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diff --git a/old/56165-0.txt b/old/56165-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3b83294..0000000 --- a/old/56165-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3447 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Neither Here Nor There, by Oliver Herford - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Neither Here Nor There - -Author: Oliver Herford - -Release Date: December 11, 2017 [EBook #56165] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEITHER HERE NOR THERE *** - - - - -Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - A MIRROR OF FRIVOLITY - - NEITHER HERE - NOR THERE - - By - OLIVER HERFORD - - _Author of “The Rubaiyat of a Persian Kitten,” “This Giddy - Globe,” etc._ - - ¶ As a humorous commentator upon morals and manners with - special attention to cats, tutti frutti trees, Bolshevism for - babies and trouser creases. Mr. Herford leaves nothing to - be desired. His book is a mirror of engaging frivolity, an - incisive but good-humored thrust at the follies of the day. - Here and there a very rich and moving note is struck, as in THE - BON DIEU’S BIRTHDAY PARTY where one finds in full flower that - tender fantasy which is the greatest charm of Mr. Herford’s - imagination. - - GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY _Publishers_ New York - - - - -NEITHER HERE NOR THERE - -OLIVER HERFORD - - - - -_Other Books of_ OLIVER HERFORD - - -POEMS AND VERSES - - ARTFUL ANTICS - THE BASHFUL EARTHQUAKE AND OTHER FABLES AND VERSES - ALPHABET OF CELEBRITIES - OVERHEARD IN A GARDEN - RUBAIYAT OF A PERSIAN KITTEN - THE FAIRY GOD-MOTHER-IN-LAW - KITTEN’S GARDEN OF VERSES - THE LAUGHING WILLOW - THE HERFORD ÆSOP - - -ANIMAL BOOKS - - A CHILD’S PRIMER OF NATURAL HISTORY - MORE ANIMALS - JINGLE JUNGLES - - -SATIRICAL - - THE ASTONISHING TALE OF A PEN AND INK PUPPET - SIMPLE GEOGRAPHY - THE MYTHOLOGICAL ZOO - CONFESSIONS OF A CARICATURIST - THIS GIDDY GLOBE - - -IN COLLABORATION - -_With John Cecil Clay_ - - HEARTICULTURE - CUPID’S FAIR WEATHER BOOK - CUPID’S ENCYCLOPEDIA - HAPPY DAYS - -_With Cleveland Moffett_ - - THE BISHOP’S PURSE - -_With Ethel Watts Mumford_ - - CYNIC’S CALENDAR - - - - - NEITHER HERE - NOR THERE - - BY - OLIVER HERFORD - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - - COPYRIGHT, 1922, - BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY - - [Illustration] - - NEITHER HERE NOR THERE. I - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - - TO M. H. - - On board S.S. _Carmania_ - Lat. 50° N., Long. 30° W. - - “NEITHER HERE—NOR THERE” - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - THE SECRET 9 - - OUR LEISURE CLASS 13 - - CONCERNING REVOLVING DOORS 17 - - BOLSHEVISM FOR BABIES 21 - - THE TUTTI-FRUTTI TREE 25 - - THOSE BILL BOARDS 28 - - THE LURE OF THE “AD” 33 - - LOOK BEFORE SHE LEAPS 37 - - THE LOW COST OF CABBING 42 - - THE GREAT MATCH BOX MYSTERY 45 - - ARE CATS PEOPLE? 51 - - MLLE. FAUTEUIL 56 - - MONEY AND FIREFLIES 60 - - CONCERNING THE TROUSER-CREASE 63 - - AN OLD-FASHIONED HEAVEN 68 - - ANOTHER LOST ART 71 - - MR. CHESTERTON AND THE SOLILOQUY 74 - - BUNK 77 - - THE COST OF A PYRAMID 82 - - WALTZING MICE AND DANCING MEN 87 - - THE HOBGOBLIN 92 - - THE VOICE OF THE PUSSY-WILLOW 96 - - PERNICIOUS PEACHES 99 - - SECOND CHILDHOOD’S HAPPY HOUR 105 - - PITY THE POOR GUEST OF HONOUR 109 - - A NEW MONROE DOCTRINE 114 - - DO CATS COME BACK? 117 - - THE RUTHLESSNESS OF MR. COBB 120 - - MY LAKE 123 - - THE HUNDREDTH AMENDMENT 134 - - SAY IT WITH ASTERISKS 144 - - - - -NEITHER HERE NOR THERE - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE SECRET - - -Eve was bored. She confided the fact to the Serpent. - -“Tell me something new!” she wailed, and the Serpent—he had never seen a -lady cry before—was deeply moved (the Serpent has always been misjudged) -and—there being no National Board of Censors—told her everything he knew. - -When he had finished, Eve yawned and looked boreder than ever. “Is _that_ -all?” she said. - -The Dramatic Critic asks the same question on the first night of a new -Play—“Will there never be an end to these Dormitory Farces,” he moans, -pondering darkly the while how he may transmute its leaden dullness to -the precious gold of a scintillating paragraph. - -Father Time has nothing to say on the matter. If you ask him to show you -a new thing, he shrugs his wings and growls, “You can search me.” Things -old and things new are all alike to Father Time. - -Peradventure, in the uttermost recess of the Great Pyramid lies a hair of -an unknown color, or a blueprint of the fourth dimension, or better still -the ms. of a new play, or a joke that has never been cracked. - -When a Roman bath is unearthed in Kent or a milliner’s shop in Pompeii we -wait breathless to hear of the discovery of a new story, or a new dress -pattern, but always it is the same old skull, the same old amphora. - -Even the newness of Fashion is a jest of antiquity. - -In an Italian book printed in the sixteenth century is a story of a fool -“who went about the streets naked, carrying a piece of cloth upon his -shoulders. He was asked by some one why he did not dress himself, since -he had the materials. ‘Because’ replied he, ‘I wait to see in what manner -the fashions will end. I do not like to use my cloth for a dress which in -a little time will be of no use to me, on account of some new fashion.’” - -There may be a newer version of this story in the ashes of the -Alexandrian library or beneath the ruins of Babylon, but this has at -least the freshness and luster of its four-hundred years. Also it throws -a light, a very searchlight, on the translucent demoiselles of today (see -them shyly run to cover at the mere mention of a searchlight.) - -Now we know their guilty secret. Each of them has, hoarded away in a -secret drawer (as money in panicky times) a roll of fine silk or voile, -or panne velvet, or crepe de chine which she is sparing from the scissors -till the Wheel of Fashion shall oscillate with less fury. Then she will -put away the skimpy, flimsy makeshift garments of transformed window -curtains and bath towels, converted _robes de nuit_ and remnants of net -or chiffon she has been vainly trying to hide behind—and then—then alas, -we shall see her no more! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -OUR LEISURE CLASS - - -Once—and not so terribly long ago at that—we used to be very fond of -telling ourselves (and our visitors from Europe) that in America we have -no Leisure Class. - -That there were people of leisure in our midst, we could not deny, though -we preferred to call them idle rich, but as for a special class whose -whole business in life was to abstain from all useful activity—oh, no! - -Even our idle rich, unblest as they are with the hereditary gift for -idling, and untaught save by a brief generation or two of acquired -experience, find the profession of Leisure a strenuous not to say noisy -task, for while those to the leisure born know by the very feel of it -that the habit of idleness is a perfect fit, the newly-idle must look for -confirmation in the mirror of public admiration; hence Publicity, the -blare of the Sunday Supplement. - -But taken as a class our idle rich (though it is being rapidly licked or -lick-spittled into shape) is at best an amateur aristocracy of leisure. -For the real thing, for the genuine hunting, sporting, leisure-loving -American aristocracy, we must go back to the aboriginal Red Man. - -And how the busybody Puritan hated the Indian! With his air of well-bred -taciturnity, his love of sport, of rest, of nature, and his belief in -a happy Hereafter, the noble Red Man was in every respect his hateful -opposite, yet if any Pilgrim brother had dared even to hint that the -Indian might have points of superiority it would have been the flaming -woodpile for him, or something equally disagreeable in the purifying way. - -How different it might have been! - -If only the Puritan had been less stuck up and self-righteous, the Red -Man less reserved! If they could but have understood that Nature intended -them for each other, these opposites, these complements of each other. - -Why else had Nature brought them together from the ends of the earth? - -But alas, Eugenics had not yet been invented and the Puritan and the -Indian just naturally hated each other at first sight and so (like many -another match-maker) Mother Nature slipped up in her calculations, and a -wonderful flower of racial possibility was forever nipped in the bud. - -If the Puritan, with his piety and thrift and domesticity and his -doctrine of election and the Noble Red Man, with his love of paint -and syncopated music and dancing and belief in a happy Hereafter, had -overcome their mutual prejudices and instead of warring with flintlocks -and tomahawks, had pursued each other with engagement rings and marriage -licenses, what a grand and glorious race we might be today! - -What a land of freedom might be ours! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CONCERNING REVOLVING DOORS. - - -There has been some discussion of late as to the etiquette of the -revolving door. When a man accompanied by a woman is about to be revolved -in it, which should go first? Some think the man should precede the -woman furnishing the motive power, while she follows idly in the next -compartment. Others hold that the rule “Ladies first” can have no -exception, therefore the man must stand aside and let the female of his -species do the rough work of starting the door’s revolution while the -man, coming after, keeps it going and stops it at the right moment. - -“Starting something” is perhaps of all pastimes in the world the one most -popular with the sex we are accustomed to call the gentle sex; one might -almost say that “starting something” is Woman’s prerogative; on the other -hand there is nothing on earth so abhorrent to that same gentle sex as -the thing that is called Consistency; and though she may be perfectly -charmed to start a revolution in South America, or in silk pajamas, or -suffrage, or the rearing of children it does not follow that she will -take kindly to the idea of starting the revolution of a revolving door. - -As for the rule “Ladies first,” its application to the etiquette of -doors in general (as distinguished from the revolving variety) is purely -a matter of geography. In some European countries it is the custom, -when entering a room, for the man to precede the woman, and if it be a -closed street or office door, the man will open it and following the -door inward, hold the door open while she passes in. If the door opens -outward the woman naturally enters first, since her companion must -remain outside to hold the door open. - -The American rule compelling the woman to precede her escort when -entering a room or building doubtless originated with our ancestor the -cave-man. - -On returning to his Apartment with his wife after a hunting expedition -Mr. Hairy K. Stoneaxe would say with a persuasive Neolithic smile (and -gentle shove) “After you my dear,” being rewarded for his politeness -by advance information as to whether there were Megatheriums or -Loxolophodons or an ambuscade of jealous rivals lurking in the darkness -of his stone-upholstered sitting-room. - -By all means let the lady go first; by so doing we pay the homage -that is due to her sex and even though there are no Megatheriums of -Loxolophodons in these days—there _may_ be burglars! Only in the case of -a door that must be opened inwards would I suggest an amendment. What -more lamentable sight than that of a gentle lady squeezing precariously -through a half-opened door while her escort, determined that though they -both perish in the attempt, she shall go first, reaches awkwardly past -her shoulder in the frantic endeavor to push back the heavy self-closing -door while at the same time contorting the rest of his person into the -smallest possible compass that she may have room to pass without disaster -to her ninety-dollar hat, not to speak of her elbows and shins. - -How much happier—and happiness is the mainspring of etiquette—they would -be, this same pair, if (with a possible “allow me” to calm her fears) the -escort should push boldly the door to its widest openness and holding -it thus with one hand behind his back, with the other press his already -removed hat against his heart as the lady grateful and unruffled sweeps -majestically by. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -BOLSHEVISM FOR BABIES - - - “That babies don’t commit such crimes as forgery is true, - But little sins develop, if you leave them to accrue; - For anything you know, they’ll represent, if you’re alive, - A burglary or murder at the age of thirty-five.” - -When W. S. Gilbert wrote these lines, he stated in an amusing way a great -truth, for the doctrine of infant depravity and original sin thus lightly -touched upon is, when stripped of its Calvinistic mummery, a recognized -scientific verity. - -I sometimes think that if the “highbrow” mothers who turn to books -by long-haired professors with retreating chins for advice in child -training, should study instead the nonsensical wisdom of Gilbert’s book, -they would derive more benefit therefrom. At least it would do them (and -their children) no harm. - -I wish as much as that could be said of a book I have lately come -across entitled “Practical Child Training,” by Ray C. Beery (Parent’s -Association). So far from harmless it is, in my opinion, a more fitting -title for it would be “Bolshevism for Babies.” - -Obedience, says the author, “is your corner-stone. Therefore lay it -carefully.” And this is how it is laid: “_While you are teaching the -child the first lessons in correct obedience, do not give any commands -either in the lesson or outside except those which the child will be sure -to obey willingly._” - -Obedience is to be taught by wheedling and cajolery, which lessons the -clever child will apply in later life as bribery and corruption. The -author denies this in Book I, p. 130, but his denial is so curious it -deserves quoting: “_You would entirely vitiate its principles if in -giving this lesson you should state it to the child like this: ‘If you -do not do thus and so, I will give you no candy._’” Then on the same -page: “_While the thought of candy in the child’s mind causes him to -obey, yet the lesson is planned in such a way that you are not buying -obedience._” - -The “five principles of discipline” are embodied in the following story: -The father of a boy sees him and two other boys throwing apples through -a barn window, two of whose panes had been broken. To make a long story -short, the parent, instead of reproving his offspring, says: “Good shot, -Bob! Do you see that post over there? See if you can hit it two out of -three times.” “It would have been unwise for that father (adds the author -of “Practical Child Training”) to say, ‘I’d rather you’d not throw at -that window opening—can’t you sling at something else?’ The latter remark -would suggest that the window was the best target and the boys would have -been dissatisfied at having to stop throwing at it.” - -The inference that the boys only needed the father’s objection to an -act on their part to convince them that it was a desirable act would be -ludicrous if it weren’t so immoral. - -If you ask me which disgusts me most, the Father or his sons, I should -reply without a moment’s hesitation—the Author of the book! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE TUTTI-FRUTTI TREE - - -When the author of the most famous Love Song ever written, cried, -“There is no new thing under the sun,” cigarettes, chewing-gum, the -thermos-bottle and the “snapper” for fastening ladies’ frocks—(an -indispensable thing when one has several hundred wives)—were yet to be -invented. - -Neither so far as we can learn, had Solomon who knew and could address in -its own language every flower and tree in existence, ever heard of the -Tutti-Frutti Tree. - -There is to my certain belief only one tree in existence answering to -that name, and I christened it myself. I am its Godfather. - -In the heartmost heart of the fruitful Paradise of New Jersey stands a -small but ancient stone cottage that has come to regard me as its lord, -and on Squire Williams’ estate, whose verdant acres lie just outside my -garden fence, grows the Tutti-Frutti Tree. - -Once it was a young Apple Tree. It is still young, but as the result of -a series of sap transfusions it is also several other kinds of tree, -and when it grows up it will bear apples, quinces, two kinds of pears, -peaches and, I believe, plums—almost everything in fact except Water -Melons. - -Some day a future Stevenson will immortalize it in verse something after -this fashion, - - _The Tutti-Frutti Tree so bright,_ - _It gives me fruit with all its might,_ - _Apples, peaches, pears and quinces,_ - _I’m sure we should all be happy as princes._ - -It’s quite absurd, of course, but just suppose the Tree of Knowledge in -that First Garden has been a Tutti-Frutti Tree instead of an Apple Tree! -With seven separate kinds of fruit to choose from, all equally forbidden -and, for that reason, equally desirable, how could Eve ever have decided -which one to pluck? - -And with Eve’s hesitation Sin would have been lost to the world! - -Let us give thanks that the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil was _not_ -a Tutti-Frutti Tree. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THOSE BILL-BOARDS - - -Every now and again, generally when the warm weather is upon us, somebody -or other starts a heated discussion about something that is of no -particular interest to anybody. - -This time it is Mr. Joseph Pennell, the artist, who wails and gnashes his -pen about the terrible bill-board and advertising pictures that deface -the public buildings and thoroughfares of American cities and the public -scenery of the American countryside. - -If my opinion were asked I should be tempted to quote the gentle answer -with which the late William D. Howells was wont to turn away argument, -and say to Mr. Pennell, “I think perhaps you are partly right.” - -But since I am not on Mr. Pennell’s list of great American artists, a -list, by the way that contains only two names, I am free to say what -I really think, and that is that if the dear old familiar “Ads” were -suddenly to disappear from the streets and cars, I should miss them very -much. - -Perhaps I have acquired a taste for them as the dweller near a street -railroad first endures, then tolerates, and at last becomes so completely -habituated to the roaring of wheels and the clang of metal that he is -unable to sleep without their soothing lullaby. - -Soothing—that’s what they are, these advertising pictures. They soften -the underground torment of travel in the Subway, they take the place of -the scenery which beguiles the tedium of ordinary travel, and at least -they are, as a rule, more interesting to contemplate than the people -in the opposite seat. Those people are strangers, the people in the -advertisement panels are, many of them, old friends, friends met in -other cars in other cities. Mr. Pennell no doubt would like to see them -thrown off the train, but I am always glad to meet them again, and to -some of them, with whom I have a sort of informal bowing acquaintance, I -mentally take off my hat. - -One amiable gentleman in particular I always look for and hail with -delight when I find myself sitting opposite to him. He is an Italian, I -take it, from his appearance, and from Naples, to judge by his accent, -which, though I have never heard his voice, is depicted as plainly as the -nose on his face. - -Neither do I know his name, but I call him Signor Pizzicato, for it is -quite evident that nature intended him for an Operatic career. How he -ever came to be a barber, I cannot imagine. Perhaps he sang in the Barber -of Seville and lost his voice and became a realist, as some painters lose -their sense of form and become cubists or futurists. Whatever he should -have been or might have been or was, a barber is what he is now, and I -gaze upon him in fascination as with a priceless gesture of thumb and -forefinger (as if he should pluck an individual mote from a sunbeam) he -extols to his customer and to you, the bouquet so ravishing of the hair -tonic he holds in his other hand, on the sale of which he presumably -receives a large commission. - -Then there is that delightful little Miss clad in airy -next-to-nothings—but no, on second thought I shall not introduce you to -her. I fear she is not to be trusted. The last time I sat opposite to her -in a street-car in Cleveland—(or was it in Buffalo)—she caused me to go -five blocks past my destination which happened to be a railway station, -so that I was two blocks late for my train. - -All I will tell you about her, gentle reader, is that she has fringed -gentian eyes with a look in them that says quite plainly nothing would -gratify her more than to play the same trick upon you. - -All this chatter, I am aware, has nothing to do with Art, that is to say -the “Art of Painting”; that large, severe-looking female you sometimes -see crouched in an uncomfortable position on a still more uncomfortable -cornice of a public building, wearing a laurel wreath and a granite -peplum, and holding in her hand a huge stone palette. - -But sometimes this severe female climbs down from her stone perch and -takes a day off, Coney Island-wise, on the billboards and street cars, -and then if she is not always at her best, she is often very amusing. - -And just because a goddess isn’t stuck up it doesn’t prove that she isn’t -a goddess—does it? - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE LURE OF THE “AD” - - -Kipling once, when sojourning in a far country, complained bitterly of -the thoughtlessness of his friends at home in sending him a batch of -magazines shorn (to save postage) of all the advertisements. Which shows -that the most grown-up of artists may still have the heart of a child. - -For my part, if I were forced to make choice between the advertising -pages and the reading matter (so-called), I should in nine periodicals -out of ten choose the former. - -To the grown-up child the advertising section of the magazine takes the -place of the Shop-Window of infancy through which, with bulging eyes and -mouth agape, like some mazed minnow staring at the submerged Rhine-Gold, -he once gazed at the tinsel treasure so bitterly beyond his penny’s reach. - -And now, just as far out of reach as ever, in the display-window of the -advertising page, the grown-up child gazes at the miraculous Motor-Car -gliding, velvet shod, through palmy solitudes reflecting the rays of the -setting sun with a splendor out-Solomoning Solomon. - -Or the “Home Beautiful,” constructed throughout of selected materials of -distinctive quality, and roofed with spark-proof shingles of the most -refined pastel tints, “_just the home you have dreamed about at a price -that will dumfound you! Enclose this coupon with your order._” - -Again it is the magical cabinet that brings into your very lap as it were -the Galli-Curci, the Tetrazzini or any other “ini,” “owski” or “elli” -it may please your fancy to pick from its golden perch in the operatic -aviary. - -And what a relief to turn from the magazine pictures of the slick-haired -hero and the slinky heroine of fiction (perpetually _vis-à-vis_ -yet always looking past each other)—to turn from these to the very -attractive, intelligent-looking girls of the advertising pages, girls -exquisitely coiffed, gowned and silk-hosed and ever happily employed in -some useful task: this one (in the Paquin “trottoir” of mouse-colored -voile) joyously propelling a vacuum-cleaner, this (in the afternoon -toilette of tricolette) mixing the ingredients for a custard pie in a -forget-me-not-blue Wedgwood bowl, and this, not less lovely than either -of her sisters, polishing a bathtub with some magic powder till it -glistens like a Childs’ restaurant. - -Now, any one of these dear girls, on her face alone—not to mention her -graceful carriage and delicately moulded stockings—might without the -least effort in the world have obtained a position as a Star in a Musical -Comedy—with her picture in the _Cosmopolitan_ or _Vanity Fair_ at least -once a fortnight—but she prefers the simple household task, the vacuum -cleaner, the spotless oil-stove, the shining bathtub to the plaudits of -the masses. - -And this is only one of the many lessons that are to be learned from the -advertising pages. Who can look at the busy little Dutch lady in the blue -frock and white cap and apron, stick in hand, chasing the Demon Dirt in -street cars, subway and elevated stations, billboards and electric signs, -all over town, all over the continent for that matter—who can look at -the determined back of that fierce little lady (no one has ever seen her -face, save the Demon) without inwardly swearing that wherever Demon Dirt -may show his face, whether it be on the stage, the picture screen or the -printed page of fiction he will do unto him even as doth the Little Dutch -Lady with the big stick— - -Or is it a rolling pin? - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -LOOK BEFORE SHE LEAPS - - -The Fourteenth of February in Leap Year is a dread-letter day for the -shrinking bachelor and the shy (wife-shy) grass widower. - -The butterfly-winged statue of Femininity that, for three happy leapless -years, he worshiped from a safe distance (at the foot of its pedestal), -has come to life, has climbed down from its vestal perch, changed -fearfully from cool quiet marble to something of the consistency of warm -india rubber—from an adorable image to—the female of the species. - -And with all the term implies. The butterfly wings of Psyche, iridescent, -like rainbows reflected on mother-of-pearl, have shrivelled and -blackened into the umbrella-ribbed wings of the vampire and the petalled -lips from which could only be thought to issue the maidenly negative -“yes” or the melting affirmative “no”—are twisted into little scarlet -snakes that hiss, “Kisssss me my fool!” - -“Look before she leaps!” is the Leap-Year slogan of the shrinking -Bachelor, and it is a perfectly splendid motto, as mottoes go. - -But a motto is like a cure for a cold which is only good to cure a cold -that has not yet been caught, and the shrinking one is already as good as -caught and his perfectly splendid slogan is of no more use than an icebox -to an Esquimaux or a fur coat in Hell. - -The Leap-Year Bachelor’s only hope is to feign death. Like the Bear in -Æsop, the Female of the Species Human has no use for any but a “live one.” - -If he flees he is lost—(or found, according to whether the speech be -given to the male or the female actor of the scene,)—and if he be a grass -widower, he is made hay while the sun shines. - -Now whether Providence intended the instinct of flight for the -preservation of the hunted one or as a stimulus to the hunter, will -never be known. With wolves and tigers it works both ways, but with the -leap-year “Vamp” it works pretty much only one way. - -And so the gentle bachelor flees and is caught and is lived upon happily -ever after⸺ - - * * * * * - -To see a statue come to life must be a terrifying spectacle. Ovid’s tale -of Pygmalion and Galatea is only for those who get their ideas about -artists from magazines to the vacuity of whose contents the face of the -girl on the cover may well serve as an index. - -I am quite certain that when Pygmalion saw his perfect marble (perfect to -him anyway) turn to imperfect flesh and blood, the completed result of -months of hard work obliterated—undone—as if it had never been—and in its -place “just a girl,” very sweet and lovely and all that—but compared to -his statue—oh no! - -And that is looking at it from its brightest “angle” (as the -motion-picture intellectuals say). As a matter of fact, judging from the -agonizing sensation of the human leg (or arm) when rudely awakened from -dreamless slumber, the process of transmutation from senseless stone to -pulsating flesh must be a very painful one indeed. However pleasing the -countenance of the living Galatea might be under normal conditions its -expression of mingled bewilderment, rage and physical anguish must have -been disconcerting, not to say terrifying, to the sensitive soul of the -sculptor, and anything but consoling for the loss of his hard-won and -cherished handiwork. - -I can picture Pygmalion fleeing madly from his studio, not even waiting -for the elevator and vowing by all the gods, then administrating human -affairs, never again to make a wish without touching wood or at least -crossing his fingers. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE LOW COST OF CABBING - - -In the last ten years or so all the necessaries and most of the luxuries -of life have more than doubled in cost—all but one—the Cab—or to be more -accurate, the Taxi-cab. - -Perhaps it is because a cab is quite as often a necessity as it is a -luxury and so falls between two schools, the Stoic and Epicurean, that it -is an exception to the rule of rising cost. - -Did I say rising cost? If I am not very much mistaken the cost of -cabbing, so far from not rising _has actually fallen_ in the last ten -years, and that brings me to my great invention. - -It is a scheme for saving money, a Thrift scheme. It is like this—Every -time you take a street-car (what with the dislocated service and the -abolition of transfers) you are paying nearly twice what you used to pay, -and soon you will be paying even more. - -On the other hand, a trip that in a hackney cab, fifteen years ago, cost -you a dollar-fifty, today in a taxicab costs you only seventy-five cents. - -Now make a swift calculation— - -If you take six cars a day you lose thirty cents. A loss of thirty cents -a day doesn’t seem very much, but in a year, it amounts to a loss of -$109.50 which is not to be treated lightly. - -Now if you take six Taxis at an average cost of, say two dollars per -trip, you are saving (let me see, six times two) twelve dollars a day -and twelve dollars a day is four thousand three hundred and eighty -dollars a year, which added to the $109.50 you have saved by not riding -in street-cars makes a grand total of $4489.50! And this is only what -you save by taking six cabs a day. If you took twice as many cabs _you -would save twice that amount_, and if you increased your cabbage to one -hundred per diem (a day) your savings for the first year would amount to -$448,950.50—nearly half a million dollars! - -Go over my figures carefully with your wife when she returns from -business this evening—It is a live proposition—Think it over! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE GREAT MATCH-BOX MYSTERY - - -PART ONE - - -I wonder—has any one ever made a psychoanalytical study of the habits of -the Match-box family? - -By Match-box family I mean the yellow and black, self-sufficient variety -that arrive from the grocer in packages of a dozen and are at once torn -apart and distributed (like kittens or missionaries) to every point of -the compass. - -Each box has its own special territory, and there it should stand, ready -to the last match for any sudden emergency, such as the re-animation of -the just-gone-out pipe, or the finding of the eyeglasses in the dark that -their owner may be able to read the time on his radium-faced wrist-watch, -or a thousand and one things. - -There are indeed a thousand and one good and sufficient reasons (apart -from its being its plain duty) why a match-box should always be on the -job, and like the thousand and one cures for rheumatism not one of them -(unless it be a horse-chestnut in the pocket) can be relied upon to work. - -I sometimes think “a thousand and one” must be an unlucky number. - -The greater the need of its services the less likely is the match-box to -be in that particular place where any number of witnesses will testify -upon oath they had seen it only a moment before. - -What is the strikeology of it? Have match-boxes that perverted sense of -humor that finds expression in practical jokes? No, it is nothing like -that. Would that it were! It is something less easy to explain. It is -something sinister—something rather frightening. - - * * * * * - -I am a devout reader of detective stories and with much study of their -methods have come to regard myself as something of a sleuth, in a purely -theoretic way of course; nevertheless I have always hoped some day to put -my theories to the test, and here was the chance. _I would find out where -the match-boxes go_, I would follow their trail to the bitter end, even -if it led to the door of the White House itself! - - * * * * * - -First I made a careful blue-print plan of the flat in which I (and -the match-boxes) live, marking plainly in red ink all the doors, -windows, fire-escapes (fire-escapes are most important); dumbwaiters, -closets, trapdoors (there weren’t any but I put them in to make it more -professional); then—but why go into all the thousand and—there’s that -unlucky number again—the thousand and two minute and uninteresting -details? You would only skip them and turn to the last paragraph to end -the horrible suspense and learn at once what I discovered. * * * - - -PART TWO - - _Synopsis of Previous Chapter._ Having observed that - Match-boxes, placed in every room of the house, invariably - disappear in a few hours, the narrator resolves to solve the - mystery even though the trail should lead straight to the White - House in Washington. Accordingly he makes a plan of all the - rooms, closets, etc., and searches every possible hiding-place, - but no trace of the Match-boxes is found. - -What can have become of them! I have searched every corner of every -room in the house—Stay! There is one room I have overlooked—the Haunted -Room in the West Corridor, haunted by the ghosts of dead cigarettes, -unfinished poems and murdered ideas. It is my study (or studio, as the -occasion may be). With trembling hand on the porcelain door-knob, I pause -to recall the secret combination. - -In vain I rack my brain to remember the secret combination of my study -door. Then suddenly it flashes upon me that long ago I wrote it down in -the address book I carried in my pocket. - -There are twelve pockets in the suit I am wearing. Fearfully I go through -the twelve pockets and many are the lost treasures and forgotten-to-mail -letters I find, but no Address Book! Wait! there is still another pocket! -One I never use—THE THIRTEENTH POCKET! - -With the deliberation of despair I empty the Thirteenth Pocket of its -contents—a broken cigarette, two amalgamated postage stamps, a device for -cleaning pipe bowls, some box-checks for _The Famous Mrs. Fair_, four -rubber bands, a fragment of an Erie time-table and—the Address Book! - -On the last page of the Address Book is the Combination, written in a -pale Greek cipher, but still legible, grasping the porcelain door-knob -firmly between my thumb and four fingers I scan the cipher eagerly. -De-coded, it reads as follows—_Twist knob to the right as far as -possible and push door._ - - * * * * * - -With heart beating like a typewriter I obeyed the directions to the -letter, and to my intense relief the door yielded and in another moment I -was in the room! - -And there, scattered over the surface of my desk like surprised -conspirators, feigning ignorance of one another’s presence, were twelve -yellow Match-boxes! - -How they mastered the combination of the door and got into the room, I -shall not attempt to explain. I am only an amateur Detective. - -All I know is that Match-boxes, though they be scattered to the ends of -the house (or World), always get together in some one place. - -Perhaps it is for safety, they get together. - -I have always wondered why they are called Safety Matches. - -Perhaps that is the reason! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -ARE CATS PEOPLE? - - -If a fool be sometimes an angel unawares, may not a foolish query be a -momentous question in disguise? For example, the old riddle: “Why is a -hen?” which is thought by many people to be the silliest question ever -asked, is in reality the most profound. It is the riddle of existence. -It has an answer, to be sure, but though all the wisest men and women -in the world _and_ Mr. H. G. Wells have tried to guess it, the riddle -“Why is a hen?” has never been answered and never will be. So, too, the -question: “Are Cats People?” seemingly so trivial, may be, under certain -conditions, a question of vital importance. - -Suppose, now, a rich man dies, leaving all his money to his eldest -son, with the proviso that a certain portion of it shall be spent in -the maintenance of his household as it then existed, all its members -to remain under his roof, and receive the same comfort, attention, or -remuneration they had received in his (the testator’s) lifetime. Then -suppose the son, on coming into his money, and being a hater of cats, -made haste to rid himself of a feline pet that had lived in the family -from early kittenhood, and had been an especial favorite of his father’s. - -Thereupon, the second son, being a lover of cats and no hater of money, -sues for possession of the estate on the ground that his brother has -failed to carry out the provisions of his father’s will, in refusing to -maintain the household cat. - -The decision of the case depends entirely on the social status of the cat. - -Shall the cat be considered as a member of the household? What -constitutes a household anyway? - -The definition of “Household” in the Standard Dictionary is as follows: -“_A number of persons living under the same roof._” - -If cats are people, then the cat in question is a person and a member of -the household, and for failing to maintain her and provide her with the -comfort and attention to which she has been used, the eldest son loses -his inheritance. Having demonstrated that the question “Are Cats People?” -is anything but a trivial one, I now propose a court of inquiry, to -settle once for all and forever, the social status of _felis domesticus_. - -And I propose for the office of judge of that court—myself! - -In seconding the proposal and appointing myself judge of the court, I -have been careful to follow political precedent by taking no account -whatever of any qualifications I may or may not have for the office. - -For witnesses, I summon (from wherever they may be) two great shades, -to wit: King Solomon, the wisest man of his day, and Noah Webster, the -wordiest. - -And I say to Mr. Webster, “Mr. Webster, what are the common terms used to -designate a domestic feline whose Christian name chances to be unknown to -the speaker?” and Mr. Webster answers without a moment’s hesitation: - -“Cat, puss, pussy and pussy-cat.” - -“And what is the grammatical definition of the above terms?” - -“They are called nouns.” - -“And what, Mr. Webster, is the accepted definition of a noun?” - -“A noun is the name of a person, place or thing.” - -“Kindly define the word ‘place’.” - -“A particular locality.” - -“And ‘thing’.” - -“An inanimate object.” - -“That will do, Mr. Webster.” - -So, according to Mr. Noah Webster, the entity for which the noun cat -stands, must, if not a person, be a locality or an inanimate object! - -A cat is surely not a locality, and as for being an inanimate object, -her chance of avoiding such a condition is nine times better even than a -king’s. - -Then a cat _must_ be a person. - -Suppose we consult King Solomon. - -In the Book of Proverbs, Chapter XXX, verse 26, Solomon says: “The coneys -are but a feeble folk, yet they make their houses in the rocks.” - -A coney is a kind of rabbit; folk, according to Mr. Webster, only another -word for people. - -That settles it! If the rabbits are people, cats are people. - -Long lives to the cat! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -MLLE. FAUTEUIL - - -It is harder for a table or chair to behave naturally on the stage than -for a camel to be free and easy in a needle’s eye, or for Mr. Rockefeller -to get into Heaven (or Hell?) with the money. - -What can be more pathetic than the spectacle of a helpless young chair or -table or settee starting on a stage career shining with gilt varnish and -high ambition to reflect in art’s mirror the drawing-room manners of the -furniture of real life. - -Mlle. Fauteuil (that is her stage name, in private life she is just plain -Sofa) is fresh, charming and of the best manufacture. She appears nightly -in a Broadway theater, yet she has attracted no attention. She has -received no press notices. - -Certainly this is from no lack of charm on her part. Her legs are -delightful. In the contemplation of their gilded curves, one scarcely -notices that she has no arms or that her back is slightly curved, and her -upholstery, a brocade of the season before last. - -In a hushed papièr-mâché voice the property man told me the story of -Mlle. Fauteuil’s persecution—how, at the first rehearsal with scenery, -she occupied a perfectly proper position between the center table and -the bay window, how the Leading Lady insisted on her being moved as she -obstructed that superior person’s path when, after writing the letter, -she crosses to the window to see if her Husband is in the garden. - -Mlle. Fauteuil was then transferred to a station between the table and -the fire-place. This was all right, until the scene between the Husband -and Wife, when the Husband walks back and forth (quickly up stage and -slowly down stage), _between the table and the fire-place_. - -This time it was not a case of politely requesting the intervention of -the stage-manager. - - * * * * * - -Poor mangled Fauteuil! When she was picked up from the orchestra pit -where he had thrown her it was found that two of her rungs were fractured -and her left castor was broken clean off at the ankle. - -After half a day in the hospital without either anesthetics, flowers or -press notices, she reappeared on the left side of the stage, between the -center table and the safe. Here she was conspicuous and happy until it -was found that the Erring Son in his voyage from the window to the safe, -was compelled to take a difficult step to one side to avoid the fauteuil. - -Bandied from right to left, up stage and down stage, at last Mlle. -Fauteuil landed in her present obscure position, to the right of the -stairway pillar, where, though miserably obscure, she interferes with -nobody’s stage business. - - * * * * * - -In the interior set as now played there is only one chair with a speaking -part—this is, the Jacobean chair on which the leading man leans when -talking to the ingénue. In the first act, it faces left so that he may -show his favorite profile. In the second act, the chair is reversed -in order that the audience may enjoy his more popular and extensively -photographed left profile. - -The moral of this story is that the furniture on the stage must never -appear more intelligent than the actors. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -MONEY AND FIREFLIES - - -Oh, yes, Money talks. We all know that, and a very noisy talker it is and -very harsh and metallic is its accent. But sometimes money talks in a -whisper, so low that it can hardly be heard. - -Then is the time it should be watched, even if spies and dictaphones -must be set upon it. The money whose eloquence, we are told, wished -the shackles of Prohibition on this land of the free, talked with such -a “still small voice” that everybody (except you and me, dear Reader) -mistook it for the voice of conscience. - -Speaking of money perhaps you don’t know it, but it is nevertheless true, -that the light given off by one of the many species of Firefly is the -most efficient light known, being produced at about one four-hundredth -part of the cost of the energy which is expended in the candle flame. -That is what William J. Hammer says in his book on Radium, giving as his -authority Professor S. P. Langley and F. W. Very. - -And Sir Oliver Lodge says if the secret of the Firefly were known, a -boy turning a crank could furnish sufficient energy to light an entire -electric circuit. - -But to the Casual Observer there is only one variety of Firefly.… Like -Wordsworth’s primrose: - - The Firefly with fitful glim - Is just a Lightning Bug to him - And it is nothing more. - -In reality there are almost as many different kinds of Firefly in the -United States alone as there are varieties of the great American Pickle. - -The late Professor Hagen of Harvard College, it is said, when enjoying -the beauties of Nature one night in the company of the Casual Observer, -was aroused from an apparent reverie by the question “Have you noticed -the Fireflies, Professor?” - -“Yes,” replied Professor Hagen, “I have already counted thirteen distinct -species.” - -Another quite different story is told of a well-known English -actress—Cecilia Loftus, if you insist on knowing her name. It was her -first visit to America and Miss Loftus was sitting with another Casual -Observer on the piazza of a country house whose grounds were separated -from the road by a belt of trees. - -“Do you see the Fireflies?” said the Casual Observer, pointing toward the -road. - -“Fireflies!” exclaimed Cecilia, “why, I thought they were hansom-cab -lights!” - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CONCERNING THE TROUSER-CREASE - - -It may perchance be questioned how long Britannia shall continue to rule -the waves, but that she will ever cease to rule the fashions (the male -fashions, I mean) is beyond the dreams of the boldest tailor or the -maddest hatter. - -Nevertheless, every rule has its exception and the Rule of Fashion is no -exception to the rule that rules that every rule has its exception. - -Every once in a while, since the invention of trousers, one or another -English King has ruled that the human trouser-crease shall crown the -Eastern and Western slope instead of the Northern and Southern exposure -of the trouser-leg. - -The law has never been considered by Parliament, for even the most -radical House of Commons would balk at legislation so subversive of -individual freedom, but by word of mouth, by courier, by post, by cable, -by wireless, by airplane the edict has passed through all the nations and -all the tribes to the trousermost ends of the earth. - -And with what result? - -With no result whatever. As far as it has been possible to push inquiry, -it is safe to say that no trouserian biped bearing the mark of a lateral -crease has been met with in any quarter of the Globe, or, for that -matter, ever will be. - -Strange, is it not, that the Tailors (proverbially the most complacent, -not to say timid, of men) should, without any plan or program or fuss -or demonstration of any sort, unite as one man—or rather one tailor—and -refuse to obey the unlimited monarch of the male fashions of the -civilized world. What is the explanation? - -There are two explanations. One is Commercialism. - -There is no profit to be made out of a change in the geography of a -trouser-crease. It is purely a matter of self-determination on the part -of the inhabitant of the trousers. - -If there were no more financial profit to be gained by the remaking of -the creases in the map of Europe than is to be got out of changing the -trouser-crease, there would be no call for a League of Nations. - -Should some inventive tailor (_inventive tailor!_) devise a crease that -could be woven into the very being of the Trouser, then it would be a -very different matter. The slightest variation in the location of the -crease would cause an upheaval in the (I’m tired of the word Trouser)—in -the “Pant” market that would mean millions of dollars to the trade. - -As it is there is no money in it. - -The other explanation is that the story of King Edward or King George -creasing the Royal Pants in any but the usual place is made out of whole -cloth. - -But let us suppose for a moment (just for the fun of the thing) that in -some possible scheme or caprice of creation there _were_ such a thing as -an inventive tailor. - -And the inventive tailor invented a permanent trouser-crease and planted -it on the Eastern and Western frontiers of the trouser-legs. - -What would be the probable effect of the innovation on the -trouser-bearing species of the human race? - -In that process of advancing alternate trouser-legs we call locomotion do -we not consciously, or unconsciously, follow in the direction indicated -by the point of the crease? - -What then would happen if the crease were transferred from the front to -the sides? - -The Crab alone of all living creatures exhibits in its legs a formation -that corresponds to the human trouser-crease. - -This ridge-like formation or crease occurs in the _side_ of the Crab’s -legs, not in the front as in the human species! - -And the slogan of the Crab (as everyone knows) is, “First make sure -you’re right _and then go sideways_.” - -Shall we too go sideways? - - * * * * * - -Charlie Chaplin is the only human creature whose feet go East and West -as his face travels North and his trouser-creases are so complicated it -would be difficult to classify them. - -Perhaps they hold the secret of his centrifugal orientation, his -inexplicable fascination. - -Who knows! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -AN OLD-FASHIONED HEAVEN - - -We have to thank an Anglican clergyman, the Rev. G. Vale Owen, for -the latest description of the Future Life of our species. Impelled by -a “gentle, steady but accumulative force” this good man became the -unwilling amanuensis of the spirit of his mother and “other friends” and -has written a description of the houses, trees, bridges, gardens and -people of the other world and their occupations that could scarcely be -improved upon by the most imaginative motion-picture photographer, or -mechanic or scrub-woman or whoever it may be that writes the scenarios. - -We of this world are still, after many thousand years of waiting, eager -for the faintest ray of light that may be thrown on the actual conditions -of what we call “the world to come,” or as the Spiritists love to say, -“behind the veil,” but for the tawdry imaginings of the Reverend Mr. -Owen the “Veil” serves only as an opaque screen upon whose surface -they flicker grotesquely like the disorderly apparitions of a cinema -projection. - -As a Seer this reverend gentleman, without for a moment questioning his -sincerity, is a failure; his narrative, is childish in its crudity and -tedious as a dream told at the breakfast table. - -One thing, however, is interesting, and that is to trace as we do, -through the transcendental claptrap of “rainbow brides” and white-winged -angels and the pseudo-scientific jargon of “planes,” “vibrations,” -“spheres,” and “fourth dimension,” the—shall I say humanizing—influence -of the cinema. - -For the first time we learn that there are bath tubs in the Heavenly -Mansions—Bathtubs! With hot and cold water, and Dr. Owen does not stop at -bathtubs; he assures us there are also—don’t faint—_water nymphs_! Can’t -you see all Israel clamoring for the picture rights! - -Imagine the angelic shade of St. Anthony or Mr. Spurgeon coming -unexpectedly upon a school of water nymphs! - -And how is this for a motion-picture “fade out”? - -“_As we knelt the whole summit of the hill seemed to become -transparent—we saw right through it and a part of the regions below was -brought out with distinctness. The scene we saw was a dry and barren -plain in semi-darkness and standing, leaning against a rock, was a man of -large stature._” - -I strongly suspect that the Reverend Mr. Vale Owen is, like myself (to my -shame confess it), a motion-picture fan! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -ANOTHER LOST ART - - -These are mournful days for the Polite Arts. One by one they are passing -away—the Art of Conversation, the Art of Paying Calls, the Art of Letter -Writing. - -The Art of Conversation is no longer even a subject for conversation. No -one so much as remembers of what it died. Did it languish and fade away -into an Eternal Pause as such a dignified gentleman of the old school as -the Art of Conversation would be expected to do—or was it murdered? - -The mystery surrounding the death of the Art of Conversation has never -been properly cleared up. Some think it died of heart failure induced -by the killing modern pace. Others say it starved to death. Others -again, that it was done to death by the chewing-gum trust. For my part, -I believe the Art of Conversation talked itself to death. It died of -obesity—it grew and grew and grew until, when all the world talked there -was nobody left to listen. Then it burst. - -No such mystery hangs about the death of the Art of Paying Calls. Here it -was a case of plain every-day murder—and what is more, the murderer still -lives. Millions of electric volts are pumped into him every day, but he -still lives—the more electricity we give him the livelier he grows. He is -the Telephone, and the Telephone is the murderer of the Art of Calling. - -Poor old Art of Calling! We shake our heads and murmur perfunctory -regrets—“good old chap,” and all that sort of thing, but really in our -heart of hearts, let me whisper it very low—we don’t really miss him very -much; to tell the truth, we are rather, that is to say, _quite_ glad he -is dead. If anyone of us had had the courage of his conviction he would -have killed him long ago. To speak plainly, the Art of Calling was a -pestiferous tyrant—and he only got what he deserved. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -MR. CHESTERTON AND THE SOLILOQUY - - -“I often talk to myself,” says Mr. G. K. Chesterton, speaking in defense -of the stage soliloquy. “If a man does not talk to himself it is because -he is not worth talking to.” - -The deduction is obvious, but it is based upon false premises. If Mr. -Chesterton is worth talking to, it is certainly not because he talks to -himself. It is impossible to imagine a more foolish waste of energy than -that expended in talking to one’s self. The man who talks to himself is -twice damned (as a fool). First, for wasting speech on an auditor who -knows in advance every word he will utter. Second, for listening to a -speaker whose every word he can foretell before it is uttered. - -Mr. Chesterton’s argument, failing as it does to prove that he is worth -talking to, is still less happy as a defense of the stage soliloquy. - -A character in a play talks to himself not, as Mr. Chesterton would have -us believe, because he is worth talking to, but to enlighten the audience -on points which the inexpert playwright has otherwise failed to make -plain. - -The stage soliloquy is only permissible as an indication of the character -of one who talks to himself in real life. For instance, if I wished to -dramatize G. K. Chesterton, since he often talks to himself, I should -have him soliloquize upon the stage. I might make it a double part -with two Mr. Chestertons dressed as the two Dromios. As a stage device -the soliloquy is only a confession of weakness on the part of the -playwright, and has been justly sentenced to death. - -Its only hope for a reprieve is to retain (at great expense) an -ex-president or an eminent K. C. who might argue that since the “fourth -wall” of a stage interior is removed in order that the audience may view -the actions of the players, it is therefore permissible to remove the -“fourth wall” of the players’ heads so that the audience may view the -action of their brains. - -And the ex-president or the eminent K. C. would probably “get away with -it.” - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -BUNK - - -When Alexander the Great cut with his sword the Gordian Knot, which had -baffled all his efforts to untie with honest fingers, it goes without -saying that his impudent performance received the applause of the -onlookers. - -As he stood there, his heavy sword still swaying from the impetus of the -stroke and exclaimed with a challenging glare at those before him (and -belike an apprehensive glance over his shoulder), “Did I or did I not -untie that knot?”—whatever might—nay, must have been the unspoken comment -that passed from eye to eye, the answer shouted in unison, was without a -shadow of a doubt the Phrygian equivalent of “You sure did!” - -For the Great God Bunk (whose worshipers are born at the rate of one -a minute) is as old as the world itself; and since we have it on good -authority that the world is a stage, even though we do not suspect him -of a hand in its making, we know the old rogue assisted at the first -dress rehearsal famous for all time for the smallness of the cast and the -inexpensiveness of the costuming. - -King Gordius, whose genius contrived the unpickable knot, is now -comfortably forgotten, while Alexander who destroyed what he could not -understand, still enjoys uneasy immortality; for what is immortality at -best but the suspended sentence of Oblivion? - -And the knot? The hempen hieroglyph that was never solved. When oblivion -has overtaken Alexander and even the name of Gordius is forgotten, the -world, which is surprisingly young for its age, will still babble -wonderingly of the knot that never was and never will be untied. - -Another high priest of the Great God Bunk was Christopher Columbus, and -on how frail a foundation rests his immortal fame—nothing more than the -fragile, calcareous container, (and fractured at that) of an unborn -domestic fowl. - -Unquestionably the fame of Columbus rests upon his impudent pretense -of balancing an egg by crushing it violently upon the table. To be -sure, Columbus also discovered America, but in that he was only one of -a multitude. At that moment in the world’s history the discovering of -America was, like golf, something between a sport and an obsession, -everybody was discovering America. So common was it, that only a few -of the discoverers are remembered by name, and had it not been for his -famous egg-balancing fraud the name of Christopher Columbus would surely -be among the forgotten ones. - -To balance an egg on its apex—though not impossible, is a tedious and -dispiriting task; and even if Columbus had accomplished it honestly -without fracturing the shell, so far from adding to his laurels he might -have lost them altogether. Queen Isabella would never have had the -patience to sit through so long and boresome a performance, and when the -Queen leaves, you know the performance is over. - -Indeed, it is quite thinkable that it was the dread of just such an -ending to his audience and the resultant stage fright reacting upon an -excitable sea-faring nature that caused Columbus to break the egg. - -The question now asks itself: Has Christopher Columbus, posing as a -clever impostor when in reality only a stage-frightened bungler, obtained -his fame under false pretenses? In unmasking his clandestine honesty do -we but prove him the greater fraud? Bunk only knows! - -Queen Dido of Carthage, on the other hand, came by her dishonesty quite -honestly—she inherited it from her royal father’s sister Jezebel. - -Yes, Jezebel, the patron sinner of half a world of womankind, was Queen -Dido’s aunt. Good or bad, what was her Aunt Jezebel’s was also Dido’s by -right of inheritance. And none of all the prophets of the Great God Bunk -was greater than this prophetess. - -Did she not for certain moneys receive the title to so much land as might -be compassed by the bigness of a bull’s hide. - -She did. - -Did she not then carve said bull’s hide into fine strips and therewith -enclose enough real estate for the foundation of the city of Carthage? - -She did. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE COST OF A PYRAMID - - -If you were suddenly asked, by way of a mental test, what particular -thing or person was most closely associated in your mind with the word -_strong_, you would probably say a giant or an ox unless you had been -listening to a sermon whose text was the sixteenth chapter of Judges, -thirtieth verse, in which case you would be more likely to say Samson, -but the typical example of physical strength, would hardly be an Onion. - -And yet the Onion, although, like the proverbial Prophet, it may be -without honor among its fellow vegetables, is regarded by at least one -human outsider as the giant and ox and Samson combined of the vegetable -world. - -Whatever your gastronomic leanings may be, let you not be tempted to -think lightly of the Onion. - -Though its name be unhallowed when it appears in vulgar consort with -Tripe, and its reek abhorrent in the habitations of the lowly, though it -be viewed with contempt as a poor relation by its kinsman the lily, the -Onion has a glorious past; it has a record of achievement that is second -to none; it was, as I shall presently show, chiefly due to the strength -of Onions that at least one of the great Egyptian Pyramids owed its -existence. Even Samson might envy the record of the Onion! - - * * * * * - -When I tell you that the Pyramids of Egypt, at any rate one of them, was -built by sheer vegetable strength, you may not believe me, but perhaps -you may believe the historian Herodotus. - -Herodotus found engraved on one of the Pyramids a complete record of the -exact number of onions, radishes and leeks supplied and consumed by the -workmen who piled its monstrous stones one upon the other.[1] - -And how were the Pyramids erected? By some forgotten mechanical farce? No. - -According to the late Cope Whitehouse, Engineer and Egyptologist, the -Pyramids were built from the apex downward over the conical hills that -abound in the locality, the interior of the hill being afterwards dug -away to form chambers and galleries. All of which was accomplished by the -unaided physical power of human muscles and sinews. - -And whence came this power? - -It was derived mainly from the vegetable energy of Onions, leeks and -radishes transmuted by the chemistry of digestion and assimilation to the -muscles and sinews of the slaves employed in building the Pyramid. - -Furthermore, Herodotus tells us that with the engraved record of the -onions, leeks and radishes consumed by the slaves, was also the -computation of their cost which amounted to 1,600 talents of silver, -this being the total cost of the vegetable fuel for operating the human -machinery employed in the construction of the Pyramid. - -And now let me ask you—what it is, this thing we call Scent, this -mysterious emanation which is the Love Message of the Rose, the Call of -the Sea, the Strength of the Onion? - -You don’t know? Neither do I, no more does anybody. - -Of all the five recording faculties which we human creatures share -with other animals, the sense of Smell is the most elusive, the most -penetrating. It apprises us of impending peril when all our other wires -of sensation are “busy” or “out of order” and incapable of giving us -warning. It has the mysterious power of reproducing through the “flash -back” we call memory the forgotten records of all of the other four -sense-films, and yet the scientists who can tell us all about light waves -and sound waves, and even make pictures of them, have very little to -say about the movement of the invisible bodies whose impact upon our -consciousness produces the sensation of smell. - -The terrific scent-energy hurled forth from the seemingly inexhaustible -storage battery of an Onion or a Tuberose is more of a mystery to our -men of science than is the composition of the crooked light waves from -the planet Mars or the height of the flames of the Corona, measured in a -solar eclipse. - -Even Dr. Einstein, to whom the movements of the heavenly bodies are as -simple as is a game of baseball to the average intellect, cannot tell us -whether the scent-atoms hurled from the Onion rush forth in an impeccable -tangent or are pitched in a hyperbolic curve. - -[1] _Herod._: 11, 125. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -WALTZING MICE AND DANCING MEN - - - “On some men the Gods bestow Fortitude, - On others a disposition for Dancing.” - -Thus the poet Hesiod, three thousand years ago, scored with vitriolic -antithesis the Dancing man of his day⸺ - -And of all the days, for like the poor (and no less deplorable) the -Dancing man is always with us. - -The gods had much to answer for in the days of Hesiod, and man had much -to put up with. Anything, good or evil, that befell him, from the measles -to melancholia—from fortitude to dancing—was a gift of the gods, wished -on him as a token of their high esteem, or otherwise. All man had to do -was to accept the gift, and, if it chanced to be boils, as in the case of -Job, he might be thankful it was nothing worse. - -Today we view a gift of the gods with distrust. Before giving thanks we -inspect it in the light of Science. We examine it (as a gift horse) in -the mouth. If it is a good gift, such as patience, or an aptitude for -cooking, we nurture and encourage it; if it is an undesirable gift, like -the measles, we eradicate it, or give it to someone else as quickly as -possible. - -Without knowing it, Hesiod uttered a scientific truth. - -That Fortitude and a Disposition to Dance are gifts of the gods is just -as true physiologically as it is poetically speaking. - -The Dancing man dances, the man of Fortitude faces a cannon—or a musical -comedy—because he is built that way. In other words, his behavior is due -to certain pathological structural conditions which are inherited. - -The behavior of the man of Fortitude is due to the poverty of cerebral -tissue in that part of the brain whose function it is to stimulate the -activity known as imagination. That is to say, he faces the cannon -without the least concern, because he can not imagine what it will be -like to have a cannon explode right in his face. - -What then are the pathological conditions in the brain of the Dancing -man that cause him to dance? Unfortunately for the cause of Science, the -brain of the true Dancing man is almost as rare a commodity as Radium. -In the United States alone there is scarcely more than a fraction of an -ounce of this elusive gray tissue. To procure even the minute quantity -necessary for experimental purposes would require the sacrifice of -thousands of Dancing men. This in these days of Antivivisection Hysteria, -is out of the question. - -Luckily for Science, there exists in the animal Kingdom another creature -afflicted with the same peculiar tendency to perpetual rotation as the -Dancing man. - -It is but one alliterative step from the Dancing man to the Dancing mouse. - -The restlessness and almost incessant movement in circles and the -peculiar excitability of the Dancing mouse is attributed by Rawitz, -the famous physiologist, to the _lack of certain senses which compels -the animal to strive through varied movements to use to the greatest -advantage those senses which it does possess_. - -Comparative physiologists have discovered that the ability of animals -to regulate the position of the body with respect to external objects -is dependent in a large measure upon the groups of sense organs which -collectively are called the ear. - -To quote Rawitz again: - -_The waltzing mouse has only one normal canal and that is the anterior -vertical. The horizontal and posterior vertical canals are crippled and -frequently they are grown together._ - -Panse, on the other hand, expresses his belief that there are unusual -structural conditions in the brain, perhaps in the cerebellum, to which -are due the dance movements. - -When the doctors disagree what are we going to do about it? - -For my part I am willing to leave it to Cicero— - -“_Nemo fere saltat sobrius, nisi forte insanit._” - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE HOBGOBLIN - - -There is a Hobgoblin that stalks in the path of the athletic young -writers of the day and frightens them almost out of their wits. - -The Hobgoblin is the third person singular, past tense, of the verb -“Say,” and his name is SAID. - -The Hobgoblin SAID does not stalk alone; with him stalk his sisters and -his cousins and his aunts, indeed, all the SAID family except old Gran’ma -QUOTH. Old Gran’ma QUOTH, who is much too old to stalk, stays at home and -dreams of the good old days when she was a verb of fashion, honored and -courted by all the greatest writers of the day. - -And when her grandchildren come home in the evening and tell how they -frightened the athletic young writers almost out of their wits, she -nearly bursts her old-fashioned stays, laughing at the drollery of it. -“Egad!” she cries. “An’ I were an hundred years younger, I’d like nought -better than to take a hand myself, and lay my stick about their backs, -the young whippersnappers!” - -And I for one, would like to see her do it. - -How the SAID family ever became professional Hobgoblins, I can not say. -All I know is that, once a hardworking and highly respected family, -suddenly they found themselves shunned. There was nothing left for them -but to become HOBGOBLINS. Now their only pleasure in life is to see what -funny antics they can make the athletic young writers perform in trying -to escape from them. - -And funny they certainly are. - -Here are a few specimens from some of our leading “best sellers”: - -“To think I have fallen to that!” _grated_ Gilstar with clenched teeth. - -“I get rather a good price,” Gilstar _dared_. - -“I’ll give you twenty-five dollars,” he _offered_ wildly. - -“What are your terms?” he _clucked_. - -But why bother about “best sellers,” when you can make almost as funny -ones at home? Here is a home-brewed one: - - “Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” - “I’m going to the Doctor’s, to ask his aid, - I caught a cold when I slept in the loft,” - “Sir,” she coughed, - “Sir,” she coughed, - “I’m going to the Doctor’s sir,” she coughed. - - “May I go with you, my pretty maid?” - “Oh, yes, indeed, if you’re not afraid - Of catching my cold, I shall be pleased,” - “Sir,” she sneezed, - “Sir,” she sneezed, - “Oh, yes, if you please, kind sir,” she sneezed. - - “Of catching your cold I have no fear, - For I’ll take no chances, my pretty dear!” - At this the maiden was sorely ruffled, - “Sir?” she snuffled, - “Sir?” she snuffled, - “What do you mean, kind sir,” she snuffled. - - “I mean I won’t kiss you, my pretty maid!” - “Nobody asked you, my smart young Blade!” - In her pocket-handkerchief, large and new, - “Sir!” she blew, - “Sir!” she blew, - “Nobody asked you, sir!” she blew. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE VOICE OF THE PUSSY-WILLOW - - -On the first of May I took a day off and used the telephone. It is best -to take a day off if you want to get a number these times, and the -number asked for was Spring one, nine, two, two—yes, Spring, Nineteen -Twenty-Two. “There’s no such number,” said Central; “what you want is -Winter 1921.” I assured her that was the last number in the world I -desired, and after a wait of an hour or so she gave me Blizzard 1888 on -a busy wire, comparing notes with Winter 1920, and I began to despair of -ever getting my number. - -I rang off and waited. I am a patient person, I waited a whole hour to -allow the wire to cool off. Then I called again and this time I was -rewarded by hearing at the other end of the wire a faint far-off, fuzzy, -mewing sound. - -It was the voice of the Pussy-Willow! - -It was Lawrence Sterne, wasn’t it? who wrote, “God tempers the wind to -the shorn lamb,” and it is quite a happy thought that the gentle airs -that succeed the blustering winds of March, are a Providential concession -to the tender nurslings of the April fields. - -But the Pussy-Willow comes in February and early March and it would -be asking too much to expect Providence to temper the wholesome and -necessary rigors of these months for the sake of the venturesome kittens -of the Willow bough. - -Who but Providence (or Mr. Hoover) could ever have thought of the happy -expedient of providing each and every Pussy-Willow, not only in the -United States but also in England, France, Belgium and even Germany, with -a warm fur overcoat! - -And I verily believe that if the Pussy-Willows were lodged on the cold -wet ground instead of perched on the high and dry branches, Providence -(or Mr. Hoover) would have seen to it that in addition to fur coats they -were provided with galoshes. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -PERNICIOUS PEACHES - - -The Pernicious Peaches whereof we speak are never out of season. They -may be seen almost any month of the year on the covers of magazines, -devoted to the moral and social uplift of young girls in general, and the -American young girl in particular. - -The February magazine peach crop is usually most abundant—All through the -merry month of Saint Valentine they hang on the news-stands, singly or -in clusters, and Peaches they are to be sure—Peaches in the stupidest, -cheapest, slangiest nonsense of the word. - -There they hang to quote the redundant Dr. Roget, F. R. S.—“_simpering, -smirking, sniggling, giggling, ogling, tittering, prinking, preening, -flaunting, flirting, mincing, coquetting, frivoling, attitudinizing, -self-conscious artificial, smug, namby-pamby, sentimental, unnatural, -stagy, shallow, weak, wanting, soft, sappy, spoony, fatuous, idiotic, -imbecile, driveling, blatant, babbling, vacant, foolish, silly, -senseless, addle-pated, giddy, childish, chuckle-headed, puerile_,” and, -what is above all else inexcusable in a peach—mushy. - -And these (in journals that set the fashions moral, mental, social and -sartorial) for our young American sister at the most impressionable age -of her life—the age when, whatever may be her dormant possibilities, -she is by her nature irresistibly impelled to pattern herself after -the favorite girl of her class in school, or the favorite actress on -the stage—to copy her coiffure, her dress, her deportment, even the -expression of her face. - -And how, you ask, can a young girl be harmed by imitating what, however -vacuous or silly, is after all only an expression? - -The answer is, that just as a persistent bend of thought modifies and in -time fixes the expression of the face, so a habitual expression (or lack -of expression) of face influences the bend of thought and, in time, fixes -the character. - -If you don’t believe this, dear girl, stand before your looking-glass and -smirk at yourself as hard as you can, until you look (as much as it is -possible for a human girl to look) like a magazine-cover Peach. Then try -to hold the “Peach” look while you recite: - - _The stars of midnight shall be dear_ - _To her; and she shall lean her ear_ - _In many a secret place_ - _Where rivulets dance their wayward round_ - _And beauty born of murmuring sound_ - _Shall pass into her face._ - -You see it’s impossible! You can’t do it, any more than you can stroke -your head up and down at the same time as you stroke your chest -sideways. Your mouth has come out of curl—the foolish light has gone out -of your eyes. Perhaps (if you really feel what you were reciting) you -look just the least bit solemn. If so, try to hold the solemn look while -you recite the following by a popular song writer: - - _Call me pet names dearest—_ - _Call me a bird_ - _That flies to my breast_ - _At one cherishing word,_ - _That folds its wild wings there_ - _Ne’er dreaming of flight,_ - _That tenderly sings there in loving delight._ - _Oh my sad heart keeps pining_ - _For one fond word,_ - _Call me pet names dearest,_ - _Call me a bird!_ - -By the time you have finished, your solemn reflection in the glass -will have changed to something almost as idiotic as the “peach” on the -magazine cover. - -Without question, the vulgar standards of expression these simpering -sirens are setting for the impressionable young girl of today will -degrade her just as surely as the wholesome, high-bred type of womanhood -evolved by Charles Dana Gibson improved and developed all that was best -in her sister of twenty years ago. - - * * * * * - -The theory that nature imitates art is much older than Oscar Wilde, -who (owing to the carelessness of Mr. Whistler) is supposed to have -originated it. - -It is so old that Mr. G. K. Chesterton any moment may rise to dispute it, -and announce to an astonished London that it is Art that imitates Nature; -nevertheless, Nature _does_ imitate Art. - -Is it possible that there is method in all this magazine madness? Is it -possible that these magazines being devoted (among other devotions) to -ladies’ attire, fear that too great an improvement in the female of -our species would divert her thoughts from the imbecilities of dress to -higher—and less profitable—things? - -Allah forbid! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -SECOND CHILDHOOD’S HAPPY HOUR - - -I sometimes ask myself (when there is no one else to pester) whether -the present tendency toward Primitivism, in Art, Religion, Government, -Conduct and Costume (everything in fact) may not be a sign that the world -is coming, if not already come, to its second childhood, and I invariably -answer myself in the affirmative. - -Second Childhood, as of course you know, is the “happy hour” of an old -age whose faculties have diminished to the exact degree that marks the -undeveloped mental and physical attributes of infancy. - -Take any baby—not your own, dear reader, yours is an exception I know, -but any common ordinary baby—and I think when you have examined it you -will agree with me that, judged by ultra-modern standards of culture, it -is the most decadent being on earth. - -To begin with, the baby’s sociological viewpoint is a mixture of -passionate pessimism and pure unmitigated Anarchism. - -Its musical output is a hysterical cacophony with all the exasperating -disregard of consonance and key characteristic of the up-to-date -composition. - -Its Plastic and Graphic Art (achieved through the accident of -the inverted Porridge bowl or the overturned inkwell) is the -Post-Impressionism of Matisse and Picasso, whose law is the Law of -Moses—“Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of -any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or -that is in the water under the earth.” - -The Literary Message of the baby is a combination of the styles of -Gertrude Stein, Carl Sandberg and an unassisted Ouija board and is only -to be interpreted through the medium of maternal intuition. - -And as for the Art Sartorial, are not the fashions feminine venturing -each successive season a little nearer to that of the newborn babe? - -“Well,” says I to myself, “supposing we admit that Modern Culture and -Infancy are identical in expression, and that the World is entering upon -its second childhood; what does it mean⸺ Is it the end of all things or -only a fresh start?” - -There you have me! I reply. There are some questions that even I cannot -answer. I give it up. - -If, as Dr. Einstein asserts, our planet has been receiving crooked -light-rays all this time, it is a very serious matter and there is no -knowing _what_ may come of it; certainly the Cosmic Light Company ought -to be investigated. But don’t be down-hearted, dear Reader, some day the -Einstein Amendment to the Law of Gravitation may be repealed, and made -retroactive into the bargain; it is all a matter of Relativity and it may -turn out that the Relativity-shoe is on the other foot and that it is the -Earth’s orbit that is on the blink and not the light rays at all. - -Perhaps Mr. G. B. Shaw will enlighten us—as a projector of crooked -light-rays, he ought to know something about it. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -PITY THE POOR GUEST OF HONOR - - -Once when marooned on a small island in the midst of a turbulent sea of -traffic, latitude Fifth Avenue, longitude Forty-second Street, I asked -the governor of the island, a man of great stature and kingly mien, what -he thought was the origin of the institution known as the Complimentary -Banquet. Checking with an imperious gesture a monstrous traffic wave that -seemed like to engulf us both the next moment, his voice came to me calm -and reassuring above the tumult that surged and roared about us. “If it’s -a wake you do be meaning, sorr, sure it’s as old as Ireland itself, it -is!” - -And the Traffic Cop was right. - -Nearly two thousand years ago Strabo, the Greek geographer, describing -the natives of Ivernia, wrote: “They are more savage than the English, -and enormous eaters, deeming it commendable to devour their deceased -relatives.” - -In this, probably the first reference in literature to the Irish wake, -the suggestion that the departed one contributed anything more than the -honor of his company must be taken with a grain of salt. Strabo was an -awful liar, and whole barrels of salt might be used on his “Geography” -without perceptibly affecting its flavor. In all probability the cannibal -touch was nothing more than an unseemly concession to the yellow taste of -the Attic metropolis. - -Nevertheless, though he never appeared on the menu, the “departed -relative,” the _sine qua non_ of all festive gatherings, was (as the -social instinct developed among the savage tribes) ever in increasing -demand, and it is to be feared that in smart Ivernian circles it was not -unusual to speed the departing relative in promoting the gaiety of an -otherwise dull season. - -Under such conditions it is hardly to be wondered at that in Ivernia, at -that period, personal popularity was the most unpopular thing imaginable, -and what more thinkable than that the reluctant candidate for a -complimentary dinner should feign for the occasion the grewsome condition -necessary for qualification. - -With the spread of Christianity, this irksome feat of mimicry on the part -of the Guest of Honor, at first a protective subterfuge, grew to be a -social convention. And irksome indeed it was. - -To feign at a banquet by the exercise of self-control a state of -unconsciousness, joyfully achieved by one’s fellow guests through more -convivial channels, was no task for the amateur. Then it was that, puffed -up, comatose, obese, along came the Professional Diner Out. And now, -after nearly two thousand years, what have we to show? - -Could the savage rite, described by Strabo, depressing as it must -have been, by any possibility be as gloomy as the Testimonial Banquet -of today? Is the Guest of Honor, sitting at the High Table feigning -unconsciousness, the miserable target for asphyxiating bombs of wit, -of anecdote, and of reminiscence—is he any less to be pitied than -the deceased relative of the Ivernian dinner? Yet we call ourselves -civilized; we think it barbaric to hang a fellow being for anything short -of murder. Why have we not equal consideration for the innocent Guest of -Honor? Why do we not dine him in effigy? - -Few of us have forgotten the outrage of 1912 when William Dean Howells -was dragged from his comfortable fireside by Col. Harvey, then the editor -of Harper’s Magazine, who deaf to his cries and entreaties, dined, wined -and flashlighted in the presence of a frenzied mob armed to the teeth -with knives, and forks and spoons. - -How much more humane to have dined Mr. Howells in effigy! A waxen image -simulating as far as possible the kindly features of the Great Novelist, -sitting in the place of honor, bowing, even smiling by means of some -ingenious mechanism! This, with a phonograph record of the graceful -speech of acknowledgment, and the ravening public would have gone home -happy and none the wiser. Thus with the dawn of a new era of Humanity, -one more chapter of the ponderous book of martyrs would be closed -forever. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -A NEW MONROE DOCTRINE - - -When Old Doctor Monroe discovered and patented his famous -anti-monarchical specific, warranted to prevent the spread of Effete -Despotism, Imperialitis and Throne Trouble, why didn’t he invent some -equally Reliable Nostrum to check the epidemic of Old World names that -was spreading like a blight of infantile paralysis among the thousands of -husky young cities then springing up all over the United States? Rome, -Syracuse, Troy, Thebes, Memphis, Ithaca, and a host of others, names dark -and ill ominous to chubby young cities with no evil traditions to live -down to, staining their bright banners with bloody blots and black bars -of sinister tradition where should only be the golden stars and crimson -bars of freedom. - -Indian names such as Oshkosh and Kankakee were to be had ready-made for -the asking; but they were few and for the most part too grotesque and -Asiatic sounding for the liking of a serious-minded young republic just -starting out in the city-raising business. - -But it is no easy task to find new names for cities, above all names that -are euphonious, and the last place one would expect to find them is the -Medical Dictionary. The names of diseases? And why should that deter us? -If a Rose by any other name will smell as sweet, surely a Rose with any -other smell will at least look and sound as pretty. Good Doctor Watts (or -was it Mr. Wesley?)[2] when adapting tunes for his new hymn-book answered -his critics by exclaiming, “Why should the devil have all the best -tunes!” - -Why, indeed! And by the same token, why should the Diseases have all the -prettiest sounding names? - -Try one on your city and see if you don’t like it. - -Has not Dyspepsia, Maine, an austere dignity about it that no old-world -city name could possibly confer? - -Neurasthenia, Kansas, on the other hand, brings up visions of shady -sidewalks, pleasant gardens, and glimpses through slender trees, of a -sun-kissed river. If your doctor should prescribe for you mountain air -and outdoor exercise would you not instantly buy a ticket to Colic, -Vermont? What more catchy name than Measles, Illinois, or Diphtheria, -Wisconsin? Stripped of medical association there is scarcely a name in -all the _materia medica_ that is wholly lacking in euphonistic charm. - -Why not bring the matter before a Special Session of Congress? Anything -is better than Persepolis and Pekin—even Tonsilitis, Missouri. - -[2] It was Martin Luther. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -DO CATS COME BACK? - - -Certain it is that Cats are disappearing; that is to say the common -friendly Tabbies and Tommies of the town we used to see doing their -morning marketing in the ash cans, or with whom we were wont to pass the -time of day in the neighboring door-yards. - -In the last week I have seen only two street cats and only one to speak -to, and that one was a stray orphan kitten who had been adopted by a -kind-hearted bookbinder; the other when I would have accosted her gave me -one strange look and vanished. - -I glanced hurriedly down at my shoes as my hands flew instinctively to -my necktie and hat, but the foot-gear were mates (of long standing) and -the hat and tie were each in its proper place; nothing was there about my -attire to shock the sensibilities of the most fastidious feline! - -What did it mean? No cat had ever treated me with such discourtesy -before. Then it was that I bethought me of how few of the feline -brotherhood or sisterhood I had seen abroad of late. - -Have they been carried off by an epidemic? Do cats catch influenza? or -catalepsy? Has the scrap-market been affected by the high cost of living? -Has the percentage of nutriment in the garbage can diminished to the -vanishing point? Have the mice struck for shorter hours? - -As I pondered thus at the corner of a lowly street, there tripped past my -line of vision a fur coat whose opulence and sheen made its background of -untidy brick and stone seem doubly dull and dingy. The motive power of -this unlikely pelt was (as far as could be seen) lisle thread and oxford -ties but I made no further note of the girl; my mind was fixed on the -coat—it was the third of its kind I had observed in as many minutes in -that mean street. - -A shiver ran through me; I had seen a ghost, a procession of ghosts. It -was as if a ouija board had suddenly screamed miaou! - -And they say cats come back. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE RUTHLESSNESS OF MR. COBB - - -One by one the idols of tradition go by the board. William Tell’s -Apple and Paul Revere’s Ride were long ago cast into the trash-basket -of Fiction; even Joan of Arc has been received into the mythology of -Sainthood, and now that hero of our happy childhood, Casablanca, the boy -who stood on the burning deck, is about to be snatched from us by that -reckless iconoclast, Mr. Irvin Cobb. - -Like the ruthless Woodman in the poem, Mr. Cobb has struck his axe into -the very roots of this revered tree of our childish belief⸺ - -According to Cobb, the Casabianca-tree is only a nut tree and a -horsechestnut tree at that. Writing in the _Saturday Evening Post_, -he tells us that Casabianca was nothing more than a “feeble-minded -leatherhead.” If that be so then Barbara Frietchie was a leatherhead, -and Edith Cavell, and all the host of those who gave up or were ready to -give up their lives for that purely imaginary thing, an ideal, and what -_could_ the blessed Evangelist have been thinking of when he wrote “_He -that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal._” -John 12:25. - -Exactly two thousand years ago when the city of Pompeii was destroyed -by an eruption of Mount Vesuvius, a Roman sentinel, another idol of -tradition just such a leatherhead as Casablanca, refused to desert his -post and was burned to death for the very foolish reason that he was “on -duty.” He is there to this day, standing “at attention,” in the shape of -a cast made from the matrix of molten lava that enveloped his living -body and you may call him a leatherhead if you like, but the memory of -his leatherheadedness will endure when sensible people like you, dear -reader, and me and Mr. Cobb are forgotten. - - * * * * * - -Nevertheless there are two sides to every question, and it is quite -possible that Casabianca may have been a perfectly sensible lad, whose -only thought was to disobey his captain and desert his post, but the tar -melting from the heat in the seams of the deck, and adhering to his feet -caused him to stick to the ship. Be that as it may, _I_ shall stick to -Casabianca! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -MY LAKE - - -Mr. Finchsifter has compared my Lake to a gleaming sapphire reposing on a -corsage of emerald green plush. - -I have never seen Mr. Finchsifter’s wife—I do not even know that -Finchsifter is married, but since the emerald plush bosom of his poetic -fancy, stands for miles and miles of heaving Pines and fluttering Laurels -and Finchsifter stands barely four feet six in his stockings, by all the -laws of natural selection the human embodiment of his Brobdingnagian -simile, must be either Mrs. Finchsifter or some not impossible Eve of a -Finchsifter dream Paradise. A colossal counterpart (I picture her), of -the waxen Demi-Goddess in the Finchsifter show window displaying with -revolving impartiality on a faultless neck and bosom the glittering -treasures of India, Africa, Peru, Mexico and Maiden Lane. - -To be strictly truthful, I do not know that Mr. Finchsifter’s show window -can boast such a waxen deity as I have described; indeed for all I know -he possesses neither a show window nor the merchandise to advertise -in such a window, but I have as the saying is, a “hunch” that Mr. -Finchsifter’s imagery as applied to my Lake is based on something more -than a mere academic interest in the adornment, textile or lapidarious of -the human form. - -And my Lake—in the first place it is not my Lake (but of that later), -neither does it resemble a sapphire any more than the Pines and Laurels -on its bank (save that when agitated they heave or flutter) resemble a -green plush corsage. - -If I were asked for an image, I should compare my Lake to an -India-rubber band rather than to a sapphire. In form an elongated -ellipse, it possesses an elasticity of circumference that is little short -of miraculous. - -The boastful pedestrian, glowing from his early morning trot around its -shore will tell you it is a good ten miles. - -The persistent swain, scheming to lure his Heart’s Desire, high heeled -and reluctant, to the amorous shades of “Lover’s Landing,” tells her, -upon his honor, that it is not more than a mile all the way round. To be -precise, the distance round my Lake is something between a stroll and a -“constitutional”—or to put it relatively about what the circumambulation -of an ocean liner’s deck would be to an athletic inch worm. - -As I said before, my Lake is not my Lake. It is nobody’s Lake. Not a -human habitation profanes its bosky shores. The only beings that make -even a pretense of ownership are five starch-white swans that patrol -it from morning till night, turning fitfully this way and that and -probing its depths and shallows with their yellow bills as if seeking -for the missing Deed of title. On certain days when the diamond Lake -is still, and the Pine and Laurel corsage is untroubled by a tremor, -the starch-white company is doubled by five ghostly “understudies” who -reflect their whiteness curve for curve and feather for feather with a -fidelity of inversion that may find its match only in the art of a Shaw -or a Chesterton. - -It was on such a day as this that I met Mr. Finchsifter. I had completed -the circuit of the Lake and leaving the wooded path that skirts its -shore ascended through the woods to the level ground above, where on the -further side of a well kept automobile road rises the lofty iron grille -that engirdles for miles the country seat of Barabbas Wolfe, the Sausage -King, typifying at once, by the safe deposit-like thickness of its bars -and the view-inviting openness of its scrollwork, the innate love of -show, tempered by newly acquired exclusiveness of a lord not to the -manor born. - -Gazing, in beady eyed appraisal at the neat but somewhat constricted -Italian garden to which the railing at this point invited the eye—stood -Finchsifter. - -In this crowded jungle of spotless stone Lions, tomblike seats and -arches backed by California privet and immature cypresses there was an -irreverent suggestion of the Villa D’Este done into American slang. - -He turned hearing my step, “Where is it I have seen it—before?” - -“In the movies perhaps”—I ventured. - -“That’s it! Thank you very much!” he exclaimed. “I knew I had seen it -somewhere!” - -After ascertaining my name in reluctant payment for the unsolicited -tender of his own he continued, “but the Lions show better in the -‘pictures’ don’t they? Why didn’t they get them with moss already.” - -“With moss?” I queried. - -“Sure!” said Finchsifter. “Didn’t you know such a stone Lion comes also -with the moss, the same as the genuine old antique furniture comes with -the real hand-made worm-holes!” - -I remembered guiltily how on the occasion of my last visit to Lake towers -when asked by Mrs. Barabbas Wolfe, what I thought of her marble Lions, I -had exclaimed with truthful enthusiasm “Wonderful! But my dear lady _how_ -do you keep them so clean?” - -We walked on together, and though avoiding as we did so the physical -proximity of my Lake we could not exclude it wholly from our conversation. - -It was a passing glitter of the water caught through the pines below us -at a turn in the road that inspired the Diamond-plush simile from which -try as I may, I shall never be able to dissociate the image of my Lake. - -Greatly to my surprise I found myself becoming interested in Finchsifter, -and during the luncheon which followed our return to my Bungalow and -the dinner that evening at his hotel, we laid what promised to be the -foundation of a lasting friendship. - -To be sure he was a man of many words, but the words of Finchsifter were -well trained words, old family servants that knew their places and never -presumed, or took liberties with the listener. - -If a reply or comment were imperative—an adjective caught at random gave -instant clue to what had gone before—even as a single toe joint restores -to the naturalist the forgotten form of the Iohippus. - -Finchsifter was a mental rest cure, his talk was soothing as a verbal -brain massage. I conceived that one might form the Finchsifter habit, -in time even become a slave to it as men become slaves to cocaine, -Psychoanalysis, or Taxicabs. - -But this was not to be. - -As a would-be suicide has been turned from his purpose by the chill of -the water into which he has plunged—so it was by Finchsifter himself -that I was cured of the Finchsifter habit. - -It was on the occasion of our second meeting, appointed at the suggestion -of Finchsifter that we take our matutinal walk around the Lake in each -others company. - -He greeted me with a delighted smile, exclaiming as he took my hand in -both of his very new saffron gloves. - -“I have a great idea found—!—You are a poet? yes? Then you know all about -this Free Verse which I read always about in the magazines? Perhaps you -can yourself make it? Yes?” His face fairly shone with the inner flame of -his project. - -I found myself harkening against my will. What possible interest could -Finchsifter have in verse of any kind—let alone free verse. “This will -never do,” I reflected. “If he compels me to listen—then we shall cease -to be friends—I came here to rest. I might as well take the first train -back to New York!” Finchsifter was still talking. Eyeing me keenly as if -mentally debating my trustworthiness—he continued: “If it is sure enough -Free, then it don’t cost nothing.” - -“What are you talking about?” I said, recalled abruptly from my own -thoughts. - -“Free verse!” cried Finchsifter. “That’s my scheme!—but don’t you tell -it—It is between only ourselves—fifty-fifty—we split everything—_we_ -create the demand—we corner the supply, you and me together corner all -the free verse in the United States—in this world for that matter and -sell it for—” Again he hesitated—“If I might ask it—about what does a -Poet get for such a little piece of poetry? The kind that is not free. A -piece so long I mean.”—He measured a sonnet’s width of air between his -thumb and fore-finger—“what do you get for that much?” I told him what -the magazines pay me. - -“What! A dollar a line! Gott in Himmel! we make a fortune! That’s what -I tell Rebecca—If we corner all the free verse in the United States -and sell it for no more as five cents a line—we make our fortune! but -a dollar a line!—Himmel!”—he fairly danced for ecstasy and then it -was I made the discovery, by which I lost if not a Fortune at least a -Finchsifter. - -I stood still as the tide of words with its flotsam of tossing gestures, -continued—I heard nothing. I only waited for Finchsifter to subside. - -“Am I right!” He gasped at length with what by every law of supply and -demand should have been his latest breath. - -“I don’t know what you’re talking about”—I replied angrily. “All I know -is we’re walking the wrong way.” - -“What do you mean the wrong way?” said Finchsifter. - -“The wrong way round the Lake that’s what I mean!” - - * * * * * - -I don’t know how long we stood there arguing the question, I only know -that his mind was inaccessible to reason, persuasion—even bribery, for, -as a last resort, I offered to give him a list of all the best free -verse writers in America if he would only listen to reason—nothing would -move him—Finchsifter had always walked round the lake from right to left -and always would—and what I said about his rubbing its precious plush -corsage the wrong way of the nap was all rot. - -I turned on my heel and left him. Half an hour later when we met at -Lover’s Landing which is exactly half way round the Lake we passed -without speaking. - -And now I must wait each day until Finchsifter has taken his walk from -right to left round my Lake, taking my walk (from left to right) in the -chill of the evening to pacify the tutelary Goddess by smoothing back her -green plush corsage, which has been rubbed the wrong way by Finchsifter. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE HUNDREDTH AMENDMENT - - -After the passage of the Ninety-eighth Amendment making it a misdemeanor -to “_manufacture, sell, own, possess, purchase, nurse, dandle or -otherwise caress or display that effigy of the infant form commonly -known as a Doll_” … the abolition of that feathered symbol of vicarious -maternity, the Stork, followed as a matter of course. - -The passage of the Anti-Stork Bill or, to be more accurate, the -Ninety-ninth Amendment, thanks to the tenacity and tact of President -John Quincy Epstein, was the most expeditious piece of legislation put -through by the hundred and fifth Congress. - -It must not be forgotten, however, that the introduction of lectures on -obstetrics into the curriculum of the kindergartens had done much to -educate the child vote and that at the time the fate of the Stork was -hanging in the balance, that once esteemed Bird of Prurient Evasion was -already becoming unpopular and well on its way to join the Dodo. - -And now the department of government devoted to the cause of Infant -Uplift, having abolished the Mock-Offspring and settled the fate of the -Bird of Nativity, cast about for some new Field of Endeavor. - -And what more fitting than that they should light upon that hoary old -imposter masquerading under the several aliases Santa Claus, Saint -Nicholas, Kris Kringle, and Father Christmas? - -At once the Propaganda was started. - -Press agents were engaged, lecture tours arranged, magazines subsidized. - -No matter what it might cost, this “Vulture gnawing at the Palladium of -Infant Emancipation” must be destroyed!! - -Santa Claus, once, in the memory of living men and women, adored by -children and winked at by their parents, was now branded as an imposter, -a mountebank, a public nuisance, and a perverter of infant intelligence. - -Santa Claus was an outlaw from the Commonwealth of Reason. - -It was “thumbs down” for Santa! - -It may be well to explain right here (since none of the events chronicled -in this History has yet happened) that the movement for the Emancipation -and Self-Determination of Infants, which has now taken such great -strides, had its initiation in the presidential term of Miles Standish -Sovietski when Congress extended the franchise to every child over five -years of age who had made any serious contribution to literature or -higher mathematics. - -It was in the same year that President Sovietski signed the Sixty-fourth -Amendment to the Federal Constitution, prohibiting the publication of -fairy tales, and Congress suspended the Limitation-of-Search Act in order -that private libraries and nurseries might be raided without warning and -all copies of the forbidden works summarily seized and destroyed. - -Simultaneously with the federal enactment, the states of Washington, -Illinois, Nevada, and Oregon, ever in the advance of any great -intellectual movement, passed laws prohibiting “_the personification -or representation, public or private, in theatre, music hall, club -house, lodge, church fair, schoolhouse, or private residence, of any -supernatural, fairy, or otherwise mythical person or persons or fraction -thereof_.” - -The passing of a Constitutional Amendment was now an almost every-day -occurrence. Indeed, since the ratification of the Forty-fourth Amendment -prohibiting the use of sarsaparilla as a beverage (coffee and tea had -been legislated out of existence five years earlier) the enactment of -a new Amendment excited little or no comment. Even the Seventy-ninth -Amendment forbidding “_the use of caviar, club sandwiches, and buttonhole -bouquets, except for medicinal purposes_,” received only casual notice in -the Metropolitan Dailies. - -The twentieth century was rapidly nearing its close and the political -apathy that for fifty years had been gradually benumbing the Public -morale now threatened to paralyze completely what little still remained -of courage and initiative. - -Even the latest work of Bernard Shaw, “A Bird’s-Eye View of the -Infinite,” published (with a five volume preface) on Mr. Shaw’s hundred -and fortieth birthday, aroused so little resentment that his projected -visit to the United States had to be abandoned, in spite of the fact that -“Bean and Soup o’Bean,” written only a week earlier, was acknowledged to -have contributed largely to the triumph of the Seventy-ninth Amendment, -making Vegetarianism compulsory in the United States. - -The Hundredth Amendment passed quickly though the earlier stages of -routine and perfunctory debate without any appreciable sign of anything -approaching popular protest. - -Here and there a guarded expression such as “Poor old Santa! I’m sorry -he’s got to go!” was voiced, in the privacy of a club, by some elderly -gentleman. Nothing more. - -Somewhere, behind Somebody, was a Power that directed and guided—perhaps -threatened. Nobody knew who or what or where it was or in what manner -it worked, but work it did and to such purposes that, after a scant -week of cut and dried speech-making that deceived no one, the Amendment -was submitted unanimously by both houses of Congress and the foregone -conclusion of ratification was all that remained to make the abolition of -Santa Claus an accomplished fact. - -Then, inevitably as fish follows soup, followed the ratification. - -The Hundredth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, -prohibiting Santa Claus, slipped through the ratification process like an -oil prospectus in a mail chute. There was only one hitch, Rhode Island, -but since Rhode Island had refused to ratify a single one of the last -Seventy-nine Amendments, her action was accepted as part of the program -and a proof of unanimity. - -So Santa Claus was abolished? - -Not so fast please!—Who’s writing this History anyway? - - * * * * * - - ’Twas the night before Christmas - And in the White House - Not a creature was stirring - Not even a * * * * * - -For the benefit of the clever reader who may have guessed the word left -out in the last line of the above quatrain, I will explain that the -asterisks are used in obedience to a clause of the Ninety-first Amendment -prohibiting, both in speech and print, the use of the word * * * * * -which, as the political emblem of the Free People’s Party (now happily -defunct), came into such contempt that it was made a misdemeanor “_to -print, publish, own, sell, purchase, or consult any book, pamphlet, -catalogue, circular, or dictionary containing the word * * * * *_” It -has been estimated that over eighty million dollars’ worth of Century -and Standard dictionaries were destroyed in the first year of this -Amendment’s operation. The loss in Nursery Rhymes, children’s books, and -Natural Histories is beyond computation. - -But to return to the White House. - -President John Quincy Epstein had retired to his study on the second -floor shortly before midnight, taking with him the engrossed copy of the -Hundredth Amendment which now only required his Spencerian signature to -expunge the name of Santa Claus forever from the American speech and -language as utterly and irrevocably as the forbidden word * * * * *. - -The hours passed in a perfectly orderly manner, like school children at -a fire drill—_one, two, three, four_—without pushing or jostling—_five, -six, seven, eight_—(don’t you think history is much more interesting in -the form of a simple “Outline” like this than spun out in the common -manner?)—_nine, ten_—! At eleven o’clock the door of the President’s -study was burst open by the order of the Vice President, Rebecca -Crabtree, now, by a sudden and mysterious stroke of Fate, herself become -the President of the United States. - -For John Quincy Epstein was dead. - -How or just when he died will never be known. Always a cold, forbidding -(not to say prohibiting) man, his body when found was still cold—if -anything colder; his watch which should have marked the exact moment of -his demise, was ticking merrily, so the exact moment will forever remain -unrecorded. - -But Santa Claus still lives and will live forever! - -On the massive gold-inlaid-with-ivory desk (a Christmas gift from the -United Department Stores of America), lay a paper, inscribed, and signed -in the President’s handwriting, and sealed with his official seal. - -It was the presidential veto of the Hundredth Amendment; and by virtue -of a clause in Amendment Thirty-three “_no Constitutional Amendment -vetoed by the President shall ever be resubmitted to the country nor any -fraction thereof_—” - -Santa Claus will live forever! Hurray for Santa Claus! - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -SAY IT WITH ASTERISKS - - -A vague and terrifying science, astronomy! Only as a subdued though -highly decorative lighting effect can I regard the stellar pageant with -equanimity. - -To be sure I have learned to locate the Dipper and Orion and Cassiopeia’s -Chair and a few other popular favorites, but this painful knowledge -was acquired solely for its conversational value on summer evenings at -week-end, house or yachting parties. - -Beyond that, all I know about the science of astronomy could be as -accurately demonstrated with the perforations of a colander, held up -to the light, as on the most perfect star map in the Encyclopedia -Britannica. If the truth must be told, I much prefer Asterisks. - - * * * * * - -With a moon and a mariner’s compass and a good road map or chart, the -traveler by land or sea can get along very well without the stars, but -in the trackless mazes of literature and art, how would the wandering -Philistine fare without Asterisks? An anthology or guide of any kind -without Asterisks would be as unthinkable as a Dalmatian dog without -spots or a red-headed boy without freckles. - -Imagine yourself in the city of Berlin with a de-stellated Baedeker. -You would make Moses-when-the-light-went-out look like a torchlight -procession! - -Not that I cite Herr Karl Baedeker as the model of stellar perfection. -Too many stars may prove as demoralizing as too many cooks. Even that -guide, topographer and friend of the tourist is at times bewildering, if -not misleading. - -On page 133 of Baedeker’s Berlin, “_Furniture From the Boudoir of Queen -Marie Antoinette_” has two stars, ** while “_Elijah in the Desert_,” on -page 108, has, in addition to all his other troubles, to worry along with -one star. - -And that is not the worst of it. - -On page 163, “_a well-preserved Archæopteryx in Solnhofen slate_,” to me -by all odds the most interesting object in Berlin, has no star at all! * -* * - -But no matter how annoying it is, you must never blame the Asterisks. -They only did as they were told and stood where Herr Baedeker placed -them and, if they did wrong, Herr Baedeker alone was responsible. A good -writer—or editor—is good to his Asterisks, and when he puts them in a -false position we must make due allowance. - -If Asterisks could combine and form a protective union, there might be -some hope for them, but a flair for collective bargaining is not in their -nature. That being the case, I suggest the establishment of a Federal -Licensing Bureau empowered to investigate the qualifications of would-be -employers of Asterisks and issue or withhold licenses accordingly. - -And it is high time something were done about it. - -Only lately there has been brought to my notice a case of so flagrant -a nature that, were there such an institution as a Society for the -Prevention of Cruelty to Asterisks, I should feel it my duty to call -their attention to it. - -To come down to brass tacks, as the saying is, the flagrant case of -cruelty to Asterisks, to which I refer, consists of a fat book, called -“The Best Short Stories of 1921.” Edited by Edward J. O’Brien—Published -by Small Maynard. - -Never, I think, were a mob of overworked employees so pitifully huddled -together in an ill-ventilated factory as are the Asterisks in this -Sweatshop of Twaddle. - -The Sweatshop proper—if a Sweatshop may be so qualified—is situated -in the rear of the book, occupying about a fifth of its volume, and -consists of: - -A Bibliographical Roll of Honor of American Short Stories for 1920 and -1921 in which “_the best stories are indicated by an Asterisk_.” - -A Roll of Honor of Foreign Short Stories in American Magazines in which -“_Stories of special excellence are indicated by an Asterisk_.” - -Volumes of short stories published in the United States. “_An Asterisk -before a title indicates distinction._” - -Volumes of short stories published in England and Ireland. “_An Asterisk -before a title indicates distinction._” - -Volumes of Short Stories published in France. “_An Asterisk before a -title, etc._” Follows then a list of articles on the Short Story and last -of all An Index of Short Stories in Books, and here the Asterisks are -forced to work overtime and Mr. O’Brien’s English gets a bit sloppy. He -says: - -“_Three Asterisks prefixed to a title indicate_ the more or less -permanent _literary value of the story_.” - -“More or less permanent” reminds me of an advertisement I once saw in a -street car: “Face Powder makes your complexion _more irresistible_.” Is -it possible that Mr. O’Brien wrote it? - -In the division entitled Magazine Averages, Mr. O’Brien comes another -cropper with “_Three Asterisk stories are of_ somewhat permanent -_literary value_.” Again, in the introduction, “_Sherwood Anderson -has made this year once more the_ most permanent _contribution to the -American Short Story_.” - -Mr. O’Brien’s invention of varying degrees of permanence is an important -contribution to science and entitles him to receive at the very least the -Order of the Golden Asterisk of the Second Class with Palms. - - * * * * * - -Such, in brief, is the Sweatshop in the rear where the toiling -Asterisks labor in weary shifts of one, two and three, pounding out -asinine averages and percentages of permanency and near-permanency and -plu-permanency with a zeal that would do credit to the framer of a -Volstead Act. - -Now let us walk round to the front of the Factory, where in his cosy -business office which he calls the “Introduction” the Foreman of the -works, Mr. Edward J. O’Brien, will tell us in the airy argon of the shop -all about the Fictional Flivvers—in which he is a second-hand dealer—how -they are made, what they are worth and, if permanent, just how long their -permanence will last. - -As Foreman O’Brien warms up to his subject he will describe in vitally -pulsating phrases that would drive a movie writer mad with envy, the -convulsion of Nature that attended the birth of the American Short Story. -“_The ever-widening seething maelstrom of cross currents thrusting into -more and more powerful conflict from year to year the contributory -elements brought to a new American culture by the dynamic creative -energies, physical and spiritual, of many races_.” - -All of which speechifying translated into plain talk conveys the -astounding information that the hooch of American Fiction is being brewed -in the much-advertised Melting Pot! Well, why couldn’t he say so and be -done with it? - -Speaking of the Anglo-Saxon he says: “_The Anglo-Saxon was beginning -to absorb large tracts of other racial fields of memory and to share -the experience of Scandinavian and Russian and German and Italian and -Polish and Irish and African and Asian members of the body politic._” The -Melting Pot again! What did I tell you! Continuing, Mr. O’Brien describes -the process of fermentation as a new chaos set up by tracts of remembered -racial experience interacting upon one another under the tremendous -pressure of our nervous, keen and eager civilization. He doesn’t explain -exactly how a thing so completely lacking in the elements of design as -a chaos should be “set up” to get the best results. All he tells us is -that fresh chaos is good material for American literature, and that our -Mr. Anderson and others are very busy in a half unconscious way, trying -to make “worlds” out of it. - -By “worlds” I take it Mr. O’Brien means something vast and vague and -“_vitally compelling_” and “organic” that our Mr. Anderson and others -will fuse into American Fiction “_in artistic crucibles of their own -devising_.” - -On the whole, things look pretty bright for the American Short Story, -what with the “fresh living current which flows through the best American -work, and the Psychological and imaginative reality which American -writers have conferred upon it,” and the “seething maelstrom of cross -currents,” and the “dynamic creative energies,” and above all the -_chaos_, the great American Chaos—fresh—unlimited—inexhaustible—ripe -for the “artistic crucible,” in which it is soon to be fused into a new -cosmos of “organic fiction” by the White Headed Boy of the Western World. - - * * * * * - -On the other hand, how gloomy the outlook pictured by Mr. O’Brien for the -Englishman and the Scotchman and the Irishman! “Living at home—writing -out of a background of racial memory and established tradition.” It -fairly gives me the shivers. No wonder their fiction lacks compelling -vitality! - -But wouldn’t you think that with all the Chaos lying round loose in -Europe these days, the Scotchman at least would grab enough of it to -create a bonnie new world of vitally compelling fiction for himself? -That’s what I thought, but it seems I thought wrong. The Foreign Chaos -differs from the Domestic variety in that it is “an end rather than a -beginning, a Chaos in which the Tower of Babel had fallen.” - -Once more, to translate the O’Brien speechifying into speech—for the -benefit of readers who are not movie fans—the American brand of Chaos is -fresh and the European Chaos is stale. - -The elemental principles underlying all forms of creation are the same, -whether you are creating a short story or a buckwheat cake. The same -dynamic laws must be obeyed. - -You may have the very best possible formula for the creation of a -buckwheat cake and the best crucible—I mean the most artistic frying pan -that can be bought; but unless the contributory elements of heat, butter -and eggs are physically and spiritually beyond reproach, your buckwheat -cake will be a failure. - -So, too, you may have the most perfect recipe for a short story—from -Mr. O’Brien’s own book—and you may have the most vitally compelling -Psychology—straight from the farm—but if your Chaos be of the European -cold-storage brand instead of the “strictly fresh,” or, better still, -“new-laid” domestic variety, your Short Story will be—like most of those -in Mr. O’Brien’s collection—quite unfit for human consumption. - - * * * * * - -That Mr. O’Brien is a scientist of the first rank has been amply proved -by his startling invention of comparative Permanence—see Roll of -Honor—but, though it is interesting to know that by the use of Asterisks -what was once believed to be the essential characteristic of Permanence -can be modified, I doubt if half of one per cent Permanence will ever -become popular. - -But Mr. O’Brien has made another and more practical contribution to -science. - -He has computed by means of Asterisks, that thirty-eight short stories by -American authors “would not occupy more space than five novels of average -length.” - -What a priceless boon to the budding author about to embark upon his -first short story! - -All he has to do is to borrow five novels of average length, cut out the -pages and divide the total number into seven equal piles, each one of -which will be seven and three-fifths of the total pile. - -Six of these piles he may throw away or return to the friends who loaned -them—or the Public Library, as the case may be. He must then take the -seventh pile and placing the pages end to end on the floor—the roof of -the house will do if the floor be too small—and procuring a strip of -paper of exactly the same length, begin the Story at one end and continue -writing until he reaches the other end. - -This will insure the work’s being of the right length for an American -Short Story, and, if Mr. O’Brien’s other two conditions as to “form and -substance” are properly fulfilled, the Story will be quite all right -and may be published—with three Asterisks—in the Roll of Honor for the -following year. - - * * * * * - -The luncheon hour at the O’Brien Sweatshop is devoted to an Efficiency -Drill of all the Asterisks employed. - -The Drill lasts an hour and is designed to keep the Asterisks in perfect -physical condition for their arduous work. - -First, there is a grand march of Asterisks in varying formations of ones, -twos and threes. This is followed by running matches and exhibitions of -high jumping, wrestling and leaping through hoops. - -An exciting game of Roll of Honor closes the exercises. - -This is the most violent exercise of all and consists of rolling -blindfold down an inclined plane and landing in a huge pile of short -stories. - -The Asterisk that picks up the best Short Story, receives as a reward an -honorable mention in the Annual Report. - - * * * * * - -There have been many unkind things said about the late-lamented year -Nineteen Twenty-One, but after inspecting this work of Edward J. -O’Brien’s I am inclined to think that the title proclaiming it to be -a collection of Nineteen Twenty-One’s best Short Stories, is the most -slanderous statement of them all. It is enough to make even the Statue -of Liberty blush! - -In no English-speaking country is the Short Story such a recognized -feature of everyday social intercourse as it is in America. - -It is almost impossible for two Americans to meet anywhere or at any time -of the day or night without an exchange of Short Stories. Sometimes the -form of the telling is good, sometimes bad. More often it is very bad -form indeed, but two things the Story must have—to “get over”—substance -and brevity. - -The same two things are demanded in the written story. I do not include -Form, because Form is essential to Brevity. Artistic Brevity cannot be -achieved without Form. - -Substance, to paraphrase the Bard, is such stuff as Stories are made on. -It must be of good weave, or the story will not hold together. - -Some of the Stories in the O’Brien collection are of a rotten fabric, -others, while well woven, have a most disagreeable pattern. Others again -are dyed with imported dyes from Kipling, Conrad and Company. At least -one of the stories has no fabric at all, but the weaver—like the Weaver -in the Fairy Tales—has gone through the motions of weaving so plausibly, -not to say impudently, that many, like Mr. O’Brien, are deceived by it. - -Mr. O’Brien, defining Substance, tells us that it amounts to nothing -unless it be organic substance “_in which the pulse of life is beating_.” -Thereby he admits that Substance is Stuff, but insists that it must be -Live Stuff! - -Mr. O’Brien is mistaken; in one of the finest Short Stories ever written -the Substance of the Story is a Shadow! - -The Story is by “Anderson.” - -What, _our_ Mr. Anderson? - -Great Heavens, no! Hans Christian Andersen. - - * * * * * - -I have not the space to speak in detail of more than one of the Stories -in Mr. O’Brien’s collection, nor will it be necessary; one specimen of -the deadly _Amonita Bulbosa_ in a mess of mushrooms is enough to justify -the partaker thereof in damning the whole dish, if he live to express -any opinion at all; so, if in a collection that claims to be composed of -“Best Short Stories” I find one that is very bad in both Substance and -Form, indeed so bad in Substance that it hardly deserves to be called a -Story at all, I may surely, with perfect justice, damn the whole book as -being false to its title and not what it pretends to be. - -But in censuring Mr. Anderson’s story “Brothers,” I am not so much -criticizing the author as admonishing the compiler of “The Best Stories” -for the gross misuse of an Asterisk. - -One does not have to be an officer of the S. P. C. A. to rebuke a truck -driver who is abusing a horse that is hitched to a truckload of junk that -is much too heavy for it. - -By the same token, I do not pose as a critic when I take Mr. O’Brien to -task for hitching an Asterisk to Sherwood Anderson’s story, “Brothers.” - -I should not have noticed the Anderson load of junk, but for the -stupidity of its driver, which annoys me. - -It is no way to treat an Asterisk. - - * * * * * - -The kindest thing that can be said of “Brothers” is that its inclusion in -a collection of American Short Stories puts it in a false position. It is -unmistakably American—the mark of the “Melting Pot” is all over it—and I -suppose it is Short, though it takes a lot of patience to read it, but it -is _not_ a story in the accepted sense of the word. - -It starts nowhere, it does nothing and it gets nowhere, reminding one -vaguely of the three Japanese monkeys who see nothing, hear nothing and -say nothing. - -To apply the O’Brien test, it has no Substance. The weaver went through -the motions of weaving, but he wove nothing. There is no “stuff” here. - -Neither has it Form. The material—such as it is—is not shaped “into -the most beautiful and satisfying form by skillful selection and -arrangement.” That is to say, it violates Mr. O’Brien’s own rule. - -If I were asked to give the thing a name, I should say that “Brothers” -is a sort of cross between a very dull parody of one of G. S. Street’s -“Episodes” and a grimy but ambitious newspaper “story” touched up with a -dash of that old-fashioned freak of lap-dog literature known as the “Poem -in Prose,” much petted by Turgenieff in the early eighties, a vehicle—if -one may be permitted to change similes in midstream—in which you pay as -you enter and as you leave, both. - -You pay as you enter with a soddenly self-conscious rhapsody in G minor, -and you pay as you leave with a tiresome repetition of the same. - -When a Story of the O’Brien school begins like that, you feel sure it is -going to lead to something disgusting and you are seldom disappointed, -certainly not in this instance. - -It is a sort of elegy on the falling leaves. - -Mr. Anderson almost weeps for pity of the falling leaves. Listen to the -patter of the Andersonian tears: - -“* * * the yellow, red and golden leaves fall straight down heavily. The -rain beats them brutally down. They are denied a last golden flash across -the sky. In October, leaves should be carried away, out over the plains, -in a wind. They should go dancing away.” - -You have a feeling as you read this, that Mr. A. rather fancies it -himself. You can almost hear him say: “I do this fallen-leaf stuff rather -well, if you know what I mean!” and since it is the only pretty bit in -the Story, you hardly blame him for repeating it at the end. - -For my part, I am suspicious; I am not from Missouri, but, nevertheless, -I require to be shown. - -I ask myself: “Is Mr. Anderson sincere?” - -I read further on, and I find that he is not. - -This is what I read: - -“* * * His arms tightened about the body of the little dog so that it -screamed with pain. I stepped forward and tore the arms away, and the dog -fell to the ground and lay whining. No doubt it had been injured. Perhaps -ribs had been crushed. The old man stared at the dog lying at his feet.” - -Nothing more about the little dog until, a few lines further on, Mr. -Anderson shows that the dying agony of a little dog excited only a -passing interest in him. “An hour ago the old man of the house in the -forest went past my door and the little dog was not with him. It may be -that as we talked in the fog he crushed the life out of his companion. -It may be that the dog, like the workman’s wife and her unborn child, is -now dead. The leaves of the trees that line the road before my window are -falling like rain—the yellow, red and golden leaves fall straight down -heavily * * *,” and so on, with a repetition of the opening rhapsody of -grief for the falling leaves. - -So, you see, to Sherwood Anderson a falling leaf is a heart-rending -sight, but a falling puppy, even though its ribs be crushed and it scream -with agony, is quite another thing. - -No, Mr. Anderson is not sincere. - -And if an artist, though he fairly reek with seething dynamic chaos and -vitally compelling psychology, have not sincerity, all the Asterisks in -Mr. O’Brien’s sweatshop will avail him naught. - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Neither Here Nor There, by Oliver Herford - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEITHER HERE NOR THERE *** - -***** This file should be named 56165-0.txt or 56165-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/1/6/56165/ - -Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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