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-Project Gutenberg's The Fly Leaf, No. 3, Vol. 1, February 1896, by Various
-
-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: The Fly Leaf, No. 3, Vol. 1, February 1896
-
-Author: Various
-
-Editor: Walter Blackburn Harte
-
-Release Date: June 22, 2020 [EBook #62452]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLY LEAF, FEBRUARY 1896 ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by hekula03, David E. Brown, and the Online
-Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
-book was produced from images made available by the
-HathiTrust Digital Library.)
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
- THE FLY LEAF is distinctive among all the Bibelots.
- --FOOTLIGHTS, PHILADELPHIA.
-
-
- The Fly Leaf
-
- A Pamphlet Periodical of
- the New--the New Man,
- New Woman, New Ideas,
- Whimsies and Things.
-
- [Illustration]
-
- CONDUCTED BY WALTER BLACKBURN HARTE.
-
- WITH PICTURE NOTES BY
- H. MARMADUKE RUSSELL.
-
-
- Published Monthly by the Fly Leaf Publishing Co.,
- Boston, Mass. Subscription One Dollar a Year.
- Single Copies 10 Cents. February, 1896. Number
- Three.
-
-
-
-
-Unique and Distinctive in Bibelot Literature.
-
-THE CRITICS AGREE IN SAYING THE FLY LEAF FILLS A FIELD OF ITS OWN.
-
-
-THE FLY LEAF is distinctive among all the Bibelots.--FOOTLIGHTS,
-PHILADELPHIA.
-
-It is a delightfully keen little swashbuckler.--THE ECHO, Chicago.
-
-The latest of the Bibelots. In my opinion it is the only one of the
-lot, including the “Chap-Book,” “Philistine,” etc., which knows what it
-is driving at. The editor of the “Chap-Book” toddles along, following
-or attempting to follow, the twists and turns of the public taste--at
-least that is what he wrote in a Note not long ago--and the editor of
-the “Philistine” curses and swears, and devastates the atmosphere,
-trying his best to kill everything. “THE FLY LEAF” at once impressed me
-that Mr. Harte knows what he wants, and seriously intends to have it. I
-hope he will.--THE NORTH AMERICAN, Philadelphia.
-
-It will pay any one who wishes to keep up with the literary procession
-to peruse this sprightly little periodical.--THE EXAMINER, San
-Francisco, Cal.
-
-That bright little bundle of anecdote, comment, essay, poetry and
-fiction, “THE FLY LEAF,” of Boston, comes out in particularly good
-style. It gives rich promise of many good things to come.--THE
-COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, New York.
-
-Number two of Walter Blackburn Harte’s dainty monthly “THE FLY LEAF,”
-is out, and filled with the spirit of youth and beauty in literature,
-and zealous with culture, taste and faith toward higher ideals, it is
-going about doing good.
-
-Mr. Harte is strong, brilliant and brave as an essayist of the
-movement, and is making friends everywhere. The poetry and prose is all
-of high merit.--THE BOSTON GLOBE.
-
-The thing I like about Mr. Harte is his splendid spirit of Americanism,
-his optimistic belief in native literature and native writers; his
-hatred of all things bordering on toadyism or servile flattery of
-foreign gods to the exclusion of home talent. This is the key-note of
-THE FLY LEAF, and Mr. Harte will be apt to say some trenchant, candid
-and always interesting things in its pages.--THE UNION AND ADVERTISER,
-Rochester, N. Y.
-
-These are a few criticisms of the first two numbers, selected from
-a great heap of enthusiastic notices. THE FLY LEAF is promoting a
-Campaign for the Young Man in Literature. All the young men and women
-in America are discussing its unique and original literature, and
-spreading its fame.
-
-
-
-
-The Fly Leaf
-
- No. 3. February, 1896. Vol. 1.
-
-
-
-
-QUATRAINS.
-
-
-TOLSTOI.
-
- He calls, from the hot road to us, who stray
- In shady pleasant woods abroad,--
- Yes, Tolstoi, your path leads to God,
- But through the forest there _may_ be a way.
-
-
-IBSEN.
-
- A cannon shot, not fired to kill,
- But to dislodge and make to rise
- The decomposing corpse that lies
- Beneath life’s surface, smooth and still.
-
- CLAUDE F. BRAGDON.
-
-
-SUCCESS.
-
- Without one thought in his wide, empty brain
- (For Reason never sowed a seed to grow),
- He sits and writes page after page--no strain;
- Why? Chaff is cheap and sometimes looks like grain.
-
-
-EUMENIDES.
-
- All kindred gods have crumbled into dust
- Though latest born of that once teeming womb.
- Ye yet abide who shall not taste a tomb--
- Of passion, gold, and fame the lashing lust.
-
- PHILIP BECKER GOETZ.
-
-
-
-
-A MODEST PROPOSAL FOR THE REHABILITATION OF LETTERS IN THE LITERARY
-SHOW.
-
-
-We may take it that the old story of the Tower of Babel symbolizes the
-failure of the human mind to transcend the limits of natural knowledge.
-It is some old poet’s picture of the aspiring race lifting its bold
-head to steal God’s secrets from Heaven, stricken down into the dust,
-whence it came and to which it must return, foiled and despairing. But
-the babble of a million futile, unprovable human speculations continues
-to sway and mock generation after generation of men, wrapt in the
-ironies of the world of sense and necessity. So all human thought runs
-in cycles, and the latest heir of all the ages but gains the wisdom of
-increased doubt.
-
-Our age raises its Babel of philosophies and creeds, as did the
-civilizations that have gone before, and left us but the fantasy of
-great and moving names. So our most cherished realities, for which we
-all suffer so much, and for which so many heretics suffer the rack
-and martyrdom, fade away into the gibes and bogies of tradition.
-Ah, how sad is the fantasy of names our freed tongues troll over so
-lightly! Let established wisdom learn tolerance in this levity of
-today’s knowledge. For those who hold to any idea or ideal, know
-the days of martyrdom are not yet over. The old Hebrew picture is as
-true of today as when first written. We, too, shall pass away into
-the fantasy of history. We, too, shall leave but the grinning skulls
-and bare bones of once vital but finally unbelievable religions and
-philosophies--precious, priceless scraps of rubbish and litter in the
-catacombs of decayed and buried cities.
-
-But the times show a certain change in spirit. Our Babel of today does
-not assail God’s security, for our babble builders do not seek to play
-the prophet or the sage so much as to play the clown successfully.
-The seer who gives us words of fire and folly in his futile attempt
-to cleave body and soul with the sword of thought, at least contrives
-to show us that life here can be sweet and beautiful and grand. Those
-whose fearful content with the life of sense and show drags us all to
-the level of our necessities, make life even more of an irony; for they
-deny the intellect and spirit their right of unfettered freedom in the
-domain of thought. And when thought is fettered with the appetites,
-life, indeed, becomes a very slavery. And half our writers are in
-servitude to the Egyptians. Only a few _thinkers_ lie sullen and
-idle in the sun--profitless vagabonds, who can only work by whim and
-inspiration.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-At this end of the century our Babel lacks the genuine inspiration of
-ancient prophecy and poetry. It is taken for granted, seemingly, that
-as we cannot reach God, it is not worth while to rise in thought above
-the mere show of life, and so all the mystery of man is swept out of
-our literature and philosophy. We are deafened with a million small
-noises of small, soulless, unreal persons. The old stirring voices that
-thrilled us with the clamor and sternness of life, are, for the most
-part, silenced or muffled, because those who grow fat on the partial
-enlightenment of the masses, will not allow any sort of literature to
-prosper which, in the words of the Areopagitica, contains “views or
-sentiments at all above the level of the vulgar superstition.” The
-literature that sprang from the marrow of the intellect, the core of
-the heart and life, is out of fashion, is a drug in the market. This
-is a day in which mere noise and notoriety completely ousts and worsts
-any real thought in every joust of letters. In fact, literature is read
-less as letters, in the old sense, than as autobiography of scandalous
-and notorious people. Only the sensational in literature can attract
-attention. There are lots of good books published every year, but
-they steal quietly into the world, and no one knows about them. They
-burden the bookseller’s shelves for awhile, and their only chance of
-circulation is finally that some whimsical crank may pick them out
-of the “remainder” boxes, when their one brief season of undisturbed
-respectability on the shelves is over.
-
-It is with the idea of partially remedying this state of affairs, in
-which the odds are so uneven, that I venture to offer a few suggestions
-on the advisability of adopting an old and picturesque institution from
-a totally different Trade, and adapting it to the needs of contemporary
-Literature. This is the explanation of the caption of this paper, which
-may be a little perplexing to some unsophisticated readers. I propose
-to borrow the main features of the old clothing Fair, which is held
-among the Hebrews every Sunday morning in Petticoat Lane, London,--one
-of the most picturesque Babels in the world.
-
-This would even up matters a little. I do not propose any reform, and
-I should not dare to mention any of the remarkable modern instances of
-success in literature by persons who produce much fiction which is not
-literature. They are sufficiently glaring to advertise themselves among
-book lovers. But I do want to lead a forlorn hope to re-establish some
-sort of social and moral, if not intellectual, equilibrium between poor
-handicapped brains and overwhelming _brass_. At the present moment the
-calling of literature is the caravan or the refuge of the charlatan,
-the demagogue, the weakminded, the social fop, the hysterical and the
-notorious. My aim in this modest proposal is simply to remove a few
-obsolete superstitions and traditions of literary dignity that, once
-swept away, will leave all competitors for fame on the same footing.
-Perhaps we may then hope to see the few writers who are marred with a
-simple equipment of inspiration and talent enjoy some sort of equality
-with those who bring to the conquest of literature the overwhelming
-advantages of sex, brass, social authority and money.
-
-Let us first touch upon certain aspects of criticism and publicity
-in the Literary Show. It will then be perfectly clear to the most
-prejudiced reader--and I expect prejudice in this wicked world--that
-my suggestion of a Sunday Fair for Literature is the most feasible
-and dignified expedient that can now be adopted, if any of us are to
-continue the struggle for some literary achievement and standard and
-some genuine thought in our modern Babel.
-
-It has always been a question in the mind of the present writer whether
-most men, that is, sane men, do not actually know, in their own hearts,
-just about what they stand for _absolutely_ in life, or whether saints
-and rogues, wise and unwise, we are all deluded about ourselves.
-Heine, who wrote with so much charm about himself, and could scarcely
-have found a more interesting subject, was of the opinion that one
-cannot tell the truth about one’s self; and, since the greater portion
-of mankind is of this opinion, autobiography is the most irresistible
-form of literature.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-But it is unfortunate there is not more division of opinion on
-the subject, because, while this view may add to the interest of
-autobiography, it weakens its weight and authority; and there are
-good reasons for supposing that one of the necessary “short cuts” of
-contemporary literature of the near future will be the brief critical
-autobiography.
-
-There is not a mother’s son of us in the whole scribbling guild,
-great or small, puffed or starved, can get his fill of praise; for
-there are too many of us scribbling in these latter years, and that
-man is fortunate who is famous for a whole season. There are but few
-who can reasonably hope for a life in the memory of mankind as long
-as Mumm’s champagne. It may be there are but few of us deserve it.
-Such scraps of comfort as occasionally fall to our lot are almost
-invariably disappointing, for our friends are perversely addicted to
-flattering us in good, round, general terms, which save thought and
-lack positiveness, or else they appreciate us for the very qualities it
-is perfectly evident we do not possess in the least degree. But this is
-the inevitable result of the production of literature by lightning-like
-machinery working day and night.
-
-All these sugared things which authors crave can only be supplied by
-other writers who, aside from the necessity of earning a livelihood,
-are plagued with private personal ambitions of their own; and if there
-is any sort of drudgery more tedious than the reviewing of other
-people’s literature, I should like to know what it is. Those who have
-to earn precarious bread by the pen, somehow or other, are so busy
-reviewing and scribbling on topical matters that they have absolutely
-no time for reading, and so very few writers out of the great multitude
-receive more than a few perfunctory words of praise or indifferent
-comment, and are then straightway forgotten. With the ever increasing
-tide of books, literary criticism tends to become more and more a
-mere matter of description and catalogueing, and as this is obviously
-inadequate to satisfy all the demands of those who would live in the
-public eye, we have latterly seen the development of that interesting
-personage, the psychological interviewer.
-
-Even this does not meet the exigencies of an overcrowded market. The
-psychological interviewer is only occupied with those whose names
-will help to sell _his_ wares. The secret charm of the psychological
-interview, when it is at all well done, is that it enables an author to
-supplement the necessarily perfunctory reviewing of the day with his
-own keener critical insight into the less obvious excellent qualities
-of his work. This done with a fine conscientious egotism and some show
-of candor, carries as much weight with liberal and unprejudiced minds
-as rare and subtle criticism. In fact, it is autobiography, which the
-interviewer breaks up into more or less dramatic dialogue.
-
-There are still thousands of us who are so obscure and unfortunate as
-to be untroubled by the interviewers, and, to make matters worse, are
-often tabooed by the critics. But since the calling of letters is no
-more restricted to the “deserving” and the “good” than any other, these
-also desire that publicity which helps to solve the problem of bread
-and butter. And so I predict that the pressure of competition in the
-Literary Show, and the exigencies of critical writing, often colored,
-if not inspired, by counting-house interests, will soon bring into
-current literature what I have here termed the critical autobiography.
-In this way we may get much good literature, for the dullest man is
-at his best when writing about himself. A man can then be perfectly
-independent, and still be heralded in print as one of the potent forces
-and geniuses of his day. The plan has some advantages over log-rolling,
-which sometimes involves unavoidable and ludicrous derogatory offices,
-that embarrass one’s reputation as a wit and a critic of discernment.
-
-It is also really time that the writers of books learned to take
-something of the same vulgar view of them which those who make their
-living in dealing in them do, and that is to regard them when finally
-out of the brain and put into material shape merely as _merchandise_.
-It is this looking upon them as “children” that has made the poets the
-spoil of cunning men, and kept them daft and poor.
-
-The writer’s problem is to reach his fellows, his generation. He is
-not, under modern conditions, concerned with posterity any more than
-the lawyer or the merchant. As for that, probably few books of this era
-will be known by name a hundred years hence; but every man should have
-a fair chance of getting a hearing in his own generation. As things
-are at present constituted, a thousand obstacles are placed in the way
-by other writers in the holy name of morality, style, literary ideals,
-and every other ingenious trick one writer can devise as a critic
-and literary tipstaff to keep others from dimming the effulgence of
-his golden beams. But, pouf! all this anxiety is unnecessary. At
-least one-half of our contemporary literature, though it is “boomed”
-and bought at impressive figures, is only passable journalism, and,
-perhaps, will be thrown aside and forgotten as unreliable data when the
-journals of today (such as not being printed on wood pulp paper may
-perchance survive) are treasured as the mirror of our semi-barbaric
-times.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-We are fairly deluged now with cheap Brummagem “literature.” And so I
-think my Modest Proposal will appeal to all fair minded persons. Let
-us have an open market in literature, and let the best peddler win.
-The game of literature as carried on today, is, with a few glorious
-exceptions, a purely commercial speculation, an enterprise in trade;
-and there is no need to confuse the issues with a lot of babble about
-“literary ideals,” and all the rest of it. That is but an artful trick
-to embarrass rivals in trade. The howl about morality is another old
-trick, but one--thanks to the beauties of human nature--which only
-helps to swell the sales of a rival. Literature is now produced to meet
-the demands of different markets, on the same principle that governs
-the manufacture of other luxuries and commodities. What is the use of
-waiting for your rival in trade to announce your excellencies to the
-world? Human nature works the same in all trades. Ambition preys upon
-and harasses ambition. Only the cynics of Grub Street, who have no
-hopes and no ambitions, can be just and impartial critics, and they are
-in the pinch of necessity. Log-rolling, too, is an imperfect art; some
-fellows’ logs are so _heavy_!
-
-Let it once be understood that there is no ideal aim or dignity in the
-literary market of our day other than to find quick buyers and win the
-bubble reputation, and why should any man hesitate to use the methods
-of ordinary commerce to advance his own interests? It is a matter of
-common sense.
-
-I suggest in all seriousness this idea of a literary Petticoat-Lane
-Sunday Fair as the best way to develop a national literature in
-America. And let every man be his own critic, prophet and publisher. It
-could be held somewhere off the Bowery--a picturesque and appropriate
-place.
-
-The critical autobiographies on the market would be genuine human
-documents and great fun. A collection of them would give our epoch
-everlasting fame. With every man peddling his own wares, like the
-chapmen of old, the law of the survival of the fittest would probably
-operate as effectively, and more convincingly, than under existing
-conditions.
-
- WALTER BLACKBURN HARTE.
-
-
-
-
-TO M’LLE BOHEMIA.
-
-
- It were not well if long you tarried
- Here in my “Bungalow,”
- For I’m a man sedate and married;--
- Pick up your skirts and go.
-
- But stay, I’ll smoke another pipe.
- Give you a cigarette?
- Well, yes, for lips are cherry-ripe
- And with honey dew are wet.
-
- Are you, my dear, the Yellow Girl
- Of all our author folks,
- At whom we decent people hurl
- Anathemas--and jokes?
-
- You are a poem or a song--
- A wicked one, they say--
- A bit of color thrown along
- A drab old world and gray.
-
- And every well-turned ankle, dear,
- Is joy to all the earth,
- Except to us good folks who fear
- The smile or dance of mirth.
-
- But ’twere not well if long you tarried
- Here in my den, you know,
- For I’m a man sedate and married;--
- Pick up your skirts and go.
-
- WAITMAN BARBE.
-
-
-
-
-THE GAMBLERS.
-
-
-The rain splashed in his face, soaked through his garments, ran down
-his back and trickled through his wide sleeves in an almost vindictive
-manner. But he shambled on indifferently, slowly and heavily,
-apparently totally unconscious of physical discomfort. Looking into
-that bald face one could not penetrate its placidity, and even the
-eyes seemed expressionless. The small, well-shaped hands did not look
-as if they were accustomed to manual labor; nevertheless his clothing
-consisted of the ordinary blue blouse and pantaloons of a working
-Chinaman, and it was a very dilapidated Yankee hat around which he had
-wound his queue. The peculiar means by which he prevented the last
-mentioned part of his costume from being blown off by the wind and rain
-attracted some little attention from the passers-by; but to jocose
-remarks and amused smiles he paid no heed.
-
-Ah Lin was proceeding to a gambling resort, and his thoughts were not
-with the scenes and faces about him.
-
-When he reached his destination, he slipped a key from out of his
-sleeve and admitted himself into a large low room furnished with a long
-table, a couch and some wooden chairs. Two men sat on the couch, and
-about a dozen were grouped around the table--all Chinamen. There was
-but one small window in the place, and the day being dull, the gloom
-of the room seemed to be made palpable and visible by the light of two
-oil lamps. On the window ledge was a pipe, a small lamp and a tiny
-porcelain cup full of jellified opium.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-One of the Chinamen arose, took the pipe, dipped a pin into the
-opium, turned it around until a quantity of the sticky drug adhered
-to it, then inserted it into the pipe, held the pipe over the flame
-of the lamp, and drew two or three long breaths. Here was peace and a
-foretaste of oblivion--a vapor was seen to exhale out of his mouth and
-nose.
-
-Ah Lin walked up to the smoker, and the two held a short confab.
-
-“Well,” said Ah Lin at length, “I have fifty cents left; with
-twenty-five cents I can draw a lot, and with the balance I will see if
-I can win half a dollar on a red cord stick.”
-
-“All right,” returned the smoker, “and I’ll do the same; but first let
-us worship the tiger.”
-
-In a corner of the room on a small table stood a wooden image of a
-tiger with wings grasping an immense cash between its paws.
-
-Ah Lin and Hom Lock lighted some sticks of incense and bowed themselves
-before the image--the Chinaman’s gambling god.
-
-Some one of those who were at the head of the centre table called to Ah
-Lin, and tried to prevail upon him to stake some money in a game which
-was played by means of a round board with a hole in the centre through
-which a slender stick was passed and fastened underneath to a larger
-board. The top piece of wood was designed to be moved around like a
-wheel; it was marked off into many parts upon which cabalistic figures
-were painted. Ah Lin had no inclination to spin the wheel, and turned
-to another man who sat near holding three sticks in his hand. Those
-three sticks were three lots; three ends projected outwards; three ends
-were grasped and hidden by the man’s hand, hanging down from which was
-a red tassel or string professedly attached to one of the sticks. The
-sport consisted in guessing which stick had the red string.
-
-Ah Lin ventured twenty-five cents on one of the lots or sticks, but
-lost. The head gambler pocketed the twenty-five cents and Ah Lin moved
-silently away. If he had won he would have received his quarter back
-with another quarter added.
-
-At the other end of the table was a deep earthen vessel, and around
-it were grouped the major part of the men in the room. One man was
-tying up small bundles containing sums of money from one cent up to
-twenty-five dollars. Each package was marked with a sign word. When his
-task was completed, the man cast all the bundles into the vessel, and
-in a loud voice announced that all who wished could cast lots and for
-twenty-five cents have the chance of making twenty-five dollars.
-
-A number, including Ah Lin, paid twenty-five cents and marked their
-names on a list of signs. Then the vessel and its contents were shaken
-up. All in turn were then invited to take at hazard from its portentous
-belly, the parcel for which they had staked. As he opened his, Ah Lin’s
-face turned grey; it contained but one cent.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-“What have you got?” asked Hom Lock, in an excited whisper, leaning
-over Ah Lin’s shoulder. “Just one cent, eh? Well, I have the
-twenty-five dollars--the Tiger favors me--he’s a great God.”
-
-There was a crash; the lamps were knocked down and extinguished. Ah Lin
-had leapt across the table and was dragging the Gambling God around the
-room, striking it repeatedly with a stick.
-
-“It’s a great God, isn’t it,” he yelled. “See how it likes to be
-insulted. Oh, it’s a big God.”
-
-“It’s a great God,” shouted Hom Lock; there was a knife in his hand; he
-pressed close to Ah Lin.
-
-Ah Lin saw the knife, and something slipped from his sleeve and two
-knives gleamed--then disappeared.
-
-Some one struck a light. The owner of the place picked up the fallen
-God and placed it on the table. It calmly looked down upon two dead men.
-
- SUI SEEN FAR.
-
-
-
-
-OUR HERITAGE.
-
-
- “Retire within thyself, O mortal Man!”
- Was the grand doctrine of the classic age,
- From whence has come the imperishable page
- Of rarest wisdom that the eye may scan.
- The city that Augustus raised--nay, mighty Pan,
- And all the wonders penned by bard and sage
- Have vanished ’neath the unconquerable rage
- Of rival factions since their doom began.
- But we who live and look with rev’rent gaze
- Across the awful space that marks their course,
- May struggle with great odds to gain perforce
- This heritage of mind from sundered days:
- Or, with hearts athirst, mid barren ways,
- Drink of ennobling life from such unfailing source.
-
- B. F. D. DUNN.
-
-
-
-
-ONE FAILURE TO FORGET.
-
-
-Two others, both men, had nodded silent assent when Wooler made the
-declaration, lightly, that the pleasures of memory must surely pall
-before the pleasures of forgetting.
-
-And presently, when the ladies had gone into the drawing-room, these
-three men found themselves looking one another over with that calm
-scrutiny in which one wonders who the deuce the other man is. As a
-matter of fact, however, these three, John Wooler, Andrew Insgate and
-Tom Farlough, knew one another fairly well. Each was merely trying to
-gauge the other’s sincerity.
-
-“She objected, of course,” Wooler went on, as if there had been no
-interruption at all, “but then, I expected nothing else. A woman would
-always rather remember than forget.” He sipped thoughtfully at his
-port. “With us--it is different.”
-
-At the other end of the table a group of portly, elderly gentlemen were
-regaling one another with anecdotal alletria.
-
-“Do we really mean it?” asked Wooler, “or do we take the appearance of
-the thought for sake of its unorthodoxy?”
-
-“For my part,” said Farlough, fingering his cravat, “I would give much
-of my life if I could forget some of it.”
-
-[Illustration]
-
-Insgate held his wine glass to the light and gazed at the rich tint of
-red within. “Leopardi was right,” he said, “no man would live his life
-over again. But--I would begin anew tomorrow if I could wipe out all
-the yesterday.”
-
-The other men had left the head of the table and joined the ladies in
-the drawing-room. The butler moved about silently for a few moments and
-then left these three alone with their wine, and their thoughts.
-
-Wooler spoke again. “We are all able to, h’m, take a little for
-granted. Our reasons scarcely matter much.” The others nodded. “The
-only consideration is that we wish to--forget. Why shouldn’t we try, we
-three? We are not bound in any way. Neither wives nor debts stare us in
-the face. We have both time and money. Why not try?”
-
-“Why not?” repeated Insgate.
-
-“Gentlemen,” said Farlough, smiling, “I would represent the minority
-were I to do else than agree with you. Why not?”
-
-“Very well. From now on, then, we attempt forgetting. Each in his own
-way. From time to time we report progress or regress.”
-
-“Each in his own way! Are there so many ways to forgetfulness? I can
-only think of two: work and drink.”
-
-“Ah, but there is Woman!”
-
-“True, there is Woman. Strictly speaking, I considered her included
-in--however, that is but a quibble! Personally, I have no preference. I
-will take what you gentlemen leave.” It was Wooler who said this.
-
-“Would _you put us upon our_ consciences? No; let Dame Chance take a
-hand in dealing. We write the names--so!--and we each draw--so! Mine is
-work.” That was Farlough’s luck.
-
-Insgate’s slip said “Drink.”
-
-“For me,” said Wooler, “the Woman.” He lifted his glass, laughing
-quietly. “I wonder who she is. Well, we shall see.”
-
-“Where shall we meet again?”
-
-“And when?”
-
-“A year from today. In the garden of the Belle-Alliance Theatre in
-Berlin. Travel is a necessary obligato.”
-
-Somewhat solemnly, though with cheerful gestures, they pledged one
-another in a silently emptied glass of port.
-
-And then they sauntered into the drawing-room.
-
-[Illustration]
-
- * * * * *
-
-A year later, Farlough strolled into the Belle-Alliance Theatre. He
-looked healthier and stronger; the tired look had left his eyes. He
-looked over the theatre lovingly. It had not changed much. Never very
-gay, but always cosy.
-
-They were presenting Lortzing’s ever delightful “Zar und Zimmerman,”
-and, while it was by no means an adequate performance, it was decidedly
-a pleasant one.
-
-When the curtain had come down after the first act, Farlough strolled
-out into the garden. The place was brilliant with its hundreds of
-crystal-clasped lights overhanging the graveled walks. A throng of
-Berliners went chattering about. Only a very occasional Englishman or
-American came into evidence.
-
-In the small open air theatre a comedian was giving a lively imitation
-of Sarah Bernhardt.
-
-But nowhere was there a sign of either of those two gentlemen, John
-Wooler and Andrew Insgate.
-
-Farlough turned his steps toward the box office. He made an inquiry.
-
-The official bowed politely. He handed him two letters. He bowed again
-and muttered mechanically, “Gehorsamster Diener!” He was from Vienna.
-
-Putting the letters into his pocket after a quick scrutiny of the
-writing upon each envelope, Farlough returned to the theatre.
-
-When the last notes had joined the echoes, he had himself driven over
-to the _Hotel D’Angleterre_. There he opened the envelopes and read the
-two letters.
-
-The one from Insgate was dated at London. “At this moment,” went the
-screed, “I am remembering the matter of our meeting in Berlin. This
-is due to unexpected and inexplicable sobriety. As I may not remember
-again, I write now. You see, I shall not be there myself. I have
-managed to forget nearly all things. I began by trying the liquors of
-all civilization. They have succeeded in destroying my memory--except
-in such brief lapses as this is. And these are very rare now. By the
-time my money and my constitution are gone, I am sure my memory will be
-gone also. But as I am a sinner in agony, I swear that God in all his
-wisdom and wrath never invented so cruel a torment as this that I have
-wrought for myself. I pray that you two may not have succeeded so well.”
-
-Farlough looked at the cold ink mutely. He pictured once again the
-scene at that dinner a year ago: Insgate’s nervous, aristocratic face;
-Wooler’s smiling cynicism.
-
-[Illustration]
-
-He opened the latter’s missive. This man wrote from San Francisco.
-“Absent, John Wooler! Because of a woman. You see, I went the gamut of
-the sex. But never succeeded in forgetting until this one came into my
-life. When I am with her I forget everything else; when I am away from
-her, I remember with tenfold distinctness. So I have found heaven, and
-live in hell. For she happens to be another man’s wife.”
-
-Farlough tore up the two letters slowly and burned the pieces of paper
-one by one at the candle by his side.
-
-“And so,” he thought, looking straight out in front of him, “they have
-found the way and I have not. And yet, I have won while they have lost.
-For my work is such a pleasure to me that the past has been atoned for
-long ago, and none of my memories are tainted by regrets. I am all in
-my work, and in it I find the ecstasy of atonement.”
-
-And then this man who had failed to find the way of forgetfulness,
-sought out a railway time table to see how soon he could start back to
-his workshop.
-
- PERCIVAL POLLARD.
-
-
-
-
-THE STAGE AND ITS CULTURE.
-
-
-Undoubtedly one of the greatest influences of the modern world is the
-stage, and one of the problems of modern art is to raise the tone of
-the stage. This must of course be done through gaining the sympathy
-of the acting profession in intellectual dramatic work. The question
-arises in my mind, is this possible? What is the average intellectual
-calibre of actors and actresses? I have a suspicion that, as a class,
-they are imitative, and but too often destitute of real intellectual
-interests. There are a few notable exceptions--Henry Irving, Beerbohm
-Tree, Jefferson, Edward S. Willard, Mounet-Sully, Richard Mansfield,
-James A. Herne and others. But the ordinary actor and actress, even
-the successful and talented ones, so far as I could ever discover,
-are too completely absorbed in the narrow world of play-acting, press
-criticisms, dresses and the jealousies and cliques of the profession,
-to have any leisure or inclination for an interest in the larger and
-freer intellectual world outside, to which men in all other callings
-have access as the refuge from their occupation.
-
-I confess I never _knew_ any actor or actress who was addicted to
-reading--except the newspapers for the criticisms. But I have heard
-that Francis Wilson is not only a bookman but a bibliomaniac, and I
-have longed to ask him whether he included among his spoils the first
-editions of _American_ authors. I have a notion that even the despised
-bibelots of today will be treasures tomorrow.
-
-It would be interesting to know if some of our leading ladies and
-gentlemen in the dramatic profession really spend much of their time in
-gaining that intimate acquaintance with life through literature which
-would certainly so greatly help their interpretation of character in
-the drama. It is almost impossible for us, who have not free access
-to the green room, to tell. It is a pity the average writer is so
-little in touch and contact with this mimic life that gives him so
-much instruction in his art and observation of life. But from the
-quality of the literature provided in our contemporary “Footlights,”
-of Philadelphia, it begins to look as if the theatrical profession is
-sharing with every other class in modern society in the increasing
-interest in printer’s ink. “Footlights” is, however, interesting to
-all who love the theatre, as well as to the profession, and it is not
-altogether restricted to the affairs and doings of the footlights. It
-contains especially good criticism of current literature, written in a
-vein of independence and vigor, which is another sign that, with the
-recruiting of the younger men in journalism and literature, criticism
-will again assume its proper importance and character in America.
-
- JONATHAN PENN.
-
-
-
-
-ICONOCLASM.
-
-
-I.
-
- “When Shakespeare died the Drama died.”
- This cry
- Has echoed down the ages as a truth
- None would gainsay, until, today, forsooth,
- Like weaklings we all fear to make reply,
- But suckle at Tradition’s milkless breast.
- O ART! your name to mingle with the dust
- Of dead men’s bones, and scarred with sordid rust
- Of years, and in a catacomb to rest!
- O YOUTH! throw off the shackles of the Past,
- It is the Present that is yours alone;
- The excellence you seek can never last
- If linked to models that today’s outgrown.
-
-
-II.
-
- How long shall we perpetuate untruth
- And teach that Art does not exist today?
- That only idols crumbling with decay
- Are meet as shrines for eager, suppliant youth?
- How long shall we bow down to foreign gods
- And worship them with lips, but not with heart?
- We are ashamed to recognize our art,
- We sneer and call our native writers clods.
- But from the prairies of the grander West--
- Free from the ancient gyves that bind and gall--
- Are men and women rising to the call,
- Intent on only what is new and best.
- The East is dead and buried in the Past,
- The West alone can do what work will last!
-
- JOHN NORTHERN HILLIARD.
-
-
-
-
-BUBBLE AND SQUEAK.
-
-
-There are lots of things I should like to say in this place about some
-of my esteemed contemporaries, but, though not by any means diffident
-in the expression of my critical opinions, I daren’t unburden my
-deepest thoughts about the performances of some villains I have in
-mind. It is not that all the things I _think_ are not strictly within
-the bounds of severe veracity, but truth is so unpopular in this
-world,--and especially in the literary world.
-
-
-Ex-President Harrison has given damning evidence against himself.
-He has publicly declared himself an utterly impossible person for
-re-nomination by writing platitudes to the order of “The Ladies Home
-Journal” genius. We can enjoy a president who goes off “at half-cock”
-on some questions, and we can respect one who goes fishing while the
-whole country is anxious about a great national policy, but a president
-who writes for “The Ladies Home Journal” is beyond our sense of humor
-or pathos. That is the unforgivable sin--to make one’s self supremely
-ridiculous.
-
-
-Alfred Austin, the new poet laureate, is reported to be sitting up
-night after night, reading his predecessor in the office, carefully,
-critically straining and comparing the text with his own. He is
-striving to discover in what this “doosid” difference consists.
-
-It really does strike a person of some sense of humor, and some
-tenderness for all human creatures, that at this moment the late Earl
-of Dunraven and the newly appointed poet laureate are the two most
-pathetic figures in the English-speaking world.
-
-
-A notable departure in good bookmaking is Percival Pollard’s “Cape of
-Storms,” a novel in paper covers, with a cover design in colors by
-Will H. Bradley, and a title page by John Sloan, which is printed in
-a limited edition and sold at a popular price. This is a new thing in
-America. Perhaps, however, we are going to adopt the French fashion
-of paper covered literature. It will give all our authors a wider
-circulation. Pollard’s story is good, racy reading, which means clever
-writing.
-
-
-What modern love has lost in sentimentality and romance it has gained
-in companionship, depth of feeling and intimacy. The latest phase of
-courtship is this: When a young man is in love he no longer sends his
-heart’s delight a silly sentimental poem, he sends her a symbolical
-Poster. Posters hold some hint of the vagaries and fantasies of the
-human heart, as sentimental poetry does not.
-
-The triumph of modern love is that both sexes are now allowed to be
-_human_, and so the old disparity between carnal humanity and cold
-and frigid divinity, has been abridged. The Poster has helped in the
-promotion of art feeling in the community. It is also an educational
-factor in the problem of establishing an equality of common sense
-between the sexes, that shall not destroy the witchery of woman and the
-eternal attraction of the sexes.
-
-
-A lady journalist, who has a decided taste for the belle-lettres, and
-considerable faculty of her own in the art of making life picturesque,
-has just apprised me of a very novel scheme of hers in the way of book
-making.
-
-She once had, as is the custom of so many ladies, an ordinary and
-inoffensive autograph album. Asking a certain Impressionistic poet for
-his autograph one day, she received her book back with a few lines,
-in which the poet thanked Heaven he had had a birthday, so that he
-had looked upon her beauty and _lived_, in the deeper sense than mere
-living. This date disappeared from the album.
-
-But the incident gave my quick-witted young lady an idea. She bought
-a dainty book of manuscript leaves bound in Russia leather. It is now
-worth its price in gold, for she has, by flattery and cajolery, and the
-fine art of being beautiful, got it filled with sketches from the pens
-of some of the leading authors of the day. And the character of the
-volume is more unique since the theme of all these fine wits is the
-same. The sketches are all prose pastels, inspired by the young lady’s
-own personality.
-
-
-After reading Ian Maclaren’s “Beside the Bonnie Briar Bush,” I feel
-like following the precedent of the illustrious Horace Greeley and
-giving some advice to ambitious wayfarers. The Drumtochty folk are
-so uniformly generous, self sacrificing, unselfish, humane and
-philanthropic, that I should advise all young men of unsettled
-prospects not to turn their gaze westward, but to cross the seas and
-settle in Drumtochty. Intellectual enterprises of the most ambitious
-and revolutionary character, I observe, are practically encouraged
-and prosper there as in no other place on earth that I ever heard of.
-Are you a young and poor boy consumed with a desire to fit yourself
-for a scholar’s life and easy fortunes? Then start for Drumtochty
-without further ado. The blameless farmer folk there have only to be
-approached by the Dominie and they will immediately start you in life
-and pay all your expenses to a professorial chair. Are you literary?
-There never was such another community with the same keen scent for
-true imagination and poetry. Oh, it is an ideal hamlet, truly, for the
-intellectuals! There are more philanthropists huddled together there in
-one small parish than in the rest of Great Britain and the whole United
-States. I think even the FLY LEAF would bring in great returns in such
-a community.
-
-
-An old lady in a hill-top town in New Hampshire has written to her
-local newspaper warning the youth against my corrupting influence
-and machinations--and so I am evidently in imminent nearness to the
-popularity that attends all corrupters of morals.
-
-This good lady does not charge me with any actual breaches of morality,
-but she detects an irreverence in my temperament and mind that might
-lead me to the commission of all the crimes that moral folk find so
-much joy in contemplating. There is, she avers, a flippancy in my
-view of some established things that might lead to any perversion of
-youth. She is sure I am immoral and should be suppressed, although she
-can discover no more heinous offence in me than a certain callousness
-in regard to the feelings of witless respectables and old fogies.
-She objects to the use of that term of opprobrium, and considers it
-_indecent_.
-
-If it could only be proved so--why, hooray! If this rumor of our
-immorality can only be carried far and wide enough, it is clear our
-fortunes are made. This is the secret of success in contemporary
-literature. All the novelists of the day are worrying out this problem:
-How to present some new phase of morality that shall contain the
-broadest suggestions of immorality.
-
-
-
-
-THE LONDON ACADEMY
-
-
- The Leading Critical Literary Journal of London, in a long review of
- “MEDITATIONS IN MOTLEY,” by WALTER BLACKBURN HARTE, says, among other
- things:
-
-“When any book of good criticism comes it should be welcomed and made
-known for the benefit of the persons who care for such works. The book
-under notice is one of these. It is, so far as I know, the first from
-the author’s pen; but his writings are well known, and those who read
-his present book will, with some eagerness, await its successor. For it
-is a book in which wit and bright, if often satirical, humor are made
-the vehicle for no flimsy affectations, but for genuine thought. Mr.
-Ruskin has affirmed that the virtue of originality is not newness, but
-genuineness.
-
-“In this true sense Mr. Harte’s book is original. Here is his own
-thought on several topics, pleasantly displayed, and no mere echo or
-second-hand production of the ideas of others. If Mr. Harte continues
-to act up to this sentiment, [a long quotation from the book under
-consideration] as he does in the present book, he may not achieve the
-triumph of twentieth editions, but he will be a power for good--as
-every true man of letters is, and must be in the world. If it were
-practicable I should be much disposed to let the author recommend
-himself by giving copious quotations from these essays. At his
-best--that is, in his most characteristic and seemingly unconscious
-passages--he reminds one of Montaigne: the charming inconsequence, the
-egotism free from arrogance.”
-
-PRICE IN HANDSOME CLOTH, $1.25.
-
-_For sale by all Booksellers, or sent Postpaid on receipt of Price by
-the Publishers_,
-
-The Arena Publishing Co.,
-
-Copley Square, Boston, Mass.
-
-
-
-
-Economists and Politicians
-
-
-Talk and write of the waste of society and the waste of health and the
-waste of luxury and poverty. But they never remark upon the equally
-disastrous and wanton
-
-WASTE OF WIT
-
-Which has for so long been the result of old-fogyism and timorous
-commercialism in periodical Literature. If Statistics could be compiled
-of the fine wits and humorists and writers of individual talents and
-power whose brains and productions are spoiled or altogether suppressed
-under the old regime of the Popular Literature for the weak minded they
-would be appalling. There is a ruthless waste of good wit in America,
-in behalf of good dullness.
-
-THE FLY LEAF aims to stem this tide of wasted wit. There are ever so
-many clever writers in America, though they are seldom heard of. These
-Younger Spirits are the backbone of THE FLY LEAF, which will present
-the Best and most Individual Literature of the Day--as much as can be
-squeezed into a Bibelot.
-
-It is not quantity but quality we seek to provide. THE FLY LEAF
-interests all cultivated independent minds, which can recognize “a good
-thing” at sight. It appeals to Thoughtful and Bookish People, and it
-will never pander to the Mob that buys its Literature by weight.
-
-Every issue is the most amusing and Unexpected little Bundle of
-Surprises. It is the only Periodical in America that has Wit to waste.
-Others have more Cash but no Wit.
-
-THE FLY LEAF,
-
-269 St. Botolph Street, Boston, Mass.
-
-
-
-
-TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
-
-
- Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
-
- Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
-
- Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
-
- Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.
-
-
-
-
-
-End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fly Leaf, No. 3, Vol. 1, February
-1896, by Various
-
-*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FLY LEAF, FEBRUARY 1896 ***
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