on endeavour, -the continual measuring of what has been done with -what remains to do. The finishing climax is but -the exclamation point at the end of the sentence--most -of the sensation has been used up before we -come to the full stop, and that point serves but to sum up our -emotion in a visible emblem of success.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Many of us believe we are debarred from the exercise of this -divine birthright, the joy of creation. We have neither talent nor -genius--not even that variety which consists in the ability to take -infinite pains. Are we not mistaken in this? I think we may each -have our share of the immortal stimulus.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To understand this, we must go back and back in the history -of the race, and there we shall find that this satisfaction, this sane -and virile delight in construction, was possible to the meanest -member of the tribe. Its enjoyment came chiefly in the exercise of a -laborious persistency in little things. The combination or addition of -the simplest elements achieved a positive pleasurable result. The -neolithic man chipped and chipped at his flint until the arrow-head -was perfected, and his joy, had he been able to analyze it, was not -so much in the last stroke as in every stroke. Not so much that -he had himself with his own hands made something, as that he had -been making something of use and beauty, and the possibility of that -joy abiding with him as long as he lived. The makers of ancient -pottery repeated the same shapes and designs, or, if their fancy soared, -dared new inventions, but the satisfaction was in the doing. The -carvers and joiners of the Middle Ages worked as amateurs in cottage -and hovel, and in their work lay their content; no tyranny could -wrest from them this well-spring of pleasure. Old age could but -weaken the hand; I doubt if it could tame the -immemorial joy of creation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We cannot all be professional mechanics, for the -division of labour has cast our lot more and more with -the workers in intellectual pursuits. But we might -make handicraft an avocation, if not a vocation, and that regimen -would help our digestion, perhaps, more than pepsin or a course of -the German baths. Were I a physician I should often recommend -the craft cure--a panacea for dyspepsia, ennui and nostalgia.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here is my modern health resort, my sanitorium for these most -desperate of diseases; a little hamlet of shops and tents on the -foothills of the Coast Range in California, where as you work you can -look across a green valley to the blue Pacific. Here in this new -land nature calls fondly to your soul, and you may turn to the primitive -delights of living and taste the tang of the dawn of civilization, -fresh and wholesome as a wild berry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here, squatting on the bare sun-parched ground, with an Indian -blanket over his shoulders, is a corpulent banker with a flint -hammer battering a water-worn boulder. Thus, less than a hundred -years ago, the Temecula Indians hollowed out their stone mortars on -this very mesa. Thus they spent happy days, slept like bears, and -were up with the birds, each morn a day younger than yesterday. In -this lodge of deerskins, where the ground is spread with yellow -poppies, sits an ex-secretary of legation, who has known everything, seen -everything, done everything but this--to cut with a knife of shell -strange patterns upon a circular horn gorget. Finished, his wife -might wear it with pride at the Court of St. James, yet it is but the -reproduction of a prehistoric ornament, its figures smeared with -ochre, cobalt and vermilion, and inlaid with lumps of virgin copper -by the mound-builders of the Mississippi Valley. -In this open shelter of bamboo, a trysting-place -for meadow-larks and song-sparrows, lies stretched -upon the ground an East India warehouseman, all his -gout and lumbago forgotten in the rapturous delight -of printing a pattern of checquered stripes with a carved wooden -block upon a sheet of tapa which he himself--unaided, mind -you--has pounded from the fibrous bark of the paper mulberry. His -strenuous daughter, once world-worn and frozen, has left Nietsche, -Brahms, and the cult of the symbolists, to sit cross-legged and -weave the woolly zigzags of a Navajo blanket. It is the first thing -she has made with her ten fingers since she baked mud pies in the -sun! Had she a scrap of mirror in her bungalow she could now -face it without mortification. An open-air hand-loom is good for -the complexion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But you need not journey to California. Rather make a pilgrimage -to your own south attic. If you do but construct cardboard -model houses with isinglass windows in your breakfast-room, you -will perhaps find that more diverting than collecting cameos or first -editions. If you can only compile a concordance to </span><em class="italics">Alice in -Wonderland</em><span> you may achieve a hygienic and rejuvenative distraction. -Can you cut, stamp, gild, paint, lacquer and emboss a leather belt? -Can you hammer jewelry out of soft virgin silver? No? But -you could, though, if you tried! Can you forget the -impositions of convention in the rapt glow of pride in sawing -and nailing together a wooden box? No matter -how small it might be, how leaky of joint -or loose of cover, it would hold -all your worries!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-deserted-island"><span class="bold large">The Deserted Island</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>A friend of mine is curiously hampered by a limitation -precluding him from association with any one conversant -with the details of the manufacture of cold-drawn wire. -To show that this self-imposed abstinence may indicate -a most charming devotion to an ideal, rarely shown by the commonplace, -is the object of this thesis, and that, too, despite the fact -that an indiscriminating extension of the same principle would lead -the radical to eschew the society of most of his acquaintances, as -well as bar out the whole domain of didactic literature.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When the day is done, and that entrancing hour is come for -which some spend many of their waking hours in anticipation, -to those blessed with fancy, the curtain of the dark arises, and within -the theatre of the Night are played strange comedies. To a select -performance I invite all uninitiated who have never enjoyed the -drama of the Deserted Island--the perfect and satisfactory employment -for the minutes that elapse after retiring and before the anchor -is weighed and the voyage begun upon the Sea of Dreams.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There are undoubtedly more than I am aware of who are happy -enough to maintain deserted islands of their own--many more, -perhaps, than would confess to the possession. To some the history -may be well under way; they have long since discovered their island, -and many improvements have already been successfully completed. -Others, more adventurous, handicapped by stricter limitations and -more meagre outfit, are still struggling with the primal demands of -food and shelter. But to those whose imaginations -have never put so far out to sea, and would welcome -this modest diversion, I advise an expedition of -discovery and exploration this very night. You have -but to go to bed, close your eyes, and after a few -preliminaries you are there!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Authorities differ as to the allowable equipment for the -occupancy of the sequestered territory. I myself hold that it is -manifestly unfair to be provided with tools of any kind; to have a -knife, now, I would call cheating. Surely the only legitimate -beginning is to be vomited upon the beach stark naked from the sea, -after some fearsome shipwreck in mid-ocean. Then, after years of -occupancy, a man might taste the pride of his own resources, -unfettered by any legacy inherited from civilization. Settle this point -as you may, when the conditions of the game are once understood, -the whole history of Science is to be re-enacted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I have a friend who arrived upon the scene in an open boat -containing a keg of water, a crowbar, a pruning-knife, a red silk -handkerchief and a woman's petticoat; and with these promiscuous -accessories has, in the course of years, transformed the place, which -now boasts a stone castle, entirely inhabitable. His island is about -two miles long and a half-mile wide--much too narrow for comfort, -I assert; the proportions should be about five miles by three, with -one dominant hill from which the whole territory may be surveyed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the owner of the other island--he of the cold-drawn -wire--boldly asserts his right to a half-dozen labourers, presumably -natives, and with this force at his disposal he has done wonders with -his fief. Glass has been manufactured, fabrics woven, ore smelted -and fine roads constructed, so that there now remains nothing to be -desired but bicycles upon which he and his slaves -may traverse the highways. But in vain his unskilled -assistants look to him for advice; rack his wits as he -may, he can devise no adequate system of making -cold-drawn wire, and he is beginning to lose caste -with his followers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now at first sight one might think it necessary for him only to -consult an encyclopedia, or to visit on iron mill, yet this course is -strictly barred out by the rules of the game, which compels one to use -only such information as comes naturally to hand--for one is likely to -be cast ashore upon a desert island at any moment, and it is then too -late for the research and education that has been before neglected. -With any ingenious fellow who has his own amateur ideas on the -subject, one may, of course, talk freely; for he may represent one of -the more intelligent of the natives; but all they who really know -whereof they speak are to be avoided. So the problem of the -cold-drawn wire is still unsolved.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I know of an artist, who, free on this enchanted spot, has -turned his energies to those diverting pursuits for which his studio -leaves no time, and he builds gigantic rock mosaics on the cliffs, -selecting from the many coloured boulders on the beach. Luxuries -are his only necessities even in his daily life, and the enormity of his -trifling on this holiday playground is a thing to wonder at. His art, -so used to a censorship of Nature, in his professional mimicries, here -goes boldly forth and so mends, prunes and patches the aspect of -his island, that the place is now, he says, absolutely perfect; a -consummation not altogether discreditable to a nude, near-sighted man, -whose eye-glasses were washed off before he arrived on the spot!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But, taking the situation seriously, what will he be in the years -to come? By what gradations shall the lonely artist -sink to low and lower levels, abandoned by the stimulus -of the outer world, the need for advance, and the struggle -for recognition? How soon would he lose the -desire to render, in the medium at hand, the lovely -forms of nature about him, the subtle tones of the earth and air, -lapsing by stages into ever cruder forms of expression, till the whole -history of his development had been reversed, and he became content -with rude squares, triangles and circles for his patterns, the barbarous -effigies of the human form, and the primary colours that satisfy the -savage?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And the sense of humour, too--that universal solvent of all our -miseries, the oil that lubricates the cumbrous machinery of life--how -soon would that go? Is it not, in the last analysis, dependent upon -the by-play of the social relationship of men? The inconsistencies -of our fellows must be first noticed before we can get the reflected -light of ridicule upon our own grotesque actions. It would soon be -lost in such a sojourn, our impatience would have no foil, we would -take ourselves more and more seriously until the end came upon -that day when we had at last forgotten how to laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But, after all, as this text of the hypothetical deserted island is -better fitted for a romance than for a sermon, we may leave such -forebodings and trace out only the rising curve of improvement. -And so, too, interesting as it might be to experience, we may leave -aside the moral speculations incident to the discussion of the case -where the place becomes occupied by a man and a woman. The -possibilities of a shipwreck in company are not for such a brief memoir -as this; they offer consideration too intimate for these discreet pages, -and are best left to the exclusion of a private audience.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But choose your company carefully, I entreat you, -if you are not soberly minded to be shipwrecked alone. -I know of persons with whom, were I cast ashore, there -could be no end not tragic, albeit these are highly -respectable and praiseworthy individuals, who never -did any harm except in that trick of manner by which we recognize -the bore. I am often inclined to test the merits of others by -mentally permitting them a short visit to my island, but the hazard -is too great, and the thought of the possibility of their footprints -upon the sand unnerves me.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet, to a distant islet of this fantastic archipelago I seriously -consider consigning certain impossible acquaintances, absolutely -intolerable personalities, whose probable fate, forced to endure each -other's society, interests me beyond words. Upon one side of this -far-away retreat rises a steep cliff overhanging the sea, and here I -behold in imagination one after another of these marooned unfortunates -pushed headlong over the slope, as, unable to support the -society of his companions, each has in turn, by some stratagem, lured -his hated accomplice in misery to the summit of the bluff.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But of one island I have not yet spoken. I can get no description -of it save that it lies sleeping in the summer sun, washed by -the sapphire tides and fanned by the cool south winds, its olive -slopes rising softly from the beach, marked by a grove of fruit trees -at the crest. More the owner will not tell, for Celestine says there -is no use for a deserted island after it is charted; but by -these signs I shall know the place, and my trees -are felled and my sails are plaited -that shall yet bear me over -towards the southwest!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-sense-of-humour"><span class="bold large">The Sense of Humour</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Much as one may look through the small end of a -telescope and find an unique and intrinsic charm in the -spectacle there offered, so to certain eyes the whole -visible universe is humorous. From the apparition of this -dignified little ball, rolling soberly through the starry field of the -firmament, to the unwarrantable gravity of a neighbour's straw hat, -macrocosm and microcosm may minister to the merriment of man. -There is more in heaven and earth than is dreamed of in the -philosophy of the Realist.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It is one attribute of a man of parts that he shall have, in his -mental vision, what corresponds to the "accommodation" of his eye, -a flexibility of observation that enables him to adapt his mind to the -focus of humour. Myopia and strabismus we know; the dullard -can point their analogies in the mental optics, but for this other -misunderstood function we have no name; and yet, failing that, we -have dignified it as a sense apart--the sense of humour. But no -form of lens has been discovered to correct its aberration and transfer -the message in pleasurable terms to the lagging brain; and, unless -we attempt hypnotism as a last resort, the prosiest must go purblind -for life, missing all but the baldest jokes of existence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Is it not significant, that from the ancient terminology of -leechcraft, this word "humour" has survived in modern medicine, to be -applied only to the vitreous fluid of the eye? For humour is the -medium through which all the phenomena of human intercourse may -be witnessed, and for those normal minds that possess -it, tints this world with a rare colour--like that of the -mysterious ultra-violet rays of the spectrum. And -indeed, to push further into modern science and -speculation, perhaps this ray does not undulate, but shoots -forth undeviating as Truth itself, like that from the Cathode Pole. -Or, does it not strike our mental retina from some secret Fourth -Direction?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But this is mere verbiage; similes, flattering to the elect, but -unconvincing to the uninitiate. Yet, as I am resolved that humour -is essentially a point of view, I would have a try at proselytizing for -the doctrine. For here is a religion ready made to my hand; I have -but to raise my voice and become its prophet. The seeds are all -sown, the Fraternity broods, hidden in hidden Chapters, guarding -the Grand Hailing Sign; who knows but that a spark might not -touch off this seasoned fuel, and the flame carry everything before it. -O my readers, I give you the Philosophy of Mirth, the Cult of -Laughter! Yet it is an esoteric faith, mind you, unattainable by -the multitude. Not of the "Te-he! Papa's dead!" school, nor of -the giggling punster's are its devotees. No comic weekly shall be its -organ. It must be hymned not by the hoarse guffaw, but in the -quiet inward smile--and for its ritual, I submit the invisible humour -of the Commonplace. O Paradox!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Brethren, from this flimsy pulpit, I assert with sincerity, that -everything on two legs (and most on four) sleeping or awake, -bow-legged or knock-kneed, has its humorous aspect. The curtain never -falls on the diversion. You will tell me, no doubt, that here I ride -too hard. Adam, you will say with reason, set aside in the beginning -certain animals for our perpetual amusement--to wit: the goose, the -monkey, the ostrich, the kangaroo, and, as a sublime -afterthought--symbol of the Eternal Feminine--the -hen. Civilization, you may admit, has added to these -the goat--but, save in rare moods of insanity, as when -the puppy pursues the mad orbit of his tail, the sight -of only the aforesaid beasts makes for risibility. The cat, you will -say, is never ridiculous. But here again we must hark back to the -major premise, unrecognized though it be by the science of Æsthetic, -that humour lies in the point of view. If I could prove it by mere -iteration it would go without further saying that it is essentially -subjective rather than objective. Surely there is no humour in insensate -nature, as there is little enough in Art and Music. The bees, the -trees, the fountains and the mountains take themselves seriously -enough, and though, according to the minor poets, the fields and the -brooks are at times moved to laughter, it is from a vegetable, pointless -joy of life. Through the human wit alone, and that too rarely, -the rays of thought are refracted in the angle of mirth, and split into -whimsical rays of complementary sensations and contrasts.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When we lay off the mantle of seriousness and relax the flexors -and extensors, if we are well fed, healthy, and of a peaceful mood -and capable of indolence, men and women, and even we ourselves, -should become to our view players on the stage of life. And what -then is comedy but tragedy seen backward or downside-up? It is -the negative or corollary of what is vital in this great game of life. -The custom has been, however, to give it a place apart and unrelated -to the higher unities, as the newspapers assign their witticisms to -isolated columns. Rather is it the subtle polarity induced by graver -thought, the reading between the lines of the page. And as, to the -vigorous intellect, rest does not come through inactivity so much as -by a change of occupation, the happy humourist is -refreshed by the solace of impersonality.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For, to the initiate, his own inconsistencies and -indiscretions are no less diverting than those of his -associates, and should frequently give rise to emotions -that impel him to hurry into a corner and scream aloud with mirth. -It is ever the situation that is absurd, and never the victim; and in -this lies the secret of his ability to appreciate a farce of which he -himself is the hero. He must disincarnate himself as the whim blows, -and hang in the air, a god for the time, gazing with amusement at the -play of his own ridiculous failures. In some such way, perhaps, do -the curious turn over the patterned fabric, to discover, on the reverse, -the threads and stitches that explain the construction of the design.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This faculty, then, gives one the stamp of caste by which one -may know his brethren the world over, an Order of whose very existence -many shall never be aware, till, in some after life, some grinning -god conducts them to the verge of the heavens, and, leaning over a -cloud, bids them behold the spectacle of this little planet swarming -with its absurdly near-sighted denizens.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><em class="italics">Ohé la Renaissance!</em><span> for this is to be the Age of Humour. We -travail for the blithe rebirth of joy into the world. The Decadence, -with its morbid personalities and accursed analysis of exotic emotion, -is over, please God; yet we may adopt its methods and refine the -simplicity of primary impulse, thus increasing the whole sum of -pleasure with the delicate nuances that amplify the waves -of feeling. Hark, O my reader! Do you -not hear them, rising like overtones -and turning the melody into -a divine harmony?</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-game-of-correspondence"><span class="bold large">The Game of Correspondence</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The receipt of a letter is no longer the event it was in -the old stage-coach days; railways and the penny postage -have robbed it of all excitement. One expects now -one's little pile of white, blue and green envelopes -beside one's plate at breakfast, along with one's toast and coffee, -and one tastes its contents as one opens the matutinal egg. We -have forgotten how to write interesting letters as we have forgotten -how to fold and wafer a sheet of foolscap or sharpen a quill. -Some of our missives are not even worth a cursory glance, many -by no means deserve an answer, and most are speedily forgotten -in the columns of the morning journal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet, at times, on red-letter days, we find one amongst the -number which demands epicurean perusal; it is not to be ripped -open and devoured in haste, it insists on privacy and attention. -This has a flavour which the salt of silence alone can bring out; -a dash of interruption destroys its exquisite delicacy. More than -this, it must be answered while it is still fresh and sparkling, after -which, if it be of the true vintage, it can afford still another sip -to inspire your postscript.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To your room then with this, and lock the door, or else save -it for a more impregnable leisure. Open it daintily and entertain -it with distinction and respect; efface any previous mood and hold -yourself passive to its enchantment. It is no love message, and -need depend upon no excited interest in the writer for its reception, -for it has an intrinsic merit; it is the work of an artist; -it is a fascinating move on the chess-board of the -most alluring, most accessible game in the world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Though the fire of such a letter need have -neither the artificiality of flirtation nor the intensity -of love, yet it must both light and warm the reader. It is not -valuable for the news it brings, for if it be a work of art the tidings -it bears are not so important as the telling of them. It must be -sincere and alive, revealing and confessing, a letter more from the -writer than to the reader, as if it were written in face of a mirror -rather than before the photograph of the receiver; and yet the -communication must be spelled in the cypher of your friendship, to -which only you have the key. We have our separate languages, -each with the other, and there are emotions we cannot duplicate. -This missive is for you, and for you only, or it ranks with a business -communication. It is minted thought, invested, put out at loan for -a time, bringing back interest to stimulate new speculations. There -are no superfluous words, for the master strikes a clean sharp blow, -forging his mood all of a single piece, welding your whim to his, and, -fusing his sentences, there glows a spirit, a quality of style that bears -no affectation; it must not, of all things, become literary, it must be -direct, not showing signs of operose polish. It must be writ in the -native dialect of the heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If it be a risk to write frankly, it is one that gains interest in -the same proportion; it makes the game the better sport. But after -all, how many letters, so fearfully burned, so carefully hid away, but -what, in after years, would seem innocuous? You are seduced by -the moment, and your mood seems, and impulses seem, dangerous, -incendiary. You grow perfervid in your indiscretion, not knowing -that the whole world is stirred by the same recklessness, -and that each one is profoundly bored by -all save his own yearnings. Not many of our epistles -will bear the test of print on their own merit, -expurgate them as you will; you need only fear, rather, -that the letter will grow dull even before it reaches its destination. -The best of them, moreover, are written in sympathetic ink, and -unless your correspondent has the proper reagent at hand, the sheets -will be empty or incomprehensible even to him. Answer speedily -as you may, too, it will be hard to overtake your correspondent's -mood; he has overburdened his mind, precipitated the solution, and -is off to another experiment by the time his stamp is affixed. But -you must do your best in return; reflect enough of his ray to show -him he has shot straight, and then flash your own colour back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There are virtues of omission and commission. It is not -enough to answer questions; one must not add the active annoyance -of apology to the passive offense of neglect. One must not -hint at things untellable; one must give the crisp satisfaction of -confidences wholly shared. Who has not received that dash of -feminine inconsequence in the sentence, "I have just written you two -long letters, and have torn them both up"? What letter could -make up for such an exasperation? Your master letter-writer -does not fear to stop when he is done, either, and a blank page -at the end of the folio does not threaten his conscience.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If one has not the commonplace view of things, and escapes -the obvious, it matters little whether one uses the telescope or the -microscope. One may deal with the abstract or concrete, discuss -philosophy and systems, or gild homely little common things till -they shine and twinkle with joy. Indeed, the perfect letter-writer -must do both, and change from the intensely -subjective to the intensely objective point of view. He -must, as it were, look you in the eye and hold you -by the hand. Two masters whose letters have recently -been printed may illustrate these two different phases of -expression, though each could do both as well. And this first, from -Browning's love letters, describes what the perfect letter should be:</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="small">"I persisted in not reading my letter in the presence of my friend.... -I kept the letter in my hand, and only read it with those sapient ends of the -fingers which the mesmerists make so much ado about, and which really did -seem to touch a little of what was inside. Not </span><em class="italics small">all</em><span class="small">, however, happily for me! -or my friend would have seen in my eyes what </span><em class="italics small">they</em><span class="small"> did not see."</span></p> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>To this, the twittering, delightful familiarities of Stevenson:</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<p class="pfirst"><span class="small">"Two Sundays ago the sad word was brought that the sow was out -again; this time she had brought another in her flight. Moors and I and -Fanny were strolling up to the garden, and there by the waterside we saw -the black sow looking guilty. It seemed to me beyond words; but Fanny's -</span><em class="italics small">cri du coeur</em><span class="small"> was delicious. 'G-r-r!' she cried; 'nobody loves you!'"</span></p> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was the same art in big and little, for each stripped off -pretense and boldly revealed his moment's personality.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And yet, and yet, a letter does not depend upon any artistic -quality or glib facility with words, for its interest. The one test of -a letter is that it must bring the writer close to your side. You -must fasten your mood on me, so that I shall be you for hours -afterward. It sounds easy enough, but it is the most difficult -thing in the world, to be one's self. "I long for you, I long for -you so much that I thank God upon my knees that you -are not here!" There, now, is a letter that -promises well, but I dare not quote more of -it, for the subject must be seen -from another side.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-caste-of-the-articulate"><span class="bold large">The Caste of the Articulate</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Fair or unfair though it be, I have come to accept a letter -as the final test of the personality of a new acquaintance. -Not of his or her intellect or moral worth, perhaps, but -the register of that rare power which dominates all attributes--that -peculiar aroma, flavour, </span><em class="italics">timbre</em><span>, or colour which makes -some of our friends eternally exceptional. "Who dares classify -him and label him, sins against the Holy Ghost; I, for one, think -I know him only inasmuch as I refuse to sum him up. I cannot -find his name in the dictionary; I cannot make a map of him; I -cannot write his epitaph." So writes Sonia of a friend with such -a personality, and you will see by this that Sonia herself is of the -caste of the Articulate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We are influenced first by sight, then by sound, and, lastly, by -the written word. "She spoke, and lo! her loveliness methought -she damaged with her tongue!" is the description of many a woman -who appeals to the eye alone. And in something the same way -many who fascinate us with their glamour while face to face, shock -us by the dreary commonplaceness of their letters.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It would seem that an interesting person must inevitably write -an interesting letter,--indeed, that should be a part of the definition -of the term interesting. But many decent folk are gagged with -constraint and self-consciousness, and never seem to get free.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wonder," says Little Sister, "whether these wordless folk -may not, after all, really feel much more deeply than we who -write?" That is a troublesome question, and in its very nature -unanswerable, since the witnesses are dumb. No -doubt they feel more simply and unquestioningly, for -as soon as a thing is once said its opposite and -contradictory side, as true and as necessary, reacts upon us. -But it seems to me that expression does not so much depend upon -any spiritual insight, or even upon especial training, as it does upon -the capacity for being one's self frankly and simply. That is the -only thing necessary to make the humblest person interesting, and -yet nothing is so difficult as to be one's self in this wild, whirling -world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Expression is but another name for revelation. Unless one is -willing to expose one's self like Lady Godiva, or protected only by -such beauty and sincerity as hers, one can go but a little way in the -direction of individuality. We must sacrifice ourselves at every -turn, show good and bad alike, and laugh at ourselves too. "Would -that mine enemy might write a book!" is no insignificant curse, and -yet there are tepid, colourless authors who might hazard it with safety; -no one would ever discover the element of personality.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"After our quarrel I felt as if I had a pebble in my shoe all -day," Little Sister once wrote me. Let that be an example of the -articulate manner, for by such vivid and homely metaphors she -strews her pages. Did she reserve such phrases for her written -words, I would feel bound to claim for letter-writing the distinction -of being an art of itself, unrelated to any other faculty; but no, she -talks in the same way--she is herself every moment. "My temper -is violent and sudden, but it soon evaporates," she tells me; "it is -like milk spilt on a hot stove."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The inspiration which impels one so to illustrate an abstract -statement with a concrete example, illuminating and -convincing, is a spark of the divine fire of personality. -This is the </span><em class="italics">crux</em><span> of the articulate caste. An ounce of -illustration is worth a pound of proof. Rob poetry -of metaphor and it would be but prose; a simile, in -verse, is usually merely ornament. The true purpose of tropes, -however, is more virile and sustaining; they should reinforce logic, -not decorate it. See how agilely Perilla can compress the whole -history of a flirtation into six lines, defying the old saying that "there -is nothing so difficult to relight as a dead love."</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>I thought I saw a stiffened form</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>A-lying in its shroud;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>I looked again and saw it was</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>The love we once avowed.</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>"They told me you were dead!" I cried.</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>The corpse sat up and bowed!</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>When one has a few such acquaintances as these, books are -superfluous. Who would read a dead romance when one can have -it warm and living, vibrant, human, coming like instalments of a -serial story, a perpetual revelation of character! Many pride -themselves upon their proficiency in matter and many in manner,--there -are those, even, who boast of mere quantity, but your professional -writer is usually cool and calm, if not affected and pretentious. A -letter, though, should be impregnate with living fire--it should boil. -It is a treat of exceptional human nature. If the sentences be not -spontaneous and unstudied the pleasure is lost. One may write fiery -nonsense, but one must mean it at the time. One's mind must, as -Sonia says, be hospitable, keep open house, and have the knack of -making one's friends at home, to throb with one's own delights and -despairs. One must give every mood open-handed, -and mention nothing one may not say outright with -gusto. But it is not everyone who can "bathe in -rich, young feeling, and steep at day-dawning in green -bedewed grasses" like my little Sonia. If I were -dead she could still strike sparks out of me with her letters.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, if you could only see my new hat! I've been sitting -in fetish worship half the evening, and I'll never dare tell how -much I paid for it. You never need be good-looking under such a -hat as that, for no one will ever see you!" Does not this quotation -bring Little Sister very near to you, and make her very human and -real? Ah, Little Sister is not afraid to be herself! She knows that -she can do nothing better. "It's a terrible handy thing to have a -smashing adjective in your pocket," she confesses. Little Sister has -a good aim, too; she always hits my heart. And yet she acknowledges -that "there are days when letters are blankly impossible."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Such friends write the kind of letters that one keeps always, -the kind that can be re-read without skipping. It is their own talk, -their own lives, their own selves put up like fruit preserves of various -flavours, moods and colours, warranted not to turn or spoil.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And as for the gagged, wordless folk, it is my opinion that too -much sensibility has been accredited to them. To any rich exotic -nature expression must come as a demand not to be refused. It is -feeling bubbling over into words. Other souls are compressed and -silent; they have the possibilities of the bud--something warm -and inspiring may at any time make them expand -and free them from the constraint--but there -is not much perfume until -the flower blooms.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-tyranny-of-the-lares"><span class="bold large">The Tyranny of the Lares</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>No, I have never been tainted with a mania for collecting. -It has never particularly interested me, because I already -happened to have two of a kind, to possess a third. I -prefer things to be different rather than alike, and the few -things I really care for I like for themselves alone, and not because -they are one of a family, set or series.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But there are so few things to be envious of, even then! After -one's necessities are provided for, there are not many things worth -possessing, and fewer still worth the struggle of collecting. Acquisition -seems to rob most things of their intrinsic value, of the extreme -desirability they seemed to possess, and yet it does not follow that -the practice of collecting is not worth while. It is worth while for -itself, but not for the things collected. It is like hunting. The -enjoyment, to your true sportsman, does not depend entirely upon the -game that is bagged. If the hunter went out solely for the purpose -of obtaining food he would better go to the nearest poulterer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We have a habit of associating the idea of pleasure with the -possession of certain objects, and we fancy such pleasure is -permanent. But in nine cases out of ten the enjoyment is effervescent, -and the thing must be gazed at, touched and admired while the -charm is new. Then only can one feel the sharp joy of possession, -and, even though its value remain as an object of art, we must after -that enjoy it impersonally; its delight must be shared with other -spectators. As far as the satisfaction of ownership is concerned the -thing is dead for us, and though we would not give it -up, our greed gilds it but cheaply, after all.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Of all things, pictures are most commonly regarded -as giving pleasure. A painting is universally -regarded as a desirable possession of more or less -value, according to personal appreciation. In fact, most men would -say that a poor picture is better than none, since one of its -recognized functions is to fill a space on the wall. And yet how few -pictures are looked at once a day, or once a week. How many -persons accept them only as decoration, as spots on the wall, and pass -them by, in their familiarity, as unworthy of especial notice!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the collection of a multitude of things is no great oppression -if one is permanently installed; they pad out the comforts of -life, they create "atmosphere"; they fill up spaces in the house as -small talk fills up spaces in conversation. The first prospect of -moving, however, brings this horde of stupid, useless, dead things to life, -and they appear in their proper guise to strike terror into the heart -of the owner. Pictures that have never been regarded, curiosities -that are only curious, books that no longer feed the brain, and the -thousand little knickknacks that accumulate in one's domicile and -multiply like parasites--all the flotsam and jetsam of housekeeping -must be individually attended to, and rejected or preserved piecemeal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But that exciting decision! It is not till one has actually had -the courage to destroy some once prized possession that one feels the -first inspiring thrill of emancipation. Before, the Thing owned you; -it had to be protected in its useless life, kept intact with care and -attention. You were pledged to forestall dust, rust and pillage. If -you yourself selected it, it stood as a tangible evidence of your -culture, an ornament endorsed as art. The Thing -forbade growth of taste or judgment, it became a -changeless reproach. If it were a gift, it ruled you -with a subtle tyranny, compelling your hypocrisy, -enslaving you by chains of your very good nature. But -if you do not falter, in one exquisite pang you are freed. The -Thing is destroyed! Not given away, not hidden or disguised, -but murdered outright. It is your sublime duty to yourself that -demands the sacrifice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>These horrid monsters once put out of your life, and all necessity -for their care annulled, you have so much more space for the few -things whose quality remains permanent. You will guard the -entrance to your domicile and jealously examine the qualifications of -every article admitted. You will ask, "Is it absolutely necessary?" If -so, then let it be as beautiful as possible, putting into its perfection -of design the expense and care formerly bestowed on a dozen trifles. -You will use gold instead of silver, linen instead of cotton, ivory in -the place of celluloid; in short, whatever you use intimately and -continually, whatever has a definite plausible excuse for existence, -should be so beautiful that there is no need for objects which are -merely ornamental.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was so before machinery made everything possible, common -and cheap; it has been so with every primitive civilization. To the -unspoiled peasant, to all of sane and simple mind, ornaments have, -in themselves, no reason for being. Pictures are unnecessary, because -the true craftsman so elaborates and develops the constructive lines -of his architecture that the decoration is organic and inherent. The -many household utensils, vessels and implements of daily use were -so appropriately formed, so graceful and elegant in their simplicity, -so cunning of line, so quaint of form and pleasant of -colour, that they were objects of art, and there was no -need for the extraneous display of meaningless adornment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Once you are possessed with this idea you will -suddenly become aware of the tyranny of Things, and you will begin -to dread becoming a slave to mere possessions. You may still enjoy -and admire the possessions of others, but the ineffable bore of ownership -will keep you content. The responsibility of proprietorship will -strike you with terror, gifts will appal you, the opportunity of -ridding yourself of one more unnecessary thing will be welcomed as -another stroke for freedom. Your friends' houses will become your -museums, and they the altruistic custodians, allowing you the -unalloyed sweets of appreciation with none of the bitter responsibilities -of possession.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For you, if you are of my kind, and would be free to fly light, -flitting, gipsy fashion, wherever and whenever the whim calls, must -not be anchored to an establishment. We must know and love our -few possessions as a father knows his children. We must be able to -pack them all in one box and follow them foot-loose. This is the -new order of Friars Minor, modern Paulists who have renounced -the possession of things, and by that vow of -disinheritance, parting with the paltry delights -of monopoly, have been given the -roving privilege of the -whole world!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="costume-and-custom"><span class="bold large">Costume and Custom</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>A friend of mine has reduced his habit of dress to a -system. Dressing has long been known to be a fine art, -but this enthusiast's endeavour has been to make it a -science as well--to give his theories practical application -to the routine of daily life. To do this, he has given his coats and -jackets all Anglo-Saxon names. His frock is called Albert, for -instance, his morning coat Cedric, a grey tweed jacket, Arthur, and -so on. His waistcoats masquerade under more poetic pseudonyms. -A white piqué is known as Reginald, a spotted cashmere is -Montmorency, and I have seen this eccentric in a wonderful plaid vest -hight Roulhac. His trousers and pantaloons are distinguished by -family names; I need only mention such remarkable </span><em class="italics">aliases</em><span> as -Braghampton, a striped cheviot garment, and a pair of tennis flannels -denominated Smithers. His terminology includes also appellations -by which he describes his neckwear--simple prefixes, such as "de" -or "von" or "Mac" or "Fitz," modifying the name of the waistcoat, -and titles for his hats, varying from a simple "Sir" for a brown -bowler to "Prince" for a silk topper of the season's block.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now, my mythical friend is not such a fool as you might think -by this description of his mania, for he is moved to this fantastic -procedure by a psychological theory. The gentleman is a private, -if not a public, benefactor, the joy of his friends and delight of his -whole acquaintance, for, never in the course of their experience, has -he ever appeared twice in exactly the same costume. It may differ -from some previous habilitation only by the tint of his -gloves, but the change is there with its subtile -suggestion of newness. Indeed, this sartorial dilettante -prides himself, not so much upon the fact that his -raiment is never duplicated in combination, as that the -changes are so slight as not to be noticed without careful analysis. -His maxim is that clothes should not call attention to themselves -either by their splendour or their variety, but that the effect should -be upon the emotions rather than upon the eye. He holds that it -should never be particularly noticed whether a man dresses much or -dresses well, but that the impression should be of an immortal freshness, -sustaining the confidence of his friends that his garb shall have -a pleasing note of composition.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It is to accomplish this that he has adopted the mnemonic system -by which to remember his changing combinations. He has but to -say to his valet: "Muggins, this morning you may introduce Earl -Edgar von Courtenay Blenkinsopp," and his man, familiar with the -nomenclature of the wardrobe, will, after his master has been bathed, -shaved and breakfasted, clothe the artist accordingly in Panama hat, -sack coat, cheerful fawn waistcoat, a tender heliotrope scarf and -pin-check trousers. Or perhaps, looking over the calendar, the man -may announce that this fantastic Earl has already appeared at the -club, in which case a manipulation of the tie or waistcoat changes -von Courtenay to O'Anstruther. The Earl must not, according to -the rules, appear twice in his full complement of costume. His -existence is but for a day, but Anstruther, the merry corduroy vest, -may become a part of many personalities.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So much for my friend Rigamarole, who does, if you like, carry -his principles to an extreme; but surely we owe it to our friends that -our clothes shall please. It is as necessary as that -we should have clean faces and proper nails. But, -more than this, we owe it to ourselves that we shall -not be known by any hackneyed, unvarying garb. It -need not be taken for granted that we shall wear -brown or blue, we should not become identified with a special -shape of collar. Servants must wear a prescribed livery, priests -must always appear clad in the cloth of their office, and the soldier -must be content with and proud of his uniform, but free men are not -forced to inflict a permanent visual impression upon their fellows. -He must follow the habit and style of the day, be of his own -class and period, and yet, besides, if he can, be himself always -characteristic, while always presenting a novel aspect. It is as -necessary for a man as for a woman, and, though the elements -which he may combine are fewer, they are capable of a certain -kaleidoscopic effect.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Our time is cursed more than any other has been, perhaps, with -hard and fast rules for men's costume; and of all clothing, evening -dress, in which, in the old days, was granted the greatest freedom of -choice, is now subject to the most rigid prescription. We must all -appear like waiters at dinner, but daylight allows tiny licences. -Perhaps our garments are always darkest just before dawn, and the -new century may emancipate men's personal taste. So far, at least, -we may go: a frock coat does not compel a tie of any particular colour, -and a morning coat does not invariably forbid a certain subdued -animation in the way of waistcoats. We may already choose between -at least three styles of collar and yet be received at five o'clock, and -coloured shirts are making a hard fight to oust the white linen which -has reigned for more than half a hundred years. It takes no great -wealth to take advantage of these minor opportunities, -nor need one be pronounced a fop if one uses one's -chances well. He is safest who wears only what the -best tailor has advised every other of his customers, -but who cares for a tailor's model? Who cares, I -might add, to be safe? There is safety in numbers, but who ever -remembers or cares for the victims of such commonplace discretion? -We are men, not mice; why should our coats be all of the same -fashionable hue and of the same length of tail?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the times are changing, and we may look forward with -confident hope to the renascence of colour. Already we may see the -signs of the change that is approaching. God forbid that men should -become the dandies of the Regency, that we should ever ape the -incredible or go without pockets, but we may pray heartily for the -wedding of Art and Reason. Let us pray we shall no more wear -cylinders or cap our skulls with tight-fitting boxes! Meanwhile, -I fear I must buy another necktie, for my only one -is well worn out. And Celestine swears -she can recognize that blue -serge suit of mine, clear -across the Park!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="old-friends-and-new"><span class="bold large">Old Friends and New</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Old Friends, we say, are best, when some sudden -disillusionment shakes our faith in a new comrade. So -indeed they are, yet I count many newly made ties as -stronger than those of my youth. "Keep close and -hold my hand; I am afraid, for an old friend is coming!" Celestine -once whispered to me while our love was young. How well I -understood her panic! She was swung by the conflicting emotions -of loyalty and oppression; her old friend had rights, but her new -friend had privileges. With me, a stranger, she was frankly herself; -with him, a familiar, she must be what he expected of her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How shall we arrange the order of precedence for the late and -early comers into our hearts? How shall we adjudicate their -conflicting claims? That is the problem to be answered by everyone -who lives widely, and who would not have writ upon his gravestone: -"He made more friends than he could keep!" Were one content -to pass from flower to flower it would be easy enough, but I would -gather a full, fragrant and harmonious bouquet for my delight.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To one sensitively loyal, each new friend must at first sight -seem to come as a robber to steal a fragment of his heart from its -rightful owner. We say, "Make many acquaintances but few -friends," we swear undying devotion, and we promise to write every -week; but, if we practice this reserve, this fastidious partiality and -this exclusive attention, how shall we grow and increase in worth, and -how shall the Brotherhood of Man be brought about?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We may think that each friend has his own place -and is unique, satisfying some especial part of our -nature; each to be kept separate in his niche, the -saint to whom we turn for sympathy in those matters -wherein we have vowed him our confidences. We -may satisfy our consciences by giving to each the same number of -candles, and by a religious celebration of each Saint's day, keeping -the calendar of our devotions independent and exclusive, but this -method does not make for growth. It is our duty to help knit -Society together, to modify extremes, to transmit and transform -affection. Surely there is love enough for all, and the more we give the -more we shall have to give to our friends, whether they be old -or new.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Friendship is, however, a matter of caste. With just as many -as share our point of view or can understand it, who laugh at -the things we laugh at, who are tempted by our temptations and sin -our sins, can we have a divine fellowship. Through these to others -outside of our ken, through friend to friend's friend the tie passes -that shall bind the whole world together at last.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Our set of friends is a solar system, a cluster of planets, that, -revolving about us, moves with the same trend through space and -time. Each member of the fraternity has its own aphelion and -perihelion, occultation and transit. Whether they are visible or -invisible, we must be sure that each in due season will return to the -same relative position and exert the same attraction, answering the -law of gravity that in true friendship keeps them in their orbits about -us. But the circles interlace, and in that is the possibility of -keeping the unity of our constellation of friends. Were the same -comrades to accompany us unceasingly we could not develop. There -must be an intricate complication of actions and -reactions, and we must be affected by each in turn and -in combination.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What is a parting from a friend but a departure -in quest of new experience? Each fresh meeting, -therefore, should be the sharing of the fruits that both have gathered, -that each may profit by the contribution. If you tell me of a book -you have read, I am amused and profited by the knowledge you -bring me; shall I not be grateful to you for what you bring from an -interesting person? If every new friend contributes to our development -and enriches us by his personality, not only are we the better -for it ourselves, but more worth while to our friends. It is not you -as you are whom I love best, but you as you shall be when, in due -time, you have come to your perfect stature; wherefore I shall not -begrudge the loan of you to those who have set you on the way.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Though we may hold one friend paramount over all others, -and admit him to every phase of intimacy, there are minor confidences -that are often most possible with an entire stranger. Were -we to meet a man of the Sixteenth Century, what could we not tell -such an impersonal questioner! What would we care for the little -mortifications that come between even the best of friends? We -could confess faults and embarrassments without shame, we could -share every hope and doubt without fear, for he would regard us -without bias or prejudice. He could scourge us with no whip of -conventional morality, and he would be able to judge any action of -itself, hampered by no code or creed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We had a game once, my sister and I, in which we agreed to -look at each other suddenly, newly, as if we had never met -before. Frequently we were able to catch a novel phase of character, -and our sub-conscious self, freed from the servitude -of custom, bounded in a new emotion. Could we, in -this way, at times regard our friends, how much we -might learn! We fall into the habit of seeing what we -look for, and we compel old friends to live up to the -preconception. Why not look at them, occasionally, as strangers to -be studied and learned? There are two variable quantities in the -equation of friendship, Yourself and Myself. Nor is our relation -itself fixed; it is alive and changing from hour to hour. There is no -such thing as an unalterable friendship, for both parties to the affair -are moving at different speeds, first one and then the other ahead, -giving a hand to be helped on and reaching back to assist. Might -we not, indeed, reverse the previous experiment and regard any -stranger as a blood relative, assuming a fraternity of interest? We -need only to be honest and kind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>By these two processes we may keep old friends and make new -ones; and our conscience shall acquit us of disloyalty. When one -enlarges one's establishment, one does not decrease either the wages -or the duties of the servants before employed. The new members -of the household have new functions. More is given and more is -received. But it is not so much that one must give more as that -one should give wisely and economically, we must be generous in -quality rather than in quantity; for, though there is love enough -to go round for all, there is not time enough for most of -us. We must clasp hands, give the message and -pass on, trusting to meet again on the -journey, and come to the same -inn at nightfall.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-defense-of-slang"><span class="bold large">A Defense of Slang</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Could Shakespeare come to Chicago and listen curiously -to "the man in the street," he would find himself more -at home than in London. In the mouths of messenger -boys and clerks he would find the English language used -with all the freedom of unexpected metaphor and the plastic, -suggestive diction that was the privilege of the Elizabethan dramatists; -he would say, no doubt, that he had found a nation of poets. There -was hardly any such thing as slang in his day, for no graphic trope -was too virile or uncommon for acceptance, if its meaning were -patent. His own heroes (and heroines, too, for Rosalind's talk was as -forcible in figures of speech as any modern American's) often spoke -what corresponds to the slang of today.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The word, indeed, needs precise definition, before we condemn -all unconventional talk with opprobrium. Slang has been called -"poetry in the rough," and it is not all coarse or vulgar. There is -a prosaic as well as a poetic license. The man in the street calls a -charming girl, for instance, a "daisy." Surely this is not inelegant, -and such a reference will be understood a century hence without a -foot-note. Slang, to prove adjuvant to our speech, which is growing -more and more rigid and conventional, should be terse; it should -make for force and clarity, without any sacrifice of beauty. Still, -manner should befit matter; the American "dude" is, perhaps, no -more unpleasant a word than the emasculated fop it described. The -English "bounder" is too useful an appellation to do without in -London, and, were that meretricious creature of -pretence and fancy waistcoat more common in the United -States, the term would be welcomed to American -slang with enthusiasm. New York, alas, has already -produced "cads," but no Yankee school would ever -tolerate a "fag."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The mere substitution of a single synonymous term, however, -is not characteristic of American slang. Your Chicago messenger -boy coins metaphorical phrases with the facility of a primitive savage. -A figure of speech once started and come into popular acceptance -changes from day to day by paraphrase, and, so long as a trace of -the original significance is apparent, the personal variation is -comprehensible, not only to the masses, but generally to those whose purism -eschews the use of the common talk. Thus, to give "the glassy -eye" became the colloquial equivalent of receiving a cool reception. -The man on the street, inventive and jocose, does not stop at this.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At his caprice it becomes giving "the frozen face" or even "the -marble heart." In the same way one may hear a garrulous person -spoken of as "talking to beat the band," an obvious metaphor; or, -later, "to beat the cars."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The only parallel to this in England is the "rhyming slang" -of the costers, and the thieves' "patter." There a railway guard -may be facetiously termed a "Christmas card," and then abbreviated -to "card" alone, thence to permutations not easily traced. But -English slang is, for the most part, confined to the "masses," and is an -incomprehensible jargon to all else save those who make an especial -study of the subject. One may sit behind a bus driver from the -Bank to Fulham, and understand hardly a sentence of his colloquies -and gibes at the passing fraternity, but though the language of the -trolley conductor of Chicago is as racy and spirited, -it needs less translation. The American will, it is -true, be enigmatic at times; you must put two and -two together. You must reduce his trope to its -lowest terms, but common sense will simplify it. -It is not an empirical, arbitrary wit depending upon a music-hall -song for its origin. I was riding on a Broadway car one day when a -semi-intoxicated individual got on, and muttered unintelligibly, "Put -me off at Brphclwknd Street, please." I turned to the conductor -and asked, "What did he want?" The official smiled. "You can -search me!" he said, in denial of any possession of apprehension.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Slang in America, then, is expression on trial; if it fits a -hitherto unfurnished want it achieves a certain acceptance. But it is -a frothy compound, and the bubbles break when the necessity of the -hour is past, so that much of it is evanescent. Some of the older -inventions remain, such as "bunco" and "lynch" and "chestnut," -but whole phrases lose their snap like uncorked champagne, though -they give their stimulant at the proper timely moment. Like -the eggs of the codfish, one survives and matures, while a million -perish. The "observed of all observers" (Ophelia's delicate slang, -observe) was, yesterday, in New York "the main Guy," a term -whose appositeness would be easily understood in London, where -the fall of the Gunpowder Plot is still celebrated. Later, in -Chicago, according to George Ade, a modern authority, it -became the "main squeeze," and another permutation rendered the -phrase useless. It is this facility of change that makes most slang -spoil in crossing the Atlantic. On the other side, English slang -is of so esoteric an origin and reference, that no Yankee can -translate or adopt it. It is drop-forged and rigid, an empiric use of -words to express humour. What Englishman, indeed, -could trace the derivation of "balmy on the crumpet" -as meaning what the American would term "dotty" or -"bug-house," unless he was actually present at the -music hall where it was first invented?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We have at least three native languages to learn--the colloquial, -the literary prose, and the separate vocabulary of poetry. In America -slang makes a fourth, and it has come to be that we feel it as -incongruous to use slang on the printed page as it is to use "said he" or -"she replied with a smile" in conversation, and, except for a few -poets, such words as "haply," "welkin," or "beauteous" in prose. -Yet Stevenson himself, the purist who avoids foreign words, uses -Scotch which nearly approaches slang, for there is little difference -between words of an unwritten dialect and slang, such as "scrannel" -and "widdershins"; while Wilkie Collins writes "wyte," "wanion," -"kittle," "gar," and "collop" in with English sentences, as -doubtless many questionable words of today will be honoured in the -future.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Slang, the illegitimate sister of Poetry, makes with her a common -cause against the utilitarian economy of Prose. Both stand for -lavish luxuriance in trope and involution, for floriation and -adornment of thought. It is their boast to make two words grow where -but one grew before. Both garb themselves in metaphor, and the -only complaint of the captious can be that whereas Poetry follows -the accepted style, Slang dresses her thought to suit herself in -fantastic and bizarre caprices--that her whims are unstable and too -often in bad taste.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But this odium given to slang by superficial minds is undeserved. -In other days, before the language was crystallized into -the verbiage and idiom of the doctrinaire, prose, too, -was untrammelled. A cursory glance at the -Elizabethan poets discloses a kinship with the rebellious -fancies of our modern common colloquial talk. For -gargarism, scarab, quodling, puckfist, scroyle, foist, -pumpion, trindle-tale, comrogue, pigsbones, and ding-dong, we may -now read chump, scab, chaw, yap, fake, bloke, pal, bad-actor, and so -on. "She's a delicate dab-chick!" says Ben Jonson; "she had all -the component parts of a peach," says George Ade.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It will be seen that slang has two characteristics--humour and -force. Brevity is not always the soul of wit, for today we find -amusement in the euphuisms that, in the sixteenth century were -taken in all seriousness. The circumlocutions will drop speedily out -of use, but the more apt and adequate neologisms tend to improve -literary style. For every hundred times slang attributes a new -meaning to an old word, it creates once or twice a new word for an -old meaning. Many hybrids will grow, some flower and a few seed. -So it is with slang.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There is a "gentleman's slang," as Thackeray said, and there -is the impossible kind; but of the bulk of the American product, the -worst to be said of it usually is that it is homely and extravagant. -None the less is it a picturesque element that spices the language -with enthusiasm. It is antiseptic and prevents the decay of virility. -Literary style is but an individual, glorified slang. It is not -impossible for the artist; it went to its extreme in the abandon -of Ben Jonson, Webster, and Beaumont and -Fletcher, but, as your Cockney would -say, "It does take a bit of -doin'" nowadays.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-charms-of-imperfection"><span class="bold large">The Charms of Imperfection</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>For a long time I have held a stubborn belief that I should -admire and aim at perfection. I admitted its impossibility, -of course; I attributed my friends' failure to achieve it -as a charming evidence of their humanity, but it seemed -to me to be a thing most properly to be desired. And yet, upon -thinking it over, I was often astonished by the discovery that most -of my delights were caused by a divergence from this ideal. -"A sweete disorder in the dress kindleth in cloathes a wantonness!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now, is this because I am naturally perverse, and enjoy the -bizarre, the unique and the grotesque? Is it because of my frailty -that I take a dear delight in signs of our common humanity, in the -petty faults and foibles of the world? Or is it because I have -misinterpreted this ideal of perfection, and have thought it necessary or -proper to worship a conventional criterion? Celestine and I have -been puckering our brows for a week over the problem!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We have learned, after a quarter of a century's experience with -the turning lathe and fret saw, to turn back for lasting joy to -handmade work. We delight in the minor irregularities of a carving, for -instance, recognizing that behind that slip of the tool there was a -man at work; a man with a soul, striving for expression. The -dreary, methodical uniformity of machine-made decoration and -furniture wearies our new enlightened taste. Mathematical accuracy and -"spirit" seem to be mutually exclusive, and we have been taught by -the modern Æsthetic almost to regard amateurishness as a sure proof -of sincerity. We cannot associate the abandon and -naïve enthusiasm of the pre-Raphaelites with the -technical proficiency of the later Renascence, and Botticelli -stands, not only for the spirit dominating and shining -through the substance but, in a way, for the incompatibility -of perfect idealization with perfect execution. And yet this -conflict troubles us. We feel that the two should be wedded, so that -the legitimate offspring might be perfection; but when perfect -technique is attained, as in a Japanese carving, the result is almost as -devoid of human feeling and warmth as a machine-made product.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We feel this instinctive choice of irregularity wherever we -turn--wherever, that is, we have to do with humanity or human achievement. -We do not, it is true, delight in the flaw in the diamond, but -elsewhere we are in perpetual conflict with nature, whose sole object -seems to be the obliteration of extremes and the ultimate establishment -of a happy medium of uniformity. We find perfection cold -and lifeless in the human face. I doubt if a woman has ever been -loved for an absolute regularity of feature; but how many, like little -Celestine, who acknowledges herself that her nose is too crooked, -her eyes too hazel, and her mouth too large, are bewilderingly charming -on that very account! These features go to make up an expression, -which, if it is not perfect, is certainly not to be accounted for -by merely adding up the items. It is a case where the whole is -greater than the sum of all its parts. We admire the anatomy and -poise of the Greek statues, but they are not humanly interesting. -Indeed, they were never meant to be, for they are divinities, and the -symbols of an inaccessible perfection.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still, while we speak of certain faults as being adorable (notably -feminine weaknesses), while we make the trite remark anent a man's -"one redeeming vice," while we shrink from natures -too chaste, too aloof from human temptation, too -uncompromising, yet we must feel a pang of -conscience. We are not living up to our ideals. Is it the -mere reaction from the impositions of conventional -morality? I think not. It is a miscomprehension of the term -perfection.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Buddhist believes in a process of spiritual evolution that, -tending ever toward perfection, finally reaches the state of Nirvana, -where the individual soul is merged into the Infinite. How can it -be differentiated from the universal spirit if it has attained all the -attributes of divinity? And that idea seems to be the basis of our -mistaken worship of perfection--a Nirvana where each thing, being -absolutely perfect, loses every distinguishing mark of character. But -is not our Christian, or even the Pagan, ideal higher than this? For -even the Greek gods, cold and exquisite as they were, had each his -individuality, his character, his separate function. Our conception of -Heaven, if it is ever formulated nowadays, has this differentiation of -individuality strongly accented; though the most orthodox may insist -that the spirits of the blessed are sanctified with perfection, yet he -does not hold it as a necessary dogma that they are therefore all alike, -and recast in a common mould. He still dares believe in that infinite -variety which Nature has taught us persists throughout the universe.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This is the fundamental difference between the Oriental and the -Occidental point of view. We moderns stand for the supremacy of -character, an ineradicable distinction between human beings which -evolution and growth does not diminish, but develops. We believe, -you and I, that in a million æons we shall be as different one from -the other as we are now; that faults may be eradicated, weaknesses -lose their hold, but that our best parts will increase in -virtue, not approaching some theoretical standard, but -always and forever nearing that standard which is set -for ourselves.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We have grown out of our admiration for the -"copper-plate hand" in penmanship; we recognize the fact now, -that we need not so much follow the specimens in the copy-book as -to make the best of what is distinctive in our own style of writing. -And this is a type of what our conception of perfection, perhaps, -should be. Everything should be significant of character, should -supplement it, translate it, explain it. In the Japanese prints you -will find almost every face with the same meaningless expression, -every feature calm, disguising every symptom of individuality. It -is the Oriental pose, the Oriental ideal just mentioned. It is not -considered proper to express either joy or sorrow, and the perfection -of poise is a sublime indifference.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And I have a final idea that may, to a more subtile student of -Æsthetic, seem suggestive. In the beautiful parabola described by the -mounting and descending sky-rocket the upward and downward path are -not quite parallel. The stick does not drop vertically, although it -continually approaches that direction. In other words, the curve, -constantly approaching a straight line, is beautiful despite, and, indeed, -perhaps </span><em class="italics">because</em><span> it never quite attains that rectilinear -perfection and keeps its distinctive character to the end. -It is beautiful in its whole progress, -for that path defines the curve -of the parabola.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-play-s-the-thing"><span class="bold large">"The Play's the Thing"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Would you rather see a good play performed by poor -actors, or a poor play done by good actors?" asked -Celestine.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As a professor of the romantic view of life and a -"ghost-seer," there is but one answer to the question. "The play's -the thing!" Acting is at best a secondary art--an art, that is, of -interpretation, though we as critics judge it of itself alone. But, to -an idealist, no play ever is, or can be, perfectly performed. As we -accept the conventions of stage carpentry, impossible cottages, flat -trees, "property" rocks, misfit costumes and tinsel ornament, so we -must gloss over the imperfections of the players, and accept their -struttings and mouthings as the fantastic accessories of stage-land. -No actor that ever lived ever acted throughout a whole drama as a -sane human being would act. We are used to thinking the contrary, -but the compression of time and space prevents verisimilitude. -A play is not supposed to simulate life except by an established -convention. Every art has its medium and its limitation. It is -indeed a limitation that makes art possible. In the drama the -limitation is the use of the time element.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The play's the thing--we may read it from the book or have -it recited before the footlights, but the lasting delight is the charm of -plot that, with the frail assistance of the actor, finds its way to our -emotions. A good play done by poor actors, then, for me, if I must -choose between the two evils.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Fancy creates; imagination constructs. The child, -sporting ingenuously with both these powers, dwells in -a world of his own, either induced by his mastering -fiat, or remodelled nearer to his heart's desire from the -rags and fragments at hand. In his toy theatre alone -is the perfect play produced, for there imagination is stage manager, -and has the hosts of Wonderland in his cast. The child is the only -perfect romanticist. He has the keen, fresh eye upon nature; all is -play, and the critical faculty is not yet aroused. So in a way, too, -was all primitive drama. The audience at Shakespearean plays heard -but noble poesies, saw but a virile dream made partly visible, like a -ghost beckoning away their thoughts. So, even today, is the Chinese -theatre, with its hundreds of arbitrary conventions, its lack of scenery, -and its artificial eloquence. The veriest coolie knows that a painted -face (a white nose, stripes and crosses on the cheeks) does but -portray a masked intention, as if the actor bore a placard writ with the -word "Villain." Forthwith, all the rest is faery. The player does -but lightly guide the rein, and Pegasus soars free.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So no play can be perfectly performed. We have created an -artificial standard of realism, and we say that Bernhardt, Duse and -Coquelin portray emotion with consummate art. It has been agreed -by authorities on Æsthetic that simulated passion surpasses in -suggestive power real emotion. The actor must not "lose himself in -his part"--he must maintain the objective relation. None the less, -however, must we, as audience, supply imagination to extend the -play from art to life. From a romantic point of view, such devotion -to realism is unnecessary. We are swayed by the wildest absurdities -of melodrama, alike false to life and false to art, and we accept the -operas of Wagner, with all their pasteboard dragons and bull-necked -heroes belching forth technique, as impressive stimuli -to the imagination. Even through such crude means, -uplifted either by passionate brotherhood or upon the -wings of song, we are wafted far and fast. The play, -oh! the play's the thing!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For see! If you prefer the bad play performed by the good -actors, why not go to life itself? What else, indeed, </span><em class="italics">is</em><span> life? It was -the old Duke in Lewis Carroll's "Sylvie and Bruno" who first -pointed this out. All the world's a stage where are performed the -worst of badly constructed plays--plays with neither unity nor -sequence nor climax, but performed with absolute perfection. Why -waste your time cursing the Adelphi, when, like the Duke, you can -see the perfect art of the street? The railway porter's dialect is still -convincing. The fat woman with her screaming children may enter -at any minute, with her touches of wonderful realism. If you go to -the theatre for acting you go to the wrong place! Watch the Font -Neuf for the despairing suicide, lurk in Whitechapel, visit in -Mayfair, coquette with a Spaniard's sweetheart, or rob a Jew, strike an -Englishman, love an American girl, flirt with a French countess, or -watch a Samoan beauty at the salt pools catching fish; but try not to -find perfect acting behind a row of footlights!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But if, after all, the play's the thing, it is as much a mistake to -look for real drama upon the street. There everything is incomplete -and, for the satisfaction of our æsthetic sense, we require the -threads to be brought together, and the pattern developed, the knots -tied. Our contemplation of life is usually analytic; we delight in -discovering motives, elementary passions, traits of character and -human nature. Our joy in art, on the other hand, arises from -synthesis; we love to see effect follow cause, and events march logically, -passions work themselves out, the triumph of virtue -and justice. Life, as we see it, is a series of -photographs. The drama presents these successively as in -a biograph, with all the insignificant intermediary -glimpses removed. We hunger for the finished story, -the poem with the envoy. For this reason we have the drama -and the novel.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And now Celestine asks me, "Would you rather read a good -story poorly written than a poor story well written?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The question is as fair as the other, though not quite in the -same case. We may agree that acting is a secondary art, but literature -has more dignified claims to considerations. Here we are -contemplating a wedding of two arts, not the employment of one by -another. One might as well say, then, "Would you rather see a -good man married to a bad woman or the reverse?" It is the critic -who attempts always to divorce the two.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet, as in almost all marriage, where two arts work together one -is usually the more important. One may have one's preferences, -but the selection of that art which embodies an idea, rather than the -one which aims at an interpretation, marks the romanticist's point of -view. One art must be masculine, creative, and the other feminine -and adorning. The glory of the one is strength, of the other beauty. -For me, then, the manly choice. Give me the good story badly -told, the fine song poorly sung, the virile design clumsily carved, -rather than the opposite cases. The necessity of such a choice is -not a mere whim of Celestine's; it is a problem we are forced to -confront every day. We must take sides. It is not often, even -from the Philistine's point of view, that we have the good thing well -done, while the poor thing badly done we have everywhere. Between -these limits of perfection and hopelessness, then, lies -our every-day world of art, and there continually we -must make our choice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If we could deal with abstractions, there would -be no question at all, and undoubtedly we would all -prefer to enjoy the disincarnate ideal rather than any incomplete -embodiment, no matter how praiseworthy the presentment. But few -of us are good enough musicians to hear the music in our mind's ear -when we look over the score of an opera; few of us can dream whole -romances like Dumas, without putting pen to paper; few, even, can -long remember the blended glories of a sunset. We must have some -tangible sign to lure back memory and imagination, and if we -recognize the fact that such symbols are symbols merely, conventions -without intrinsic value as art, then we have the eyes of the child and -the romantic view of life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And lastly, Celestine leaned to me in her green kimono and -said, "Would you rather see a pretty girl in an ugly -gown, or an ugly girl in a pretty gown?" Ah, -one does not need to hold the -romantic view of life to -answer that question!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="living-alone"><span class="bold large">Living Alone</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>I have lived so long alone now, that it seems almost as if there -were two of me--one who goes out to see friends, transacts -business and buys things, and one who returns, dons more -comfortable raiment, lights a pipe, and dreams. One the world -knows, the other no one knows but the flies on the wall.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I keep no pets, since these would enforce my keeping regular -hours; the only familiars I have, therefore, are my clock, my fire and -my candles, and how companionable these may become one does not -know who does not live alone. They owe me the debt of life, and -repay it each in its own way, faithfully and apparently willingly. I -have a lamp, too; but a lamp is a dull thing, especially when -half-filled, and this one bores me. I might count my typewriter, also, -but she is too strenuous, and she makes me too impatient by her -inability to spell. Besides, the clock, fire and candles may, with no -great stretch of the imagination, be readily conceived to have volition, -and, once started, they contribute not a little to relieving the -tedium of living alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>My clock is always the same; it has no surprises. It may go a -bit fast or slow, but it has a maddeningly accurate conscience, and its -fidelity in ringing the eight-o'clock alarm proves it inhuman. Still, -it lives and moves, beating a sober accompaniment to my thoughts. -Altogether, it is not unlike a faithful, conscientious servant, never -obtrusive, always punctual and obedient, but with an unremitting -devotion to orders that is at times exasperating. Many a man -has stood in fear and shame of his valet, and so I look -askance furtively with a suppressed curse when the -hands point to my bath, my luncheon, or my sortie -into town. It would be a relief, sometimes, if my clock -stopped, were I not sure that it would be my fault.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But my fire is more feminine, full of moods and whims, ardent, -domestic and inspiring. Now, a fire, like a woman, should be -something besides beautiful, though in many houses the hearth is a mere -accessory. It should have other uses than to provide mere warmth, -though this is often its sole reason for being. Nor should it be a -mere culinary necessity, though I have known open fires to be kindled -for that alone, and treated as domestic servants. In my house the -fire has all these functions and more, for it is my friend and has -consoled many lonely moments. It is a mistress, full of unexpected -fancies and vagaries. It has, too, a more sacred quality, for it is an -altar where I burn the incense of memory and sacrifice to the gods -of the future. It is both human and divine, a tool and symbol at once.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No one, I think, can know how much of all this a fire can be, -who has not himself laid, lighted and kindled and coaxed it, who -has not utilized its services and accepted its consolations. My fire -is, however, often a jealous mistress. She warms me and makes my -heart glad, but I dare not leave her side on a wintry day. I must -keep well within bounds, hold her hand or be chilled. I need but -little urging! I pull up my couch, take pencil and paper, and -she twinkles and purrs by my side, casting flickering glances at -me as I work.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Not till the flames die down and the coals glow soberly red do -I find the more practical pleasures of friendship and housewifely -service. Now my fire plays the part of cook, and, in her proper sphere, -outdoes every stove or range ever lighted. A little -duck laid gently across the grate, the kettle whistling -with steam, and the coffee-pot ready--what bachelor -was ever attended by more charming handmaiden than -I by my little open fire? She will heat an iron or -shaving-water as gracefully, too, waiting upon me with a jocund -willingness. No servant could be so companionable. Still, she must -be humoured as one must always humour a woman. Try to drive -her, or make her feel that she is but a slave, and you shall see how -quickly she resents it. There is a psychological moment for broiling -on an open fire, and postponement is fatal. It takes a world of -petting and poking to sooth her caprice when she is in a blazing -temper, but remember her sex, and she melts in a glow like a -mollified child.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Kindling and lighting my fire is a ritual. I cannot go about it -thoughtlessly or without excitement. The birth of the first curling -flame inspires me, for the heart becomes an altar sacred to the household -gods. If the day offers the least plausible pretext for a fire, I -light one and sit down in worship. I resent a warm morning, when -economy struggles with desire. Luckily my studio is at the north -of the house, and, no matter if the sun is warm abroad, there is -a cool corner waiting where a fire needs no apology. The sun -creeps in toward noon and puts out the flames, but all the morning -I enjoy the blaze.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the evening the fire becomes absolutely necessary, and -provides both heat and light, giving a new life of its own to the -darkness of the room. Then I become a Parsee, put on my sacerdotal -robes (for such lonely priestcraft requires costume), and fall into a -reverie. For my sacrifices, old letters feed the flames. They say that -coal, in burning, gives back the stored sunlight of -past ages. What lost fires burn, then, when love-letters -go up in smoke to illumine for one brief, last -instant the shadows of memory!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>My candles partake of the nature of both clock -and fire. They are to be depended upon, when let alone, to burn -just six hours, marking the time like the ticking pendulum, but -they give light and warmth, too, in their own way, in gentle imitation -of the fire. They also have moods--less petulant than the fire's--but -they require as little attention as the clock. The fire seems -immortal; though the coals fade into ashes, the morning's resurrection -seems to continue the same personality, and the same flames -seem to be incarnated--living again the same old life. But the life -of a candle seems visibly limited to a definite space of time, and its -end is clearly to be seen. In that aspect it seems more human and -lovable than the fire--a candle is more like a petted animal, whose -short life seems to lead to nothing beyond. We may put more -coals on the fire, and continue its existence indefinitely, but the -candle is doomed. Putting another one in the socket does not -renew a previous existence. But, if it is a short life, it is a merry -one, and its service is glad and generous. My little army of candles -is constantly being replenished. Like brave and loyal soldiers, they -lay down their lives gallantly in my cause, and new ones fill up the -vacant ranks, fighting the powers of darkness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This is my bachelor reverie. But high noon approaches, and -my metamorphosis is at hand. Now the sun has struck -the fire-place with a lance of light, and I, that -other I, must rise, dress and out -into the world!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="cartomania"><span class="bold large">Cartomania</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>With something of the excitement Alice felt when she -crawled through the looking-glass, I used to pore over -my atlas. Geography was for me a pastime rather than -a study. There was one page in the book where the -huge bulging expanse of the United States lay, and there, on the -extreme left hand of the vari-coloured patchwork of States and -territories, was the abode of romance and adventure--a long and narrow -patch tinted pink, curving with the Pacific Ocean, and ribbed with -the fuzzy haschures of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. This was the -Ultima Thule of my dreams, beyond which my sober-minded hopes -dared not stray.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Further on in the book I saw Europe, irregular with ragged -peninsulas and bays, Asia, vast and shapeless, with the great blue -stretch of Siberia atop, and the clumsy barren yellow triangle of -Africa. But these foreign countries were, to my young imagination, -as inaccessible as Fairyland; they did not properly come into the -world of possibility. They were as unreal as ghosts, remote as the -Feudal Ages, and I put them by with a sigh as hopeless. The world -is a big place to the eyes of a child, and all beyond his ken but -names. How could I know that the end of the century was even -then whirling me toward wonders that even my Arabian Magi -would not have thought possible? But today, in this far Western -town, then but a semi-barbarous camp of gold miners, I have seen -an airship half-completed upon the stocks, and this morning, in my -own room, I rang up Celestine and talked with her -over the wire a hundred miles away!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Maps were my favourite playgrounds, and so real -were they that it almost seemed that, with a -sufficiently powerful microscope, I might see the very -inhabitants living their strangely costumed customs. There was a -black dot on my fascinating pink patch marked San Francisco, and -now, that dream come true, I try to see this city with the eyes of -my childhood, and wonder that I am really here. To get the -strangeness of the chance I have to think back and back till I see -that map stretched out before the boy, and follow his finger across -the tiers of States that run from the Atlantic to the Pacific.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Everyone who has not travelled much must feel the excitement -that maps give when intently studied. No one has been everywhere, -and for each some unvisited spot must charm him with its romantic -possibilities. But there are certain cities almost universally enticing -to the imagination--the world's great meeting-places, where, if one -but waits long enough, one can find anybody. London, Cairo, -Bombay, Hongkong, San Francisco, New York--these are the jewels -upon the girdle that surrounds the globe. To know these places is -to have lived to the full limit of Anglo-Saxon privilege.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the true cartomaniac is not content with ready-made -countries; he must build his own lands. How many kingdoms and -empires have I not drawn from the tip of my pencil! Now, the -achievement of a plausible state is not so easy as it might appear. -There is nothing so difficult as to create, out of hand, an interesting -coast line. Try and invent an irregular shore that shall be convincing, -and you will see how much more cleverly Nature works than you. -Here is where accident surpasses design. Spill a puddle of coloured -water on a sheet of paper and pound it with your fist, -and lo, an outline is produced which you could not -excel in a day's hard work with your pencil!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The establishment of a boundary line, too, -requires much thought in order that your frontier -interlocks well with your neighbours'. Your rivers must be well -studied, your mountains planned, and your cities located according to -the requirements of the game. You must name your places, you -must calculate your distances, and you must erase and correct many -times before you can rival the picturesque possibilities of such a land -as India, for instance, which, from the point of view of the sentimental -cartographer, is one of the most interesting of states.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If such an effort is too difficult for the beginner, one might -begin with a country of which something is known, yet which never -has been charted. "Gulliver's Travels," for instance, contains -information of many lands that should be drawn to scale. Lilliput, -Brobdingnag, Laputa, and the land of horses would alone make a -very interesting atlas. The geography of Fairyland affords charming -opportunities for the draughtsman. For myself, I prefer the magical -territory of the Arthurian legends, and I have platted Sir Launcelot's -Isle, with Joyous Gard at the northern end, high over the sea. -There is a pleasaunce, a wood, a maze, and a wharf jutting out into -a shallow, smiling water, while the lists occupy a promontory to the -south.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Oh, the opportunities are many for the cartomaniac! Who -has mapped Utopia, Atlantis, Alice's Wonderland, or the countries -of the Faerie Queene? Who has reconstructed the plans of Troy? -And there are other allegorical lands, too, that should be mapped. -I have had a try myself at the modern "Bohemia," and have taken -the liberty of shewing within its much-maligned -borders Arcady and the Forest of Arden. I have -even planned Millamours, the city of a thousand -loves, and I am now attempting to draw a map of the -State of Literature in the year 1902.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There are many celebrated edifices, too, that might be trifled -with. I have a friend, an architect, who has completed the Castle of -Zenda, and he is now occupied with Circe's palace, with a fine eye to -the decorative effect of the pig-pens. Think of laying out the -gardens, grottoes, and palaces of the Arabian Nights! Why has the -Castle of Otranto been neglected--and Udolpho, and Castle -Dangerous, and the Moated Grange?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Many novelists, and, I think, most writers of pure romance, -have played this game. Stevenson, dreaming in his father's office, -drew the map of Treasure Island, and from that chart came forth, -hint by hint, the suggestions for his masterpiece. Maurice Hewlett -drew a plat of the ancient marches and forests where the Forest -Lovers wandered, and it is a pity he did not publish it in more -detail. This is one of the graphical solutions of story writing, a -queer, anomalous method whereby the symbol suggests the concept. -The cheaper magazines often use old cuts, and request some hack to -write a story to fit the illustration. But the map is an -abstraction; its revelations are cabalistic, not definite. -A good map is a stage set for romantic fiction, -ready for anybody who can write -or dream the play.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-science-of-flattery"><span class="bold large">The Science of Flattery</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Time was when people were less sophisticated and almost -everybody could be flattered. A compliment was the -pinch of salt that could be placed upon any bird's tail. -But such game is scarcer now, and to capture one's quarry -one has to practice all the arts of modern social warfare. We have, -for instance, been taught to believe, time out of mind, that women -are especially susceptible to this saccharine process; that one had but -to make a pretty speech, and her conquest was assured. But what -lady nowadays can take a compliment without bridling? It is as -much as a man's reputation is worth to make a plain, straightforward -statement of approbation. He must veil his meaning so that it can -be discovered only by a roundabout reflection. Whether it be true -or not, he is held offensively responsible for the blush with which it -is received.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So, to be successful, one must be politic and tactful; one must -adopt the indirect method, and, above all, one must escape the -obvious. To say what has been said many times before defeats the very -purpose, whether it be good or evil, for which we flatter. The artist -discards the hackneyed compliment, and endeavours to place his -arrow in a spot that has never been hit before. He will compliment -a poet upon his drawings and a painter upon his verses. If a woman -ordinarily plainly dressed, has a single effective garment, does he -compliment her upon that particular costume? By no means. -Subtilty demands that he flatter her by pointing out some interesting -feature in one of her common frocks, without hinting -that it is surprising to see her particularly well clad. -Such compliments have the flavour of novelty, and are -treasured up by the recipient, to be quoted long after -the donor has forgotten them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The tribute of unexpected praise is more grateful to a person -than the reward for which he works hardest and is most confident. -It discovers to him new and pleasing attributes. It has all the zest -and relish that the particular always has more than the general. And, -besides, for the person who happens to light upon some little favourite -trick of individuality, and to notice and to comment upon it, the -reward is great. Such a flatterer is, in the heart of the flattered one, -throned with the authority of discernment; he is considered forever -after as a critic of the first importance. Everyone has a hobby, -an idiosyncrasy, visible or invisible; it is the art of the flatterer to -discover it, and his science to use it to his own ends.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Flattery is, however, an edged tool, and must be used with care. -It is not everyone who has the tact to decide at a glance just how -much his victim will stand. He may know enough, perhaps, to -praise the author of a successful book for some other one of his -works which has not attained a popular vogue; he may have the -discretion to banter men about their success with the opposite sex, -and to accuse women of cleverness; but for all that he may often -misjudge his object, and give embarrassment if not actual affront. -For all such the safest weapon is the written word.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This is the ambush from which your prey cannot escape. If a -letter of praise, of compliment, or even of deliberate flattery, is made -decently interesting, if it is not too grossly cloying even for private -perusal, it cannot fail to count. It has to be paid for by no blush, -no awkward moment, no painful conspicuous self-consciousness, -no hypocritical denial. It strikes an undefending -victim, and brings him down without a struggle. -Such tributes of praise can be read and reread without -mortification. It is a sweet-smelling incense that -burns perpetually before the shrine of vanity. One compliment -written down in black and white is worth any number of spoken words, -and the trouble that has been taken to commit such praise to paper -gives the offering an added interest and importance. Anything that -can be said can be written, from the eulogy of a lady's slipper to the -appreciation of a solo on the harp. You may be sure that any -unconventionality of manner will be atoned for by the seduction of -a honeyed manner. Stevenson, in his playful "Decalogue for -Gentlemen," set down as his first canon, "Thou shalt not write an -anonymous letter," but it cannot be doubted that he would have -excepted an unsigned note of admiration.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The element of time, in flattery, too, is often disregarded. Few -would-be flatterers understand the increased influence of a compliment -deferred. It is again the same case of the misuse of the obvious. -When your friend's book appears, or his picture is displayed, there -are enough to compliment him on the spot, but your own sympathetic -endorsement, delayed a few months, or even iterated, comes to -him when he is least expecting the compliment. He is off his guard, -and the shot goes home. When I give Celestine a present she -thanks me immediately, of course, but that is not the last of it. In -every third letter or so I am reminded of her gratitude and my -kindness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There is, however, a flattery of manner as well as one of matter. -Celestine, to whose wise counsels I am indebted for many a short cut -in the making of friends, once laid down for me the -following rules for dealing with women:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>First, be intellectual with pretty women.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Second, be frivolous with intellectual women.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Third, be serious and </span><em class="italics">empressé</em><span> with young girls.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Fourth, be saucy and impudent with old ladies. Call them by -their first names, if necessary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It goes without saying that such audacious methods require -boldness and sureness of touch, especially in the application of the -fourth rule. But even that, when attempted with spirit and assurance, -has given miraculous results. In a case where a woman's age -is in question, action speaks far louder than words.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Perhaps the most successful method of flattery is that of the -person who makes the fewest compliments. To gain a name for -brusqueness and frankness is, in a way, to attain a reputation for -sincerity. Whether this is just or not, it is undoubtedly true that -the occasional unlooked for praise of such a person acquires an -exaggerated importance and worth. This system is similar to that of the -billiard-player who goes through the first half of his game wretchedly -in order to surprise his opponent with the dexterity of his shots later -on. But it is an amateurish ruse, and is soon discovered and discounted -at its true value. Yet in a way, too, it is justifiable, since -unpleasant comments are usually accepted as candid, while pleasant -ones alone are suspected.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There is a kind of conscious vanity to which flattery comes -welcomely, however patent the hyperboles may appear. To such -persons, and there are many, a certain amount of adulation oils the -mental machine. They do not believe all that is said, but prefer, on -the whole, to be surrounded by pleasant fictions rather than by -unpleasant facts. They prefer harmony to honesty, -and, though the oil on the troubled waters of life does -not dispel the storm, it makes easier sailing. To -others, especially if they be creators in any art, -compliments stimulate and impel to their best endeavour. -Many a man has achieved a masterpiece chiefly because a woman -declared him capable of it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The question of the object for which flattery is employed is here -beside the mark. It may be used or misused; it may be true or -false of itself, although, to be sure, the word flattery has attained an -evil significance and has come to stand for counterfeit approval. All -that has been said, however, applies to one as well as to the other. -Even when praise has the least foundation in fact, it may prove -beneficial to the person flattered, arousing a pride which creates the -admired quality that was wholly lacking. Thus I have known a -man notorious for his vulgarity stimulated to a very creditable politeness -by the most undeserved and insincere compliment upon his table -manners.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I have used the three testimonials of admiration as -synonymous, but Celestine says that praise is -a rightful fee, a compliment is -a tip, and that flattery -is bribery.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="romance-en-route"><span class="bold large">Romance En Route</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>How tired I am of the question, "How do you like -London?" and "How do you like New York?" "Would -you rather live in San Francisco or Paris?" Why, -indeed, should I not like London, Kalamazoo, Patagonia, -Bombay, or any other place where live men and women walk the -streets, eat, drink, and are merry? How can I say whether El Dorado -is better than Arcady, or a square room more convenient than an -oblong one? Every living place has its own fascination, its mysteries, -its characteristic delights. Ask me, rather, if I can understand -London, if I can catch the point of view of the French </span><em class="italics">concierge</em><span>, if I -comprehend the slang and bustle of Chicago? Like them? Show -me the town I cannot like! Know them? Ah, that is different!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This is the charm of travel--to keep up the feeling of strangeness -to the end, never to take things for granted or let them grow -stale, to see them always as though one had never seen them before. -Then, and only then, can we see things as they really are. When I -become cosmopolitan, world-old, </span><em class="italics">blasé</em><span>, when I think and speak in -all languages, I shall fly to some deserted island to study the last, -most impenetrable enigma--myself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But meanwhile, I can purchase romance retail, at the mere cost -of a railway ticket. I can close my eyes in one city, and wake next -morning in its mental antipode. Romance requires only a new point -of view; it is the art of getting fresh glimpses of the commonplace. -One need not be transported to the days of chivalry, one need not -even travel; one need only begin life anew every -morning, and look out upon the world unfamiliarly as -the child does. One must be born a discoverer. -Thus one may keep youth, for the sport never loses -colour. One game won or lost, the next has an equal -interest, though we use the same counters and the same board. The -combinations are always fresh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still, though one may find this fountain of perpetual youth in -one's breakfast glass, the obvious conventional method is to go forth -for the adventure, and get this famed elixir at some foreign and -well-advertised spring. For this purpose tourists travel, taking part in -a pilgrimage of whose meaning and proper method they are wholly -ignorant. In their boxes and portmanteaus they pack, not hopes of -mystery, faith in the compelling marvels of the world, nor the -wonder of strange sights; but instead, fault-finding comparisons, and -prejudice against all manners not their own. They do not see, in -the omnibus of London, the automobile of Paris, the electric trolley -of New York and the cable car of San Francisco, the pregnant -evidence of several points of view on life, art and commerce, but they -perceive only grotesque contrasts with their own particular means of -locomotion. They do not delight in the incomprehensible hurly-burly -of civilization that has produced the City Man, the Bounder, -the Coster, the Hoodlum, Hooligan and Sundowner, nor do they -attempt to solve the mystery or get the meat from such strange shells. -Instead, they see only the clerk at the lunch-counter bolting his chops -and half-pint, the incredible waistcoat of the pretentious </span><em class="italics">blagueur</em><span>, or -the buttons and "moke" of the ruffling D'Artagnan of the Old -Kent-road.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So the tourist travels with his eyes shut, while the true traveller -has a lookout on life, keen for new sensations. To do -things in Rome as the Romans do, that is his motto. -He must eat spaghetti with his fingers, his rice and -chopped suey with chop-sticks, or he fails of their subtle -relish. He calls no Western town crude or uncivilized, -but he tries to cultivate a taste for cocktails, that he may imbibe -the native fire of occidental enthusiasm. In the East he is an -Oriental; he changes his mind, his costume and his spectacles -wherever he goes, and underneath the little peculiarities of custom -and environment, he finds the essential realities of life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To taste all this fine, crisp flavour of living--not to write about -it or fit it to sociological theories, but to live it, understand it, be -it--this is the art of travel, the art of romance, the art of youth. But -there is no Baedeker to guide such a sentimental tourist through -such experiences as these. It takes a lively glance to recognize a -man disguised in a frock coat, and to find him blood brother to the -Esquimau!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Well, there is a place in Utah on the Central Pacific Railroad -called Monotony. The settlement consists of a station, a water-tank, -and a corrugated iron bunk-house. The level horizon swings -round a full circle, enclosing a flat, arid waste, bisected by an unfenced -line of rails, straight as a stretched string. The population consists -of a telegraph operator, a foreman, and six section hands. Yet I -dare say I would like to stay there awhile, on the way, and perhaps I -would taste some charm that London never gave. I am -not so sure that but that before I took wing -again I might not like it, in some -respects, better even -than Paris.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="at-the-edge-of-the-world"><span class="bold large">The Edge of the World</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>To find the colonial or the provincial more cultured, -better educated in life and keenlier cognizant of the -world's progress than the ordinary metropolitan, is a -common enough paradox. Class for class, the outlander -has more energy, greater sapience and a truer zest of intellect than -the citizen at the capital. By the outlander is not meant, however, -the mere suburban or rural inhabitant, but the dweller at the outpost -of civilization, the picket on the edge of the world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Let us grant that, in the gross, every new community must be -crude--it takes time to grow ivy over the walls, to soften the -primary colours into harmonious tones, to smooth off the rough -edges,--but let us also grant that, at all the back doorways of -empire, in far-away corners of the earth, are assembled little coteries -of men and women who, by reason of their very isolation, rather -than despite it, have made themselves cosmopolitan, catholic, -eclectic, and stand ever ready to welcome, each in his own polite -dialect and idiom, the astonished traveller who thinks he has left -all that is great and good behind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This compensation is, indeed, a natural law. If we cut back -half the shoots of a shrub, the surviving sprouts will be more -vigorous. The deprivation of one sense renders the others more -acute. Make it hard for an ambitious lad to obtain an education, -and, working alone by candle-light, he will outstrip the student -with greater advantages. So it is with the colonial who realizes -his poverty of artistic and intellectual resources. He -must, in self-defense and to compensate for his -isolation, make friends with the world at large, and -his mental vision, accustomed to long ranges of -sight, becomes sharp and subtile. To avoid the -reproach of provincialism he studies the great centers of thought -and watches eagerly for the first signs of new growths in fads, -fashions, art and politics. It is for this reason that the British -colonial is more British than the Englishman at home.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Plunged in the midst of the turmoil of every-day excitements, -the dwellers in great cities lose much of the true and fine significance -of things. A thousand enterprises are beginning, and amidst -a myriad essays the headway of yesterday's novelty is lost in the -struggle of today's agonists. The little, temporary, local success -seems big with import, and the slower development of more serious -and permanent virtues is ignored. Things are seen so closely -that they are out of true proportion, and they are seen through -media of personality that diffract and magnify.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the provincial, far from this complicated aspect of intellectual -life, gains greatly in perspective. Separated by great space, -he is, in a way, separated by time also, and he sees what another -generation will perhaps see in the history of today. For he watches -not only literary London, that tiniest and most garrulous of -gossiping villages, but a dozen other hives of thought as well, and -from his very distance can the more easily discern the first signs -of pre-eminence. His ears are not ringing with a myriad petty -clamours, but he can hear, rising above the multitudinous hum, the -voice of those who sing clearest. The connoisseur in art views a -painting from across the hall--the lover of music does not sit too -close to the orchestra--and so the intelligent looker-on -at life does not come too often in familiar touch -with the aspirants for fame. Living, as one might -say, upon a hill, the stranger thus gets the range, -volume and trend of human activities, and sees their -movements, like those of armies marching below him, though -they seem as ants, so far away. He can trace the direction of -waves of emotion that follow round the earth like tides of the sea.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In every community, however small or remote, there are a -few who delight in this comprehensive view of things, who keep -up with the times, and, so far as their immediate neighbours are -concerned, are ahead of the prevailing mode. As the meteorologist, -studying the reports from North, South, East and West, can trace -the progress of storm and wind, so these intelligent observers can -predict what will be talked about next, and how soon the first -murmurs will reach their shores. Their cosmic laboratory is the -club library table, with its journals and periodicals from all over -the world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The first hint of a new success in literature comes from the -London weeklies, and then, if the British opinion is corroborated -by American favour, the New York papers take up the note of -praise, and one may follow the progress of a novel's triumph -across three thousand five hundred miles of continent, or see -the word pass from colony to colony, over the whole empire. -The Londoner sees but the bubbles at the spring--the pioneer by -the Pacific watches the course of a mighty stream increasing in -depth and width. Tomorrow, or in three months, the vogue will -reach his own town, and he will smile to see all tongues wag of the -latest literary success.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So it is with art, so it is with fashions, with the -drama and with every fad and foible, from golf and -Babism to the last song and catchword of the music -halls. The colonial is behind the times? What -does it matter! Are we not all behind the times of -tomorrow? So long as we cannot travel faster than the news, it -makes little difference; and it is wise, when we are in San Francisco, -to do as the Franciscans do. It is as bad to be ahead of the times -as to be behind, and it is best to follow the style of one's own -locality, with a shrewd eye to one's purchases for the future, buying -what we can see must come into popular favour.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But does your metropolitan enjoy this complexity, this living -in the future? Not he! He cares nothing for the </span><em class="italics">vieux jeu</em><span>. -For him, ping-pong is dead or dying--he neither knows nor cares -that it still lives in the Occident, marching in glory ever towards -the West, along the old trail to fame. Of the last six successful -books discussed over his muffins, does he know which have been -virile enough to survive transplanting to other shores--which have -emigrated and become naturalized in the colonies? No! He is -for the next little victory at the tea tables of the elect!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And yet, this afterglow, this subsequent invasion of new territory -is what brings enduring fame. Before the city election is -substantiated, the country must be heard from. The urban hears -the solo voices of adulation, the worship of those near and dear to -celebrity, but the great chorus that sweeps the hero up to Parnassus -comes from a wider stage. The army of invasion never comes home -again to be hailed as victor until it has encircled the globe. But -it is the greater conquest that the dweller at the outpost sees, at first -like a cloud no bigger than a man's hand, and it is his game to watch -and await it. It is better so. Waste no pity upon him -at the edge of the world. For the big game needs big -men, and it is the boldest and most strenuous spirits who -push to Ultima Thule. The anæmic and neurotic do -not emigrate; the reddest blood has flowed in the veins -of the pioneer ever since the first migration. He does things, rather -than talks of things others have done--he knows life, even if he knows -not Ibsen. Meet him in his far-away home, and he holds your -interest with an unlooked-for charm; take him to the Elgin marbles -and he will have and hold his own idea of art unborrowed from -text-books. He knows more of your city's history than you do -yourself; panic or the furor of a fashion cannot hypnotize him. -The importance of a celebrated name cannot embarrass him, for he -has met men unknown to fame who have lived as uncrowned kings. -He has seen cities rise from the plain. He has made the wilderness -to blossom like the rose; he has lived, not written epics.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And in addition to gaining all this experience that trained the -pioneers of old, he has, while living at the confines of civilization, -kept in touch with the world, and has tasted the exhilarating flavour -of the old and new in one mouthful. For, in this century, -distance is swept away and no land is really isolate. -The pioneer lives like a god above distinctions -of time, at once in the past, -the present and the future.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-diary-habit"><span class="bold large">The Diary Habit</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>For seven years I have kept my diary scrupulously, -without missing a day, and now, at the beginning of a -new twelvemonth, I am wondering whether I should -maintain or renounce it. There are certain good habits, -it would seem, as hard to break as bad ones, and if the practice of -keeping a daily journal is a praiseworthy one, it derives no little of its -virtue from sheer inertia. The half-filled book tempts one on; -there is a pleasure in seeing the progress of the volume, leaf by leaf; -like sentimental misers, we hoard our store of memories. We end -each day with a definite statement of fact or fancy, and it grows -harder and harder to abstain from the self-enforced duty. Yet it is -seldom a pleasure, when one is fatigued with excitement or work, to -transmit our affairs to writing. Some, it is true, love it for its own -sake, or as a relief for pent-up emotions, but, in one way or another, -most autobiographical journalists consider the occupation as a -prudent depositor regards his frugal savings in the bank. Some time, -somehow, they think, these coined memories will prove useful.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Does this time ever come, I wonder? For me it has not come -yet, though I still picture a late reflective age when I shall enjoy -recalling the past, and live again my old sensations. But life is more -strenuous than of yore, and even at seventy or eighty, nowadays, no -one need consider himself too old for a fresh, active interest in the -world about him. Your old gentleman of today does not sit in his -own corner of the fireplace and dote over the lost years; he reads -the morning papers, and insists upon going to the -theatre with his nieces on wet evenings. Have I, -then, been laying up honey for a winter of discontent -that shall never come?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Besides this distrust of my diaries, I am awakening -after seven years to the fact that, as autobiography, the books are -strangely lacking in interest. They are not convincing. I thought, -as I did my clerkly task, that I should always be I, but a cursory -glance at these naïve pages shows that they were written by a -thousand different persons, no one of whom speaks the language of the -emotions as I know it today. It is true, then, my diary has -convinced me, that we do become different persons every seven years. -Here is written down rage, hate, delight, affection and yearning, no -word of which is comprehensible to me now; they leave me quite -cold. I am reading the adventures of some one else, not my own. -Who was it? I have forgotten the dialect of my youth. Ah, -indeed, the boy is father of the man! I will be indulgent, as a son -should, to paternal indiscretions!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And yet, for the bare skeleton of my history, these volumes are -useful enough. The pages which, while still wet with ink and tears -I considered lyric essays, have fallen to a merely utilitarian value. -I am thankful, on that account, for them, and for the fact that my -bookkeeping was well systematized and indexed. As outward form -goes, my diaries are models of manner. So for those still under -the old-fashioned spell, who would adopt a plan of entry, let me -describe them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The especial event of each day, if the day held anything worthy -of remark or remembrance, was boldly noted at the top of the page -over the date. Whirring the leaves I catch many suggestive phrases: -"</span><em class="italics">Dinner at Mme. Qui Vive's</em><span>" (it was there I first -tasted champagne), "</span><em class="italics">Henry Irving</em><span> in '</span><em class="italics">Macbeth</em><span>'" (but -it was not the actor that made that night famous--I -took Kitty Carmine home in a hansom!), "Broke my -arm" (or else I would never have read Marlowe, I -fear), and "Met Sally Reynard" (this was an event, it seemed at -that time, worthy of being chronicled in red ink). So they go. -They are the chapter headings in the book of my life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the lower left-hand corner of each page I noted the receipt -of letters, the initials of the writers inscribed in little squares, and in -the opposite right-hand corner a complementary hieroglyph kept -account of every reply sent. So, by running over the pages I can -note the fury of my correspondence. (What an industrious scribbler -"S.R." was to be sure! I had not thought we went it quite so -hard--and "K.C."--how often she appears in the lower left, and -how seldom in the lower right! I was a brute, no doubt, and small -wonder she married Flemingway!)</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Perpendicularly, along the inner margin, I wrote the names of -those to whom I had been introduced that day, and on a back page -I kept a chronological list of the same. (I met Kitty, it seems, on -a Friday--perhaps that accounts for our not hitting it off!) Most of -these are names, and nothing more, now, and it gives my heart a leap -to come across Sally in that list of nonentities. (To think that there -was ever a time when I did not know her!)</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Besides all this, the books are extra-illustrated in the most -significant manner. There is hardly a page that does not contain some -trifling memento; here, a theatre coupon pasted in, or a clipping -from the programme, an engraved card or a pencilled note; there a -scrap of a photograph worn out in my pocket-book, somebody's -sketched profile, or, at rare intervals, a wisp of some -one's hair! (This reddish curl--was it Kitty's or -from Dora's brow? Oh, I remember, it was Myrtle -gave it me! No, I am wrong; I stole it from -Nettie!) I pasted them in with eager trembling -fingers, but I regard them now without a tremour. There are other -pages being filled which interest me more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Occasionally I open a book, 1895 perhaps, and consult a date -to be sure that Millicent's birthday is on November 12th, or to -determine just who was at Kitty's coming-out dinner. Here is a -diagram of the table with the places of all the guests named. (So I -sat beside Nora, did I? And who was Nora? I have forgotten her -name! </span><em class="italics">Now</em><span> she is Mrs. Alfred Fortunatus!)</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sometimes I think it would be better to write up my diary in -advance, to fill in the year's pages with what I would like to do, and -attempt to live up to the prophecy. And yet I have had too many -unforeseen pleasures in my life for that. I would rather trust fate -than imagination. So, chiefly because I have kept the book for -seven years, I shall probably keep it seven years more. It gratifies -my conceit to chronicle my small happenings, and somehow, written -down in fair script, they seem important. And besides I am a bit -anxious to see just how many times a certain name, which -has lately begun to make itself prominent, will -appear at the top of the pages. I promise -to tell you some time, if -Celestine is willing!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-perfect-go-between"><span class="bold large">The Perfect Go-between</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Surely the modern invention that has done most to -perpetuate Romance is the telephone. The man that, however -used to this machine, can take up its ear-piece without a -thrill of wonder has no soul. The locomotive, the steamship, -the automobile have but made travel a bit more rapid, they have -added no new element of mystery. Even the telegraph fails to give -any true feeling of surprise. It is no whit more wonderful than that -one, after writing a letter and slipping it into a red mail-box, should -be handed a reply by a strange, blue-clad gentleman, after many -days. A telegraphic despatch does not even hold the handwriting of -the sender; it is cold, colourless, metallic.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But a machine that can bring your friend into the same room -with you, at a moment's notice, who can deny the poetry of such a -victory over space and time! Not until some genius invents a -thought-transmitter shall a more stupendous aid to Romance be -discovered. For see! It is not only one's friends that are caught in -the net of telephone wires, one can drag up a whole city full! I have -but to sit down at my desk and call up a number, and he or she must -reply. True, I cannot force any one to answer, but if I have the -audacity and persistency, it will go hard if I do not find some one who -is willing to while away a leisure, inquisitive moment in inconsequent -conversation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It is my privilege to live in a telephone city where the habit is -extraordinarily developed. One out of every sixteen of the -population is connected to that most amiable of go-betweens, -the Central Office. I have the opportunity of -investigating some thirty thousand souls at the ridiculously -cheap price of five cents per soul! Not only every -counting-house and shop, doctor's office and corner -grocery has its wire, but every residence with any claims to -acquaintance. What Romance gone to waste! For few, it seems, have -imagination enough to embrace such unlimited opportunities!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This morning Sonia called me at 8:25, apologizing for her -kind-heartedness in letting me sleep when she knew I wished to -work. Think of that for an alarm clock--Sonia's voice, ten miles -away! So I am awakened by the telephone, I call by telephone, -flirt by telephone, shop, market and speculate over the same wire. -We do not take long in utilizing the latest invention here in this -hurried land--the city is ravaged by Telephonitis. One invites -friends to dinner, one makes appointments, one breaks the news of -the death of a friend, one proposes marriage--all by means of this -little instrument. I know one lady who has her machine connected -by flexible wires so that she may talk in bed. She need not be too -strict in regard to dress for her interviews--no one ever knows! I -know two old men who while away long evenings together playing -chess, when the weather is too harsh to leave home. Beside each -board stands the faithful receiver; one has but to whisper "K.B. to -Q.3" or some such rigamarole into the nickel-plated "extension" and -he has checkmated his opponent across the Bay!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With such common intercourse as this, many are the comedies -of the telephone. I have myself entertained a visitor with a -diversion he will not soon forget. The day he came I took him to my -telephone and introduced him in turn to a half-dozen ladies of my -acquaintance, who plied him with badinage. We set -forth then on a tour of calls, and I enjoyed his several -attempts at identifying the voices he had heard over the -wire. It is not always easy to recognize a voice and -remember it. I remember an unfortunate experience of -my own with two sisters which brought a week's embarrassment, for the -voices of members of one family do have a marvellous similarity in -the telephone, and if one is anxious to call upon Fanny when -Elizabeth is out, one must be very sure just which sister one is speaking -to when making an appointment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The necessity for such precaution has led some of my friends to -adopt telephone methods which must be extremely amusing to one -who could hear both sides of the conversation. In many houses the -telephone is situated in the hall, altogether too near the dining-room -for any confidential communication. If the questioner is careful he -may so word his inquiries that they may be answered by a mere -"yes" or "no"; and papa, smoking after dinner, is none the wiser. -If the girl finds it impossible to reply in unguarded terms, she has -been known to say, somewhat vaguely, "</span><em class="italics">Of course</em><span>," which conveys -to the man at the other end of the wire the fact that she is not alone. -Some, too, have more definite codes. Celestine has arranged with -me that when she mentions the "</span><em class="italics">Call</em><span>" it means the forenoon; the -"</span><em class="italics">Chronicle</em><span>" stands for afternoon, while by the "</span><em class="italics">Examiner</em><span>" I -understand that she refers to the evening. If, then, I ring her up -and say, "When can you go walking today? I want to be sure not -to meet that fool Clubberly." Clubberly, who is at her elbow, -hears her reply sweetly, "Really! Yes, I saw it in the "</span><em class="italics">Chronicle</em><span>"; -and how is he to know what it is all about? Oh, he could have his -revenge easily enough, were he not an ass, for he might be kissing -Celestine (horrid thought) even as she is speaking, -for all I could know.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With this romantic battery opposed to her, what -chance has poor Mrs. Grundy? What hard-hearted -parent can successfully immure his daughter while the -copper wire strings out toward her proscribed lover? Here is where -love laughs at locksmiths. Were a dozen ineligibles forbidden the -house, the moment mamma's back is turned and she has gone out -for her round of calls, little daughter takes the telephone off the -hook and, presto! she has her room full of clandestine company! -Does any rash young man dare ring her up while her parents are -near, she has but to say, sweetly, "Oh, you have the wrong number!" -and hang up. It is too wonderful. You may lie by telephone, with -a straight face, or you may call a man a liar with impunity. If you -have no answer ready to an ardent impertinence, you need only say -nothing and listen--he is helpless; you need not speak unless you -want to. Who made the first telephone made mischief for a -thousand years to come!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><em class="italics">Rrrrrrrrrrng!!!!</em><span> There is Celestine ringing me up now! -Pardon me if I leave you for a moment, for I think she -is going to give me her answer to a very -important question. Tremendously important for -me! Wish me good luck! I -hope no one will -be listening!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="growing-up"><span class="bold large">Growing Up</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>When I asked Perilla how she first came to realize that -she was growing up, she said, "When I began of my -own accord to wash my sticky fingers, without waiting to -be told." I believe she meant it literally, with no moral -significance that should make a parable of the statement. I hope so, -at least, for then by that test I cannot hope to have yet attained the -years of discretion. Little Sister says that she felt "growing pains," -but here is a figure of speech, surely. I suppose she means the -wonder of the passage from a great, wistful ignorance to a limited -knowledge; for the first part of the path of life is a very steep -up-grade.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I myself can point to no one circumstance that revealed to me -the vision of the great march of time that is sweeping us on towards -the goal. I was for long like one who looks from the window of a -railway carriage, too busily engaged in watching the world fly past -him to realize his own motion. Neither long trousers nor razors -awoke me from the child-trance; I saw scorned infants master me by -their inches; I heard rumours of love and death and duty, but I was -unmoved. It was a part of the game of existence, and it seemed -natural that persons should be classified and remain in categories of -old and young. I was a spectator outside the merry-go-round. I -was to be rich, of course; I had the mind to dare and the will to do. -I should be wise, too--why not? Sometimes I should have memories, -I thought, not knowing that I was even then living away my -life, and that this was an era to which I should look -back and deem important.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All my reading, too, went to show that I was an -amateur at living. Things seemed really to happen in -books, but not to me; there men were swung in -unknown furies, sensations were keen and impelling, and life had the -sharp sting of reality. My own emotions seemed insipid and -inadequate for a citizen of the world. Surely such minor escapades and -trivialities as mine were not worth considering. And so, when the -storm and stress came, I was ill-prepared, and at the first blow my -pride went down. Some devil, as in a dream, whispered in my ear -that perhaps I might not succeed after all, and it came to me as -a summons that the time had come to be out and doing. And I -saw that the conquest of my ambition would be achieved, not by -the impetuous onslaught that should carry all before it, but by the -slow and tedious siege, laid with years of waiting and working and -watching. It was then, perhaps, though I did not know it, that I -began to grow up, and became a man. I opened my eyes and looked -about me; it was as if I had been landed fresh from the country in -the busy town, like the Sleeper Awakened. No more field-faring -and trapesing holidays under the blue sky; I must choose my street -and fight my way for it against the throng.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It struck me with a sense of my inferiority that there was an -absolute quality of knowledge I had not mastered. Some of my -classmates seemed to know things, while I had but acquired -information. They could swim; I dared not go in over my head. They -had convictions, I had only opinions; it was the difference between -the language of Frenchmen and they who learn French. Here, I -thought, was the final classification, and I wrote myself down a witless -neophyte in the world's mysteries. For my whole -education had been founded upon the value of the -verity of the straight line, and wisdom was my -highest ideal. By this standard I measured myself and -my experience. I delighted in the beauty of science, -but of that other beauty which is its own excuse for being, I did -not know. I was as one who saw form without colour, or the outline -without the mass. I had not yet come to myself; I was a child -yet, and the result of my immediate environment--a mental -chameleon. A few generations of my austere ancestors impregnated my -blood with their stern virtues, and it still ran cold and tranquil in -my veins. But there were more remote and subtle influences behind -me that must work themselves out, and in some sub-stratum of -consciousness the pure Greek in me survived.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And so it was Dianeme who brought me at last to the door of -the temple, and I saw with her eyes and heard with her ears, and the -world grew beautiful, an altogether fitting setting for her charms. -And then I knew in very truth that I had grown up; but yet, by a -sublime miracle I had in the same revelation recovered my youth--if, -indeed, I had ever really been young before! Now, succeed or -fail as I might, life would always be fair and interesting, for Dianeme -was but one of a divine sisterhood, and there were many degrees to be -taken. So a kind of passion seized me to know Life's different -phases and find the secret of the whole; and that mood, God willing, -shall preserve my virginity to the end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So here I am, by the grace of Dianeme, on the true road to -youth again, not to that absolute unconcern of all but the present, -that I once felt, nor to the fool's paradise, where, Maida would have -it, is the true happiness--"the ability to fool one's self"--but to a -kind of childlike wonder at things (ah, Little Sister, -may you never wander from it as I did!) and the -knowledge of what is really the most worth while. -(And you, Perilla, you need not pretend that you -don't know, for the truth flashes from your jest!)</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For this is the very blossom of my youth, the era of knowing, -as that was the era of being, and though there may come other dark -days, as there were before the bud burst into bloom, I have seen the -beginning and I know the law now, and I trust that the fruit of my -life, the doing, may be even more worth the while. And I shall -perhaps find that wisdom and beauty and goodness are -but one thing, as the poets say--that living is -a continual growing up, and that age -is only a youth that knows -why it is happy!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-pauper-s-monologue"><span class="bold large">A Pauper's Monologue</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Understand, I am not one of those who are always -longing to be rich. I do very well, ordinarily, in the -shadow of prosperity, though there comes upon me -periodically the lust for gold, at which times the desire to -rush down-town and spend money indiscreetly must be obeyed. It -is a common symptom, paupers tell me, and carries with it its own -remedy, giving much the same relief that blood-letting did of old, if -so be the practice does not lead to a dangerous hemorrhage. I have -my ups and downs, like most unsalaried Bohemians, thin purse, thick -purse, at erratic intervals, but my spendthrift appetite is curiously -independent of these financial fluctuations. In fact, a miserly restraint -is most likely to seize me when my pocket is full, and I usually grow -reckless when it has no silver lining.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There are few paupers among us who do not conceit themselves -to be artists at spending money, and believe the fit intelligence is -most wanting in those who have the means. I confess that I share -their convictions, having wasted much time in a study of the -situation. Like those planning a foreign tour, I have mapped out the -golden road of Opportunity, and know the itinerary by heart. And, -without trespassing the science of Economy, of which I am criminally -ignorant (having been somewhat prepossessed during my Sophomore -courses), I submit there are active and passive categories into which -coupon-cutters may be relegated. The symbol of your monied man -is the cigar, involving a destructive process, whether applied to food, -raiment or ministry to the senses. The greed of the -collector is of the same flavour. It is the difference -between spending the money to see and to stage the -play that I mean.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For why should an access of wealth so dull the -brain that the battle between the kings of hearts and spades seems more -interesting than the game with human knights and pawns? I have -often been minded to write an "Open Letter to Millionaires," and offer -myself as a Master of their Sports, to guide them through fields of -untried sensation and novel enterprises. I have my offers tabulated -from an hundred dollars upward, each involving the inception of -activities whose ramifications would provide diversion for years. -There are twenty young men I know of in this town who are waiting -for such a chance. Why should I not be elected to captain them? -I promise you the rise and fall of stocks shall not be more exciting -than our rivalries. Indeed, brains are for sale at absurd bargains -today. Why not play them off against each other in a game of Life?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But these are dreams never to be realized. I am no promoter, -and must play the beggar's part. Yet I have often wondered how I -would be affected if these hopes came true, and if some capitalist, -touched by my appeal, seeing this good seed cast upon barren -ground, opening his heart and purse-strings, should present me with -a modest fortune without conditions. Could I assume the responsibility -of gratitude and fly with the load of obligation that I myself -would assume? By all rules of fiction, no! Yet if my conscience -were seduced I might frame my mind to accept debonairly and do -my best. Tempt me not, millionaires, for this is my week of -longing, and my brain boils with adventurous desires.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet, had I the ear of the benefactor, another mood would impel -my renunciation; for, against my will and interest, I am -forced to acknowledge that others are better fitted to be -rich than I, who have been a pauper all my life, and am -not so unhappy in my misery. I know some to whom -wealth should come as a right, as has their beauty, -and who play an inconsistent part upon the stage of poverty. There -is Dianeme, who knows the names of all the roses, and can tell one -etching from another. She is so instinct with tact and taste that I -feel quite unworthy of affluence until she has been served. And -there, too, is Little Sister, who is in worse case, having once ridden -on high wheels and nestled against the padded comforts of life, now -charioted by street cars, with a motorman for a driver and a -conductor for a footman. And though it was her reverses that gave me -chance to be her friend and discover her worth, yet I fear I would -put back my opportunity ten years to give her the little luxuries she -craves. She has acquired a relish for the flesh-pots, poor Little -Sister, and somehow the weakness becomes her, as the habit of weeping -fitted the eighteenth century ideals of women. Two more pairs of -silk stockings would reinstate her as a lady complete. Not that -anybody but Little Sister and her laundress would ever see them, but -they would give her a nourishing satisfaction that is of itself worth -while.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet, again I wonder--if Little Sister grew rich, what would -become of me? I am told that the first pangs of the birth of Fortune -are felt in the unpleasant acquisition of new claimants to friendship, -but I do not believe this is so. I should myself fear to intrude, -I am sure. There would be so many new relations and obligations -that I could not take the friendship simply and naturally. I could -make love to her by letter, perhaps, but not in her carriage. I would -miss the ungloved hand of familiarity and enclose -myself in starched formality, though I know the pain -in so doing would be mutual. For the pride of riches -is as nothing to the pride of poverty, and I am very, -very poor! But surely Little Sister must be rich -again, even if I have to wait for the second table.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And so I gracefully resign my claims to fortune, where I am so -outclassed, and make off into the open fields towards the Hills of -Fame, where the brougham of Opulence may not follow me, though -I fare afoot. For we do not get rich in my family; there is no uncle -in Patagonia whose death could benefit us, and the bag of diamonds, -the hope of whose discovery sustained my immature youth, no longer -haunts my dreams. For a long time yet I must deny myself the -title of gentleman, forced as I am to carry parcels "over three inches -square," which I hear is the test of fashionable caste. This is my last -gasp. I shall be a man again tomorrow, and if any millionaire is -tempted by this appeal, he must make haste. But I shall -not be rung up from sleep tonight. It is the -law of society that Spend helps Save, -and Save helps Scrimp, and -Scrimp helps Starve.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-young-man-s-fancy"><span class="bold large">A Young Man's Fancy</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Undoubtedly the most logical, though perhaps the -least interesting, method of opening the discussion of a -thesis, is that employed by the skillful carver who -dissects his duck according to the natural divisions of the -subject and proceeds therewith analytically. This is the system -encouraged in academic courses and is said to enable any one to write -upon any subject. But such an essay is mighty hard reading; unless -a writer is so hungry for his theme that he forgets his manners and -falls to without ceremony the chances are that his efforts will receive -scant attention. And so I shyly speak of love.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So few essayists write with a good appetite! And yet, see how -I restrain myself, and perforce adopt the conventional procedure, as -one too proud to betray his ravening hunger! I must be calm, I -must be polite--and you shall know only by my forgetfulness of the -salt and my attention to the bones of thought, how the game interests -me. In speaking of love, I must let my head guard my heart, too, -for it is in the endeavour to misunderstand women that we pass our -most delightful moments. They will not permit men to be too sure -of them, and what you learn from one, you must hide carefully from -the next. So I begin my fencing with a great feint of awkwardness, -like a master with a beginner, knowing well enough how likely to get -into trouble is any one who pretends innocence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a long time I believed it all a conspiracy of the novelists, -and that love, so ideally depicted, was but a myth, kept alive by the -craft, to furnish a backbone for literary sensation. But -there are undoubtedly many bigoted believers in the -theory of love. The women, however, who admit that -it is a lost art, complain piteously of the ineptitude of -the other sex. I confess that few men can satisfactorily -acquit themselves of the ordeal of courtship without some tuition, but, -once having acquired the rudiments of the profession, it seems -inconsistent to taunt them with the experiments of their apprenticeship. -It is too much to require a man to make a gallant wooing and then -twit him with the "promiscuousness" by which he won his facility. -Yet, some, doubtless, have learned also to defend themselves against -this last accusation; it is the test of the Passed Master. For the -other, poor dolts, who never see the opportunity for action, however -adroitly presented, who speak when they should hold tongue and -leave undone all those things that they ought to have done--the -girls marry them, to be sure, but most of the love-making is on the -wrong side. There are more yawns than kisses; the brutal question -satisfies the yop, and he bungles through the engagement, breaking -doggedly through the crust of the acquaintance, witless of the -delightful perils of thin ice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And yet I think the subject might be mastered in four lessons -with a good teacher, so that a man of ordinary capacity could make -good way for himself. This is by no means a new theory; it is the -foundation of many a comedy of errors, this of Love with a Tutor. -But go not to school of a maid, for she will fool you to the top of -your bent, nor to a married woman either, but to a man like my -younger brother here, no Lothario, but one who can keep two steps -ahead of any affair he enters.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If a man be agile and daring, with sufficient ardour to assume -the offensive, having an audacious tongue and a wary -eye with a fine sense of congruity and tact, withal, if -he can make love with a laugh and a rhyme, as Cyrano -fought, then 'tis a different matter, and he needs no -pilot to take his sweetheart over the bar and into the -port. He must be bold, but not too bold, carry a big spread of -canvas, luff, reef and tack her with no shuffling, cast the lead on the -run, keeping in soundings, and never lose headway when she comes -about into a new mood. He must bear a sensitive hand at the tiller, -keep her close up to the wind with no tremble in the leach of the -sail, and gain advantage from every tide and cross-current. Better -dash against the reef than run high and dry upon the shoal!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It is a pity, is it not, to dissect love in such a fashion? I -should have my hero quite at the mercy of the gale of passion, and -be swept forward, he knows not how and cares not where; he should -lose his wits and take a mad delight in the fury of the storm, seeing -no spot upon his horizon. And yet I dare not be warmer, for -sometime I may decide to fall in love myself, and I would not have my -chances wrecked by any genuine confession of faith, set in type, to -which She might refer, with a beautiful taunt. No! it is better to -phrase and verbalize; the subject is too dear, and near done to its -death already. I would but suggest the cross-references, and, under -a mien of the most atrocious conceit, throw my female readers off -their guard, leaving my fellow men to read between the lines.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For I hear that men do fall in love with women, and women fall -in love with loving. So be it. I have known girls, too, to take both -vanilla and strawberry in their soda-water, which proves them to be -not altogether simple in their tastes. The best of them will talk -volubly upon love in the abstract, while the average man (to which -category I hope I have the honour of not belonging) -keeps his mouth closed on the matter, with his tongue -in his cheek, and his ideas, if he have any, well hidden -behind his words.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So, if I avail myself of the feminine franchise, it -must be done cautiously, for many are the difficulties of the young -man who would love a girl today, and only a precious few of the old -school of beaux would understand the twentieth century's subtleties, -even if all could be explained. Many are the misfortunes in the -Lover's Litany, from which the modern maiden sighs, "Good Lord, -deliver us!" A man must take her in earnest, but he must by no -means take himself too seriously; it is proper to treat your passion -cavalierly--indeed, he jests at scars who has felt the most amorous -darts, nowadays--but he must never make himself or her ridiculous. -He may take whimsical amusement in his own conquest, but must -beware "the little broken laugh that spoils a kiss." And above all, -mind you the </span><em class="italics">mise-en-scène</em><span>,--the stage must be set so and so; the -sun must not see what the moon sees. Sometimes you must have -your heart in your mouth, and sometimes on your sleeve, and oftener -she must have it herself. 'Tis very perplexing!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The best a man can do, in this practical age, is to mean business, -while he is about it, and hold over as much for the next day as will -not interfere with his commerce elsewhere. The woman may take her -romance to bed, or keep it warm in the oven against his return, but he -must be out and down-town to earn his living as well as his loving, -amongst dollars and pounds and cent per cent, while she enjoys the -traffic in pure abstractions. And both must hide and manage as if it -were a sin, lest Mrs. Grundy undo them; they must snatch their kisses, -as it were, on horseback. Such are the victims of supercivilization!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a time, the poets tell, when it was not -so difficult, and a man might wear a lady's scarf on his -sleeve, and be proud of the badge. It takes much -more complicated machinery than that simple love to -make the world go round, nowadays--perhaps because -it goes so much faster. There was a time when an elopement might -be picturesque and not necessarily followed by divorce; but where -now shall I find the hard-hearted parent who shall justify the -adventure? The modern mother is too easy. She is like Mrs. Brown in -the </span><em class="italics">Bab Ballads</em><span>--"a foolish, weak but amiable old thing." She -reposes a trust in her daughter that does more credit to her affection -than to her knowledge of human nature.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But whoa! I believe I have forgotten my manners! I have -insulted my fellows, guyed the girls, and here I am on the high road -to disqualifying myself with the more respectable generation. So I -shall cease, but I will not apologize, for though I came to scoff, I -shall not remain to prey. I believe I am not more than half -wrong after all. There is love, and there is loving, and if you have -followed me, you know which is which. It was Rosalind who said, -"Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps!" How she -would smile and sneer at this verbiage! She knew a lover from -a philanderer, she had her opinion of the laggard and -the butterfly rover, and she would no doubt -say: "Cupid hath clapped him on -the shoulder, but I'll warrant -him heart-whole!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="where-is-bohemia"><span class="bold large">Where is Bohemia?</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The name "Bohemian" was first used to describe the gypsies -of that nationality who appeared in France in the -thirteenth century, but to us the term has come to carry with -it a wider significance than any dependent upon that little -kingdom in the north of Austria, and only a few characteristic traits -of those wandering vagabonds survive in those who bear, whether in -reproach or praise, the appellation "Bohemian."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To take the world as one finds it, the bad with the good, making -the best of the present moment--to laugh at Fortune alike whether -she be generous or unkind--to spend freely when one has money, -and to hope gaily when one has none--to fleet the time carelessly, -living for love and art--this is the temper and spirit of the modern -Bohemian in his outward and visible aspect. It is a light and graceful -philosophy, but it is the Gospel of the Moment, this exoteric phase -of the Bohemian religion; and if, in some noble natures, it rises to a -bold simplicity and naturalness, it may also lend its butterfly precepts -to some very pretty vices and lovable faults, for in Bohemia one may -find almost every sin save that of Hypocrisy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet, if we were able without casuistry to divide misdeeds into -two categories, those subjective and objective in their direct -effects--separating those sins which hurt only the sinner from those which -act upon his fellows--the Bohemian would, perhaps, be found to -have fewer than most of this harsher, crueller sort. His faults are -more commonly those of self-indulgence, thoughtlessness, vanity and -procrastination, and these usually go hand-in-hand -with generosity, love and charity; for it is not enough -to be one's self in Bohemia, one must allow others to -be themselves, as well.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So much for the common definition of this much-used -name. But no English word can stand for long in its primary -meaning. It must change insensibly, growing from day to day, till -it embraces the spirit as well as the letter of the fact it expresses. -The word "gentleman" has thus grown with a secondary, spiritual -significance; so has the word "prayer" by the interpretation of a -more liberal, far-reaching thought. So with the name "Bohemian"--it -has ranged beyond the vagrom, inconstant, happy-go-lucky, -devil-may-care, hand-to-mouth follower after pleasure, and now under its -banner may be found more serious enthusiasts who are not afraid -to offend smug respectability, and are in more or less open revolt -against convention, bigotry and prejudice. It is their bond that -they have forsworn allegiance to Mrs. Grundy. They dare be -themselves without pretentious, they make and keep their friends without -compromise.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What, then, is it that makes this mythical empire of Bohemia -unique, and what is the charm of its mental fairyland? It is this: -there are no roads in all Bohemia! One must choose and find one's -own path, be one's own self, live one's own life. Whether one -makes for the larger freedom of the hills, or loses one's self in the -sacred stillness of the forest, the way is open to endeavour wherever -one wills. Yet, though there is no beaten track, there are still signs -in the wilderness showing where master minds have passed. Here is a -broken jug beneath the bough, snowed under with drifting rose petals, -where one frail-souled dreamer loitered on the way, and, with his -Beloved, filled the cup that clears Today of past regrets -and future fears, singing out his heart in lovely plaint. -And here, along a higher trail, a few blazings in the -forest mark where another great Bohemian in this life -exempt from public haunt found tongues in trees, -books in the running brooks, sermons in stones and good in -everything.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Within Bohemia are many lesser states, and these I have roughly -charted on my travels, so that, though I may have left some -precincts unexplored, I know at least that these territories lying on my -map are veritable provinces of this land of freedom and sincerity. -On the shore of the magic Sea of Dreams, beyond whose horizon -dances the Adventurous Main, lies the Pays de la Jeunesse, the -country of Youth and Romance, a joyous plaisaunce free from care -or caution, whose green, wide fields lie bathed in glamorous -sunshine. To the eastward lie the pleasant groves of Arcady, the -dreamland, home of love and poetry. Here in this Greek paradise -of rustic simplicity and joyous innocence and hope, has lived every -poet who has ever sung the lyric note, and here have visited, for -some brief space, all who have dreamed, all who have longed, all who -have loved. Here is the old joy of life made manifest and abundant; -here Mother Nature speaks most clearly to her children. For the -most, however, it is but a holiday country, and they who discover it -often pass, never to return, forgetting its glories and its mysteries as -they forget that lost country of their youth, counting it all illusion. -Yet some few come back to the Port of Peace to lose the world again, -renewing the immemorial enchantment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To the south, over the long procession of the hills, lies Vagabondia, -home of the gypsy and wanderer, who claims a wilder freedom -beneath the stars--outlawed or voluntary exile from -all restraint. This country is rocky and precipitate, -full of dangers, a land of feverish unrest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One other district lies hidden and remote, locked -in the central fastnesses of Bohemia. Here is the -Forest of Arden, whose greenwood holds a noble fellowship, bound in -truth and human simplicity. It is a little golden world apart, and -though it is the most secret, it is the most accessible of refugees, so -that there are never too many there, and never too few. Here is -spoken a universal language, Nature's own speech, the native dialect -of the heart. Men come and go from this bright country, but once -having been free of the wood, you are of the Brotherhood and -recognize your fellows by instinct, and know them, as they know you, -for what you are.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now, as Bohemia, unfortunately, is not an island, it has its neighbours -and its frontiers. To the west lies Philistia, arid, dry and flat, -the abode of shams, dogmas and sluggish creeds. Here stands Vanitas, -overlooking a great desert, walled in by custom, guarded by false -pride. It is but a step over the border, however, from Bohemia the -true to that false Debatable Ground whose affectations are more -insincere even than the shams of the real Philistia, and the youngster, -questing the hero-haunted country of his youth, chasing his phantoms, -may go wide of his reckoning, misled by the mockery of life -made by these disguised Philistines. In the City of Shams, -hypocrites are content to assume the virtues they have not, but here on -the borders of Bohemia their vices are all pretense as well!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On the further boundary of Bohemia, also, hangs an unsavoury -neighbour. Here is a madder and more terrible domain, the land of -lust and cruelty, lawless and loveless, dwelling in endless war. To -this fierce country Vagabondia lies perilously near, and -many a wanderer has crossed the frontier to find -himself, before he knew, within that evil land, where -freedom has become licence, and tolerance grown into -Anarchy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Wide across all three empires stretch the Hills of Fame. In -Philistia men must be born great; there is no other distinction -possible save that of riches or inherited power. In Bohemia men achieve -greatness, working onward and upward, bringing their own great -dreams to fulfillment; while in Licentia, those only become great who -have an infamous notoriety thrust upon them by their own high -crimes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>We cannot all mount those heights from whose crest one may -look over the Sea of Care, past the Isle of Idleness to the -Adventurous Main, but there is joy enough on the lowland. Happy indeed -is he who, in his journey of life, has escaped the perils of that false -Bohemia, crouching on the frontier, and has found his way to -the happy forest, met his own people and drunk of -the Fountain of Immortal Youth; for there -is the warm, beating, human heart -of the True Bohemia!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-bachelor-s-advantage"><span class="bold large">The Bachelor's Advantage</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>There are enough who think "a young man married is -a young man marred" to cause the bachelor to hesitate -before renouncing his liberties, and to fight shy of -entanglement as long as possible. If he writes down the "pros" -and "cons," like Robinson Crusoe, he will find he has many -advantages in his single state that must inevitably be forfeited when -he weds.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It is not only that "when I was single my pockets would jingle, -I would I were single again"; it is not so much, either, that his -play-day will be over and he must "settle down," stop butterfly-lovering -to and fro, and gathering the roses as he goes, and have no -haunting white face sitting up for him at home to ask him why, and -how, and where. This licence, if he be a man of sentiment, he willingly -foregoes for the larger possibilities of satisfactory comradeship -and sympathy. He can pay double rent and taxes, too, without -grumbling; take manfully the shock of surprise when expenses jump -with the new establishment; he may be initiated in doctors' fees, and -submit debonairly to a thousand restrictions of time, place and -opportunity. But more piquant than any of these trials is the discovery -that he has lost his old-time place and privilege of welcome as a -bachelor--that "come any time" hospitality of his dearest friends. -He is saddled with a secondary consideration.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Try as he may, no young man can marry to please his whole -acquaintance. The world, for the most part, still looks with -patronizing approval upon a girl's wedding so long as she -chooses or is chosen by a man not hopelessly -impossible. She has embraced an opportunity and usually -her mother cultivates a grateful fondness for the -son-in-law. If he has a scarcity of amiable traits she will -even manufacture them for him, and put them on the market with -display. Not so the mother of the groom. She analyses the bride -with incisive dissection, and it is hardly possible that any woman -shall be found quite worthy to mate with her son. It takes a woman -to read women, she says, and the little wife has to make a fight -for each step of the road from condescension through complaisance -to compliment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The young man's friends, too, are exigent, and he soon finds -that, though the two have been made one in the sight of law and -clergy, society knows no such miraculous algebra. You may squeeze -in an extra chair at the dinner table for a desirable and "interesting -young man," but to include another lady, and that his wife, requires -a tiresome rearrangement. He does not come alone ordinarily, nor -would he if asked, and so he drops out of his little world and must -set about the creation of a new one. He may have had latch-key -privileges at a dozen houses, free to come night or morning, the -recipient of many sudden invitations for theatre, supper or -country--but that is all over. It is his turn to do the inviting. The -table has been well turned when he sits down to meat!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Is it to be wondered at, then, that the bachelor is selfish? He -escapes lightly the lesson of compromise; his whole life is a training -in egoism, and he makes the most of his desirability, getting usually -far more than he gives. He is free to experiment in acquaintance -though it goes no farther than innocuous flirtation. He may make -friendships for himself and break them at will, lightly -dodging the tie. There are hundreds in every city -who need go only where they wish, skipping even -"duty calls," sure of forgiveness. He may know -men and women he cares for, and, through the lack of -experience in a life-long intimacy, he may preserve many illusions -as to women. If he has an income, or a profession that demands no -abode, he can wander "to and fro in the earth and walk up and down -in it" free as Satan. He travels the farthest who travels alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still, this cannot go on forever, and his franchise wanes. With -the first pang of middle age Nature asserts her imperious demand for -permanent companionship. The "cons" grow heavier, and the "pros" -more attractive. He sees maid after maid of his younger fancy pass -out of the game without regret, but the first sight of the new -generation strikes him to the heart. He is "uncled" by more and more -adopted nephews and nieces, and the sight of their fresh eyes awakens -the immemorial longing in him. And then, suddenly, another -"pro" comes upon the list, an undeniable item of importance, -throwing its influence so heavily upon the side of marriage that no -number of his foolish little "cons" can ever balance the account. -He is in love, and there is but one definition for that state. It is -the immediate, ravenous, compelling desire for a wife. There is -nothing for it but to renounce allegiance to his old friends and -become naturalized into a new citizenship.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But though all over town the doors to which he cried -"open sesame" bang sullenly to shut him -out, he does not notice it if -that one portal lets -him in!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-confessions-of-an-ignoramus"><span class="bold large">The Confessions of an Ignoramus</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Musicians tell me that I am exceptionally fortunate. -I know absolutely nothing of music. It is not a bald, -fathomless innocence, however. I am not tone-deaf, -for instance, and certain compositions please me; and, -knowing nothing, I have been treated with indulgent complaisance -by the profession, and amongst them I have the unique licence of -being privileged to like whatever I choose. It is no small -distinction this, nowadays, when one is nicely and strictly rated by his -compliance to the regnant mode, but I have to fight tooth and nail -to defend my innocence. I have determined that whatever happens, -I will not be educated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a while, once on a time, I hazarded my franchise of free -speech and weakly accepted the tutelage of a master, that I might at -least gain a familiarity with the catch-words of the musical fraternity. -It was the more reprehensible and foolish because I had already lost -my virginity in art circles by the same servility. Long ago I learned -to phrase and gesticulate at the picture galleries, and try as I may, -I cannot forget the formulas. I learned to stand with eyes half -closed before a painting, and waving my hand, murmur, "I like </span><em class="italics">this</em><span> -part, in here!" I caught that knowing waggle of the right thumb, -and prated of "modelling, tricky work, atmosphere, composition, -values," and such humbuggery. I could say, straight-faced, and with a -vicious, explosive gesture, "Oh, it's good in colour, but it just lacks -</span><em class="italics">that</em><span>, you know!" By Jove! I was in it up to the ears before I -knew it, and now my critiques are retailed to the -semi-elect as coming from one of the Cognoscenti. I have -learned the terminology of the craft so well that my -very instructors have forgotten my novitiate; but an -art exhibition is a horror to me, for I go bound by the -tenure of hypocrisy and dare not walk freely, forced to rattle my -chains as I limp through the forbidden pastures of delight--the -candy box pictures and chromos that my soul loves with that fierce -first love that never dies.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So I have learned to avoid the Pierian spring now, having escaped -the seductions of Euterpe by the merest chance. He is said to be a -fool who is caught twice by the same trick, and I write myself down -a worse-witted clown yet when I confess how far on the high-road to -folly I was before I jumped the fence of conventional parlance and -broke for the wide fields where lies my freedom.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I had been led astray by practicing the non-committal remark, -"Oh, what </span><em class="italics">is</em><span> that?" as soon as the piano keys cooled off from the -startling massage of the furious performer. I was bold. I even -dared to be the first to speak, and I threw ambiguous meanings into -that well-known exclamation, for I was assured it was always safe, -whether it followed a Moskowski mazurka hot from the blunt fingers -of a Kansas City poor relation, or a somnolent Chopinian prelude -hypnotized by the evening star. I learned that the statute of -Absorbed Attention had expired, and that the lifted eyebrow, the -semi-concealed shrug, the overt smile behind the performer's back, -and the </span><em class="italics">ex post facto</em><span> rescindment of all these in one mucilaginous -compliment, were now good taste. Bah! I sickened of it all soon -enough, for I had been piously brought up, and my Puritan blood -was anti-toxic to the corruptions of the musical microbe.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And so I have forgotten to speak of Grieg as a -"mere sentimentalist" and all the rest of the Pharisee's -Phrase-book, thank God! I can hear the "Mill in -the Forest" and check up its verisimilitudes, item by -item, even as I have dared to renew my youth with -Charles Dickens, and laugh, cry, and grow hot and cold with Scott's -marionettes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet, as I said, my innocence is not altogether empty. There -is, indeed, no such thing in life as absolute darkness; one's eyes -revolt and hasten to fill the vacuum by floating in sparks, -dream-patterns, figures whimsical and figures grotesque, shifting, clad in -complimentary colors, to appease the indignant cups and rods of the -retina. And so my musical ignorance is alive with a fey intelligence -of its own. I have come at last to an original conception of what is -good and what is bad by its mere psychological effect, as illogical as -a woman's intuition, yet as absolute and empirical as the test of acid -and alkali by litmus.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It has come to this, that I know now I shall never hear good -music again. When I was young the phrase "classical music" was -still extant (I come of the middle classes, where one calls a spade a -spade), and that variety of sound, "the most expensive of noises," -was as incomprehensible as was the training for its appreciation -arduous; so that beauty for its own sake was unknown, or lurked behind -the horizontal mountains of Truth that shut in the New England -landscape.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But as my knowledge and love of art grew, and I mingled with -those that spoke this foreign tongue of beauty, I had opportunity -of hearing music, the only music that was worth while to them, the -music that endures and lives, continually virile and creative. -Curiously enough, and unhappily for me, so long a stranger -to such influences, I found that some compositions -spelled me with their subtlety, tranced me into revery, -while others awakened active feelings of amusement, -surprise, or scientific curiosity as to their construction; -and so, ignorant of technique and composition, harmony, and all the -rules of the art, I have gone back to the woman in me, and trust to -her little ounce of instinct.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When the vibrant chords, the sobbing pulsations and the -mystical nuances grow faint and die away as my dream mounts on the -wings of an invisible melody, leaving the sawing bows, the brazen -curly horns, the discs, cylinders, strings, keys, triangles, curves and -tubes, with which paraphernalia the magicians of the orchestra have -bewitched me, far, far, far below where I soar aloft, naked and alone -in the secret spaces of my soul,--I know (not then, but afterward) -that the talisman has been at work, and as the rhythm dies and I -drop, drop to the world again and turn to the trembling, -wide-eyed girl at my left, and am roused by the brutal -applause that surges around me,--I know that -this was music. But I have not -heard it. Alas! Shall I -never hear it?</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-music-box-recital"><span class="bold large">A Music-Box Recital</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Hid secretly in my heart, I long had a passion for -music-boxes. While I was innocent of the ways of the world, -and thought that Art, as some think that Manners, had -a ritual to which one must conform in order to be considered -a gentleman, I hid this low-born taste from my friends and -talked daintily of Brahms, his frozen music, of the architectural -sonata, and other things I did not understand. How musicians and -artists must have laughed at me when they saw my hands--square, -constructive palms, wilful thumbs and mechanical fingers! Music-box -hands! But though I had long ceased cutting stencils of other -people's thoughts and frescoing my own vanity therewith, I dared -not confess to John this wretchedly vulgar </span><em class="italics">penchant</em><span> for the music-box -of Commerce--the small, varnished, brass and cedar affair, which is -the only instrument I can play.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But at ten of the clock one night the yearning became so intense -in me that I burst the bonds of my discretion, and lo! at the first -word John fell heavily into my arms. He, too, cherished this -unhallowed joy in secret, and had long hidden this </span><em class="italics">tendresse</em><span> behind -a mask of propriety. We dried our eyes, and were into overcoats -and out on the street in a single presto measure, set to a swift -staccato march for the Bowery. We must have a music-box apiece -before we slept--we swore it in a great forte oath! Prestissimo! -but we were hungry for a good three-dollar package of discord! It -was none of these modern contrivances with perforated discs and -interchangeable tunes we were after; not the -penny-in-the-slot, beer saloon air-shaker nor the -authropomorphic Pianola; only the regulation old-fashioned -Swiss instrument would serve, the music-box of our -youth, the wonderful, complicated little engine with -a cylinder bristling with pins that picked forth harmonies from the -soul of a steel comb, its melody limpid with treble accompaniments -lithely sustained at the small end, where the teeth are small and -active, with a picture of children skating on the cover top, and -beneath, under glass--oh! rapture!--the whirring wheels all in -sight, tempting the small, inquisitive finger of youth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>After an incredible amount of discussion as to the relative merits -of the repertoires, we came to a decision and fled home, to abandon -ourselves to the distractions of our tiny orchestras. The boxes were -so full of music! They have been trying to empty themselves ever -since, but the magic purse seems inexhaustible. One night, in my -idyllic youth, a German band played all night long under my window; -but now I could carry the divine gift of music in my overcoat pocket! -I was like that Persian monarch for whom was made the first pair of -shoes. "Your Majesty," said his vizier, "now at last for you, indeed, -is the whole world covered with leather, as thou hast demanded!" O -Allah! Now for me was the whole world patrolled with German -bands! They played "Say Au Revoir, but not Good-bye" under -my pillow; they gave me "Honey, my Honey" as I ate my breakfast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Before the week was up we had learned every tune by heart, -down to the last grace-note in the accompaniment. We had learned, -too, the sequence of tunes, inevitable, unchanging as the laws of the -Medes of old. Never again shall I be able to hear "Sweet Marie" -played without a shock that it is not followed by the "Isabella -Waltz!" Never again shall I hear the end of -"Honey, my Honey" without a tremble of nervous -suspense till comes the little </span><em class="italics">click!</em><span> of the shooting -cylinder, the apprehensive pause, and then--hurrah! the -first gay notes of "Sweet Marie!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But we could not long endure the perfect simplicity of -the airs, and the old touch of supercivilization led us on to -attempt to vary and improve the performance of our songs. It -was John who discovered the virtue of a few pillows stuffed on -top of the machine, and he achieved immense </span><em class="italics">con expressione</em><span> -effects by waving the box wildly in the air. I contented myself -with changing the angle of the fan-wheel so as to make it play -</span><em class="italics">allegro</em><span>; then one got so very much music in such a very little -while--surely a pardonable gluttony! Had my box been larger -I might have heard seven complete operas in an hour, like the -old Duke in "Sylvie and Bruno!" Yet, after all, it was versatility -of quality, rather than mere quantity, that should be the greatest -victory, and we set out on experiments in </span><em class="italics">timbre</em><span>. At last we found, -John and I, that by inserting a little paper cylinder under the glass, -so as to press on the keys, we could give Sousa the grip, as one -might say, and he would cough and wheeze in a way to amply discredit -the statement that there is no such thing as humour in music. -A greater thickness of paper gives the effect of a </span><em class="italics">duo</em><span> with mandolin -and banjo, and this was by far the most successful of our variations.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>I should end as I began, I know, by a bit of maudlin philosophical -moralysis. I might, for instance, trace the resemblances in the -musical world and say that for me the conductor waving his baton is -as one who winds the key to a very human music-box, in which each -tooth of the comb is a living, vibrant human being. Or I might broach -a flagon of morality, forbye, and show how each one of -us plays his little mental tunes in a set routine, wound -up by the Great Musician; what devils stick their -fingers into our works, and bid us play more fast or -slow, more loud, more low; what jests of Fate, who -inserts her cacophonous paper cylinder that we may wheeze through -misfortunate obbligatos of pain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But no! My forelegs are stuck in the bog of realism, and -I shall not budge from the literal presentation, for my little -kingdom of delight suffered a revolution! It was John's fault, for -John had been affecting a musical countess who gave afternoon -talks on the "art of listening," in a studio--dry molecular analyses -of Kneisel Quartets and such like verbiage. So he came home late -one night, while a music-box was bowling away merrily upon the -couch with a one-pillow soft pedal. It was my music-box, too!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bah!" he swore, "your box phrases so abominably. It is so -cold, so restrained, so colourless! Hear mine, now--isn't that -an excellent </span><em class="italics">pianissimo</em><span>? There's polished technique! There's </span><em class="italics">chiaro -scuro</em><span>! Oh, listen to that 'Cat Came Back!' My machine is an -artist; yours is a mere </span><em class="italics">virtuoso</em><span>. Mine is a Joachim, a d'Albert; -yours is a Musin, a de Kontski. Get onto the smooth, suave </span><em class="italics">legato</em><span> -of this wonderful box! Hear its virile octaves! Hark to those -scales, like strings of white-hot pearls dropping upon velvet!" He -was moaning and tossing as he snored these parodies. It was a -nightmare, both for him and for me. At four o'clock, in the -first pink grey of the morning, I could endure -it no longer. I arose haggardly and -threw the two music-boxes -into the fire!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-plea-for-the-precious"><span class="bold large">A Plea for the Precious</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Now if a youth as mad-headed as I, without bookishness -or literary education of any sort, with neither much of -anything to say, nor much desire to say anything--if -such a charlatan would have his wares bought and his -words read, he must be antic beyond his contemporains (a shorter -word than the English equivalent, whereby I go forward one step in -brevity and back two in translation). He must pique curiosity and -tempt the reader on; he must pay a contango, which is, by the same -token, a premium paid for the privilege of deferring interest. He -must in short, be "precious," a quality essentially self-conscious. -This has been at times a popular pose in Letters, and when successful -it is a sufficiently amusing one, as poses go; but I name no -names for the sake of the others who fall between the stools of -purpose and pretence--who tie, as one might say, two one-legged -beggars together and think they have made a whole man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>If I have lured you so far into the web of my vagary, pray come -into my parlour, too, and be hung for the whole sheep that you are, -that I may fleece you close with my sophistries before you go. I -have but one toy here to amuse you. I juggle idioms and balance -phrases upon my pen, and whether you laugh at me or with me, I -care not, </span><em class="italics">moi</em><span>. But as seriously as is possible (seriousness is not my -present pose, I assure you), I would I might wheedle some of your -dogged, clogged, rugged, ragged, fagged, foggy wits out of you, and -constrain you to accept my pinchbeck for true plate the while; for I -have a little sense in my alloy, after all, and you might -go further and fare the worse than by my chatter. If -I dared I would jump boldly into my thesis, without -apologies; but it so happens that it is one that should -be itself its own illustration. I should convince you -of its truth by its own garment of expression, instead of depending -upon my logical introductory presentation. But this I fear to try. -My pistols, I fear, are, as the Duchess of Malfi might say, loaded -with nothing but perfumes and kissing-comfits.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now that you are well a-muddled, and like to turn to a saner -page, let me button-hole you with one clean statement while you -stand, gasping. Indeed I fear that a dozen have fled already from -my gibbering, and I speak to but one sullen survivor, determined to -collect his promised interest. We know, then, the joy of colour, taste, -sound and odour as mere sensual gratifications, undiluted with -significance. But, since I seldom read, I have never seen the apology -for the sensual pleasures of diction, pure and simple in its essence. -Swinburne, I hear, has his lilts and harmonies in poesy, and perhaps -that is the nearest like, except for the Purpose that drives his chariot; -but I am for that runaway mood that gallops gayly forth into -Nowhere, unguided and unrestrained. A twenty bookmen shall come -up to me, no doubt, with their index fingers set upon examples, but -I am happier in my ignorance, and I prefer to think it has not yet -been done--or, at least, not exactly as I mean. Indeed, you may -depend upon me to evade proof with some quibble.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Your didactic prose is a wain, pulled over the hard city street. -Fiction is the jaunting-car that paddles down the by-side lane. -Poetry wallops you along the bridle path with your mistress Muse -on a pillion, and, but very rarely, dares across country, over a low -hedge or two (but always after some fleeting hare of -thought); but I--I am for the reckless run over the -moor and downs--the riderless random enthusiasm of -nonsense! So out of my way, gentlemen of the red -coats, or I bowl you down! Mazeppa might do for -a figure, but his steed was hampered with the load; his runaway had -too savage an import, and it is my purpose to be only a little mad. -Pegasus is a forbidden metaphor nowadays. He is hackneyed by -the livery of vulgar stables. I prefer that Black Horse, vanned and -terrible, who flicked out the eyes of the Second Calender, as my -mount is like to serve me!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the Sonata is an exemplification of my theory. There, now, -is a vehicle that carries no passengers, save what one's fancy lades it -with--it charges and soars with no visible rein to guide it, except -when a thread of melody steers it into some little course of delight. -So there is a secret rhythm in the best prose that is more subtile than -the metres of verse, and which is to the essay what the expression of -the face is to the talker. One may, indeed, use that same word, -expression or gesture, instead of the common term, style. But a -common or house observation shows us that there is some pleasure -in the face whose lips are dumb, and I dare say there is joy for the -coxcomb and female fop in the unworn gown, as it hangs on its -lonely nail, or is draped on the lay figure of meaningless, meaningful -form. So it is to such hair-brains and cockatoos I appeal. Come -to my Masquerade and let us for a wild half-hour wear the spangles -and tights of palestric impropriety, hid by a visor that shall not -betray our thought. In this lesser pantomime one may be irrelevant, -inconsequent and immature, and sport the flower of thought that -has not yet fruited into purpose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Can you find your way through this frivolity, -mixed metaphor and tricksy phrase, and see what a -wanton a paragraph may become when one sends it -forth, free from the conventional moralities of licenced -Literature? I have been to many such debauch, and -have got so drunk on adjectives that I thought all my thoughts -double. In this Harlequinade, too, there are more games than my -promised Sonata. I will mock you the "Mill in the Forest," or any -other descriptive piece, with coloured words, parodying your orchestra -with graphic nonsense. I will paint the charms of the dance in -seductive syllables; or no! better--the long forthright swing of the -skater, this way, that way, fast and faster, the Ice King's master, the -nibble of the cold, the brush of the rasping breeze, the little rascally -hubbies where the wind has pimpled the surface, and the dark, -blue-black slippery glare beyond, where--damn it! I shock you with a -raucous expletive, and you plunk into a dash of ice-cold remonstrance -up to your ears, and flounder, cold and dripping, tooth-loose, -and grey with fright!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So, at the expense of good taste and to the grief of the judicious, -I force my point upon you. </span><em class="italics">En garde, messieurs</em><span>, and answer -me! I find few enough who can play the game with me or for me. -The age of Chivalry is gone, in horsemanship as well as in feats of -arms and sword-play. Who knows the demi-volt, the caracole, the -curvet, the capriole or the rest of the Seven Movements? Who is -elegant in the High Manege or Raised Airs? Who prances for -the sheer delight of gallant rhetoric, on Litotes, Asteism or -Onomatopoeia? Fain would I be bedevilled, but the Magi are passed away. -I must fall back on Dr. Johnson's pious flim-flam, but the humours -of his verbiage are in me, not in him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yet the New Century Carnival is proclaimed and, -over the water, there are, I hear, a few who are to -revel with King Rex in the Empire of Unreason. On -this side the nearest we have got to it is a little -machine-made nonsense, ground out for the supposititious -amusement of babes. But what I mean is neither second childhood, -nor bombast, nor buffoonery, nor silliness, nor even insanity--though -that is nearest the mark--but a tipsy Hell-raising with this -wine of our fine old English speech. It has been too long corked -up and cobwebbed by tradition, sanctified to the Elect, and discreetly -dispensed at decorous dinner tables by respectable authors, and -ladies-with-three-names who also write. It has been too long sipped -and tasted mincingly out of the cut-glass goblets of the literary table. -Gentlemen-inebriates all, I wave you the red flag! A torch -this way! What ho! Roysterers! Up younglings, quodlings, -dabchicks, devil-may-cares and mad-mannered blades! To the devil -with the tip-staves and tithing-men, constables, beadles, vergers, -deputy sheriffs and long-lipped parsons! A raid on the wine-cellar -to break flagons of good English, and drink, drink, drink, till your -heads spin! There is still joy and intoxication in the jolly old -bottles that Shakespeare and his giddy-phrased -Buccaneering crew of poets filled! "By Gad--slid! -I scorn it, to be a consort -for every humdrum, hang -them, scroyles!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="sub-rosa"><span class="bold large">Sub Rosa</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Perhaps I am as discreet, honourable and loyal as the ordinary -man, but I confess that at times I have a frantic desire to -escape to the moon and tell all I know, or to unburden -myself of the weight of dynamic confidences, pouring my -revelations into the ears of some responsive idiot. In the old days -a corpse was fastened to the felon's back in punishment of certain -crimes, and to me a secret seems almost as deadly a load. The -temptation to vivify the tale and make it walk abroad on its own -legs is hard to deny.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There are secrets so dangerous that to possess them is foolhardy. -It is like storing dynamite in one's drawing-room; an explosion is -always imminent, and publication would mean disaster. I have -known secrets myself, so outrageous, so bulging with scandal, that, -had I not promptly forgotten them, they would have undone society -twenty times over! There is a titilating pleasure in the keeping of -such terrific truths and it increases one's inward pride to think that -one knows of another what, if told, would change the aspect of a life. -The temptation to tell is like being in church and suddenly seized -with an almost irresistible impulse to shriek aloud, or like standing -at the verge of a cliff and being impelled to throw one's self over. To -give way to the perfidious thought means moral death, and when one -falls, one brings others down as well.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Many of us, though we conceit ourselves to be worthy of trust, -are, as regards our secrets, in a state of unstable equilibrium. Women, -seeing and feeling things more personally and subjectively -than men, are especially hazardously poised. So -long as the friendship with the confidant is preserved, the -secret is safe, but let estrangement come, and suddenly -the balance becomes top-heavy; one's morality falls -and the secret escapes in the crash of anger. I have known women -who felt themselves quite free to tell secrets when the proper owner -of them proved guilty of unfaithfulness. The difference in -viewpoint of the sexes seems to be this: men have a definite code of -honour, certain well-recognized laws of conduct acknowledged even -by those who do not always obey them. "The brand of the dog is -upon him by whom is a secret revealed." If a woman is honourable -(in the man's sense of the term), it is a test of her individual -character, and not of conformity to any feminine ethical system.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Most men, for instance, and some women (especially when influenced -by love or great friendship), will keep a confidence not only -passively, but actively. As Kipling's </span><em class="italics">Hafiz</em><span> teaches:--</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Lie, while thy lips can move, or a man is alive to hear!"</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It seems right, too, that in lesser cases one is justified in lying to -protect one's own secret, as in disavowing the authorship of an -anonymous book; for one surely need not be at the mercy of every -questioner. The true confidant is not a mere negative receptacle for -your story, but a positive ally.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On the other hand, there are those who hold that a singular and -prime friendship dissolves all other obligations whatsoever, and that -secrets betrayed are the greatest sacrifices possible upon the altar of -love. Montaigne says, "The secret I have sworn not to reveal to any -other I may, without perjury, communicate to him who is not -another, but myself." There are few friendships -nowadays so close as his with Estienne de la Boëtie (who, -himself, "would not so much as lie in jest"); theirs -was one of the great friendships of history; but there -is much casuistry used by those who would manifest -their importance in knowing mysterious things. They obey the -letter of the law and tell without really telling, letting the truth leak -out in wise hints and suggestions, or they tell part of a tale and -hoodwink themselves into thinking that they have violated no confidence. -Yet nothing is so dangerous as half a truth. It is like pulling one -end of a bow-knot. Sooner or later it is inevitable that the hearer -will come across the other side, and the cat will be out of the bag.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But some secrets have so great a fiction interest, or such sensational -psychology that one is quite unable to refrain from telling the -tale, without names, or localities, perhaps, merely for the story's sake. -This is, perhaps, permissible when one really tells for the study of -human nature rather than as gossip. It is dangerous always, but a -clever person can so distort certain details that the true characters can -never be traced. For myself, I would never demand absolute confidence, -for I would never tell anything to anybody whose discretion I -could not absolutely trust, and a friend can as often aid one by -telling at the proper time as by keeping silent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Some secrets are told only for the purpose of being repeated. -What one cannot tell one's self one must get others to tell for one, -and this trick is the theme of many a farce. Women understand -this perfectly; it is their code, and men laugh at it, feeling themselves -superior. The three quickest ways of communication, cynics say, are -telephone, telegraph, and tell-a-woman. Women are notoriously -fond of secrets; it is their only chance for romance. No man who -desires to obtain a woman's affection should -forget this. Not that it is necessary to initiate her into -your affairs, but you will, as soon as possible, see that -something happens which she may consider it wise -not to tell. Cement her interest with some lively -secret that ties you to her irrevocably, so that she cannot come across -your photograph or your letter without a knowing smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There are those, too, who hold that their own idea of a secret's -importance is the excuse for divulgence or defense, but a man of -honour will keep the secret of a child as closely as that of an intimate -friend. The ass who surrounds his every narration with mystery and -takes needless precautions, has his rights, and though you may hear -the tale at the next corner you are still bound to silence. Some -respect their own secrets but not those of others and have no -compunctions against wheedling out a confidence from a weak acquaintance, -thereby becoming accessory to the fact of his faithlessness. A secret -discovered should be held as sacred as a secret confided.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The desire to tell secrets is one of the most contagious of -diseases, and few of us are immune. Some vigorous moral constitutions -never succumb, but once an epidemic begins, it is hard work -stopping it, and a secret on the rampage is well nigh irresistible. -Tell your secret, then, broadcast, and let it have its way until it dies -out, or else lock it in your own heart. But above all confide it not -to her who asserts that she never has the slightest desire to -tell, for there, like a seed sown in fertile ground, it -will germinate and flower long after you have -forgotten it, aye, and bring forth -fruit you never planted.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">Books by Gelett Burgess</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>VIVETTE: or, The Memoirs of the Romance Association. With a -Map of Millamours, by the Author. 152 pp., 8vo. Small, Maynard -& Co., Boston. $1.25.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>A GAGE OF YOUTH: Poems, chiefly from the "Lark," Set Forms, -Lyrics and Ballads. 58 pp., small 8vo. Small, Maynard & Co., -Boston. $1.00.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE LIVELY CITY O' LIGG: A Cycle of Modern Fairy Tales -for City Children. With 53 illustrations (8 in colour) by the Author, -210 pp., small 4to. Frederick A. Stokes Co., New York. $1.50.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>GOOPS, AND HOW TO BE THEM: A Manual of Manners for -Polite Infants, in Rhyme. With 90 illustrations by the Author. 88 -pp., small 4to. Frederick A. Stokes Co., New York. 4th edition. -$1.50.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE BURGESS NONSENSE BOOK: Being a Complete Collection -of the Humorous Masterpieces of Gelett Burgess, Esq. With 196 -illustrations by the Author. 239 pp., small 4to, heavy paper. -Frederick A. Stokes Co., New York. $2.15.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>THE ROMANCE OF THE COMMONPLACE: A Collection or -Essays upon the Romantic View of Life. With decorations by the -Author. 152 pp., small 4to. Elder & Shepard, San Francisco. $1.50.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 6em"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="backmatter"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst" id="pg-end-line"><span>*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>THE ROMANCE OF THE COMMONPLACE</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="cleardoublepage"> -</div> -<div class="language-en level-2 pgfooter section" id="a-word-from-project-gutenberg" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<span id="pg-footer"></span><h2 class="level-2 pfirst section-title title"><span>A Word from Project Gutenberg</span></h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span>We will update this book if we find any errors.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This book can be found under: </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49285"><span>http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49285</span></a></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. -Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this -license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works to protect the Project Gutenberg™ concept and -trademark. 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