Part 2

“You most certainly want to get done hittin’ me with that there last year’s safety,” began the latter, speaking loud enough to be heard by all—but his philippic was cut short by the arrival of train orders, and the clearing of the road. The man with a bicycle did a handsome pedal mount and spun skillfully through the surging mob, catching cries of “See that burning safety!” “Gimmie a ride, boss?” and the like, from those left behind. But the man on a wheel continued to ride.

The man on foot continued to walk.

And the band played on.

HARVEY LEWIS WICKHAM.

THE STEWARD.

A BALLAD OF DEATH.

A Beggar wandered forth to beg. (_A soul may dwell in Heaven or Hell._) At night he groaned aloud, when passed One bearing stores the King wished last.

“Now give me food, for the dear Christ’s sake,” (_Or Heaven or Hell—O, choose ye well._) Moaned he the weak, stretching his hand. I trow men fear the final strand.

The Steward stopped, and smiled, and bowed. (_One ward may tell of Heaven or Hell._) Softly he spoke: “A fitting thing, To give you food and rob the King!”

The one moved on, the one moved not. (_A soul may dwell in Heaven or Hell._) The Steward sold one half the bread. Next morning the Beggar was dead.

The jester told the King the tale. (_A soul shall dwell in Heaven or Hell._) A woman gazing at the King, Shrieked—to his knees she did not cling.

The King’s sword pushed the Steward on, (_Who can foretell the depths of Hell?_) And the King smiled as on the band Outside a door he laid his hand.

C. P. N.

LET THERE BE GALL ENOUGH IN THY INK.

—_Twelfth Night._

’Tis an odd old world, this of ours that is round like an orange, and slightly flattened at the poles. It drives not well, and it hath but moderate fondness for gall. Why, then, seek to drive it? Why harass it with the hurtful attrition of gall-dippen pens? For in truth, its small love for gall is yet greater than its use therefor. It needs not that we should make it smart. ’Tis smart enough, and clever enough, already, towering the hearts of the angels, and affording a spectacle for the little fishes. Application of gall will not help it. Rightly used, a little may ease thy own jaundice, but in thy ink it erodes the pen that uses it.

Are we vexed at the follies of the round old world? Is our taste offended by the unripe things written and painted and sung by those who are not perfect as we are? We ought to consider the words of the gentle stoic: “For it is natural that these things should be done by such persons. It is a matter of necessity, and if a man will not have it so he will not allow the fig-tree to have juice.”

To what end do we Philistines write? Is it not because we are seeking after the truth? Is it not for the expression of that which to us seems beautiful and helpful and desirable to be in the world?

And for what, let us suppose, do the armies of the aliens put pen to paper? Is it not for the same end? And if they see not purely, do we then hope to clarify their vision with gall? Rather we ought not to thwart them in the pursuit of that which seems to them excellent and worthy of effort. It is unphilosophic, and in contravention to the scientific spirit, to deny others the right which we claim for ourselves. We ought rather to do the thing which to us seems lovely, and let that protest, for us, against unloveliness, by its life and realty—the only effectual protest this world has ever known. Already there is too much of strife, too much of denial in the world. Nature argues the questioning life in the affirmative, for well she knows, the ancient wise one, that denial is deadly. “I believe” is the password into the secret places of good.

The single vision, that sees truest, the simple heart, that loves it; the direct thought that sends it forth to bless—the world needs these more than that we should camp upon its trail with gall in our ink and our pens tipped with bitterness.

Gall can never fill a vacuum. “If you don’t want a boy to do that,” said a wise teacher (putting thumb to nose), “teach him something prettier.”

This, then, must we do for this hulking schoolboy world of ours; the half-grown, growing world, that knows enough to recognize that gall is neither good nor beautiful, yet sees not that the thing it does is, as well, unlovely.

Let us strive to look out on life with open vision and simple soul, seeing that it is fair; that no plant cometh forth to face the winter’s blight, but when the winter is over then green, tender things of beauty push upwards to meet the sunshine—first the blade, then the ear, and after that the full corn in the ear. Then cometh the insect, with his drop of gall, and ugliness and excrescence follow.

That which gives heat and light and blessing; that which generates force, and yields beauty in the burning wood that cheers our hearth, is the warm brightness of the sun’s rays that, in the process of liberating oxygen into the outer air, were stored up in the growing tree. If these had not been actually caught and incorporated in the wood by Nature’s subtle chemistry, do you think the fire would warm us, sitting by it?

And that in our literature, and in our art, that shall make them real, and able to offer coming ages anything in the warmth and light of this, must be what we shall manage to incorporate with their growth of the pure and wholesome, the life-making forces of our time. Negation is not life. Disease is not power. Abnormality is not truth. These are forces that make for death; and life, in its scientific ultimate, is the sum-total of the forces that resist death. So, I say again, that work of ours which is to carry life forward, which is to warm and light the ages, must be what we can perpetuate of the life-giving, growing elements of this one. Let there be gall enough in thy ink. To what purpose? Gall is not a promoter of growth. It is a result of hurt, and where it touches it leaves even a bad thing worse than it found it.

ADELINE KNAPP.

THE WORSHIPPERS.

Now it came to pass in the still night watches, when my body was asleep, that my soul dreamed a dream.

And in my dream I heard a voice say, “Unstop his ears that he may hear.”

And I became aware of the presence of an Angel, and he touched mine ears, saying, “When thou hearest a sound, a great sound, as of many mighty waters rushing headlong, listen, and fear nothing.”

Then, verily, did burst on my hearing a mighty noise, a most discordant frush, and I stretched out my hand to the Angel, who said, “Fear not! Now tell me what thou hearest.”

After pondering a long time I turned me to the Angel and said, “This discordant sound is that of many and diverse petitions, of which some are directed to the Eternal but more to the Spirit of Evil. I further perceive that well-nigh each and every voice thinks its own tone the right and the only right tone, and some few voices there be which desire all the others destroyed. Yet, I hear faintly a few that are as pure and sweet as the voices of the morning stars when they sing together.”

And the Angel said, “These are all the voices of the religions, the sects, the churches, and the individual hearts, upon your planet. They are many in number. They are wondrously many in number. Yet, the understanding of your little heart is darkened: none of these petitions are directed to the Spirit of Evil, though only God and we know the heart of man, and the love of only God is great enough to forgive your many strange desires. Those few and sweet voices—ah! those few sweet voices redeem—redeem the world!”

As I listened again to the strange murmur I wept, and cried saying, “Would that these voices were as one!”

And the Angel answered and said, “They will be when in that state you call ‘Heaven.’”

Then did my soul face eagerly the face of the Angel and say to him, “They will verily attain Heaven, then—all these many jangling voices?”

Bending on me a wondering look he answered, “They will. All who strive for Right and Light shall be happy. Worship they not all as truly and deeply as they know? Strive they not all to love—to be unselfish, although some half-heartedly? From the north and the south, from the east and the west shall they be gathered, and there shall carilloux harmonious ascend to The Eternal, as from one sweet and glorified tongue.”

And as I listened again I sighed and said, “God is very patient.”

“God is very patient. He is Love, and his ways are past finding out,” murmured the Angel.

Again he touched mine ears, saying, “Have you learned? Go, return to earth, and live in the spirit of Love. Love, and judge not. Love, and be very charitable, for you yourself jar on Heaven’s peace.”

And I awoke, and beheld the impartial sun.

CHARLES P. NETTLETON.

SIDE TALKS WITH THE PHILISTINES: BEING SOUL EASEMENT AND WISDOM INCIDENTALLY.

The Sons of Melchizedek are a most peculiar people.

So far as I know the Society for Psychic Research has not yet taken up the subject of these men who are without beginning of days or end of time. Yet surely it is a most vital theme. These beings who were never born and cannot die form a tribe that obeys no natural edict—they are a law unto themselves. They appear and disappear, like Clangingharp, to reappear again. Like vagrant comets, their orbit cannot be determined.

They are visible only under peculiar and extraordinary conditions. They materialize at will and disappear without explanation. After a lecture I have seen one of them rush forward and greet the speaker with a glow that must have gladdened the orator’s heart for months. In fact, your son of Melchizedek is an orator himself and therefore knows the orator’s need for a fervent word of appreciation after his “effort.”

Once at a Methodist love feast, when there was a lull in the program and the minister asked “And is there not just one more who is willing to add a word of testimony?” I felt a slight cold feeling go over me and knew at once that the Unknown was rising to his feet behind. I heard him clear his throat and begin with “My friends, I have been thinking while sitting here,” in a low, musical voice—a voice all a-tremble with fervor. He spoke for fully fifteen minutes—spoke with ease, and to the point. At first there was a craning of necks and whispered questions as to who he was; but this was soon lost in admiration. After the service he shook hands with many, then disappeared, none knew where.

This mysterious being often helps to carry in the piano, and in crowded street cars he has been known to supply the necessary nickle when ladies could not find their pockets. When old gentlemen fall in a fit on the street, he is on hand. Should a woman faint in church, he gently carries her out. He opens the windows in cars, and looks after the ventilator at all times, and at barbecues and outdoor public meetings he calls up the stranger to the feast, introducing shy countrymen to others still more shy, thus thawing the social ice and making all secure.

When church debts are to be raised he sometimes arises in his seat and subscribes a large amount. At mass meetings where volunteers are called for to pass the hat he always responds. He greets you cordially on the railway train, shaking hands as he passes; asks after the wife and babies and shames you into smirking idiocy because you cannot call him by name, and as he departs he waves his hand and charges you thus: “Take care yourself, old man!”

He is always large, usually stout, and the true type has a dun colored chin whisker. At least he should have.

He carries a glow of good nature that warms like wine; he is never cast down, nor is his heart dismayed. At country funerals he often appears, consoles the friends, takes care of the flowers, and arranges the chairs in a column circle against the wall. At the churchyard he walks with uncovered head by the side of the clergyman, fetches the reins from the nearest team to lower the coffin, and handles the shovel with an unction that savors of joy.

Surely, the Sons of Melchizedek, although not Philistines, are Peculiar Persons.

* * * * *

SHE—“Don’t you think him rather thick-headed?”

HE—(Who has lately been presented with a book of Familiar Quotations) “Yes, indeed: his head is as thick as leaves in Vallombrosa.”

* * * * *

The most biting bit of irony that passes as a current coin is that reference to Boston as a city of culture—or it would be, were it not for the insight shown in _Paragraphs_.

* * * * *

There were two Ballestiers. The good one, beloved of the gods (and men), died young; but the one that resides near Brattleboro will probably live to be a hundred. Rudyard benefitted the man and as a sure result got his enmity. He is just literary enough in his instincts to read his brother-in-law’s books for gibes and jeers at himself. He imagines that every villain in the Kipling books is a black attempt to paint a Beatty Ballestier portrait: not knowing that an author (like Diety) creates in his own image. So the Ballestier reads and rages and cuts hickory clubs and lies in wait for Mowgli, who dares not venture out of sight of the bungalow except after dark. Has Rudyard Kipling written the best he ever will? is a question that the bad Ballestier proposes to answer by sending the soul of Kipling to join that of Tomlinson. Some folks are saying “Good hunting to you, Kaa Ballestier,” but Kipling in the meantime has had the rogue elephant put under bonds to keep the peace, this as preliminary to the killing, should the rogue continue to fool around the ’rickshaw.

* * * * *

In the story of “Kate Carnegie,” now running in _The Bookman_, Ian Maclaren uses the exclamation “Dod!” about three times to a page. This is understood to be a little advertising scheme suggested by Mr. MacArthur. Your Scot is a very thrifty person.

* * * * *

Mr. Percival Pollard who fights in the Commissariat, and once received a red badge, by being bumbasted with a pie (although he swears ’twas a tart) is uttering rank heresy in the _New York Journal_ concerning Stephen Crane. The statement is made that Crane is only a producer of “Bloomingdale symbolistic hash.” But now behold Mr. Pollard has discovered Nankivell “King of Colorists and Past Master of all living Draughtsmen”—bless my soul! when up pops a writer in the _Art Amateur_ and declares that the only fit man to illustrate The _Black Riders_ is this same Nankivell.

* * * * *

They do say that ’Enery James has resolved to write a novel with an incident. Gosh!

* * * * *

Is it true that a folio periodical issued in Philadelphia is to have a serial story entitled, “People Who Have Bored Me,” and that the first chapters will be written by Mr. Howells, with comments on Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, Dumas, Shakespeare, Moses, Phidias, the critics of the daily papers and Henry Clay?

* * * * *

“Algernon wondered vaguely if he had done right in leaving the handkerchief where she had dropped it, on the center table. If only it had been the arm chair, now, what a different complexion it would have put upon this dilemma—if it was a dilemma—no, hardly a dilemma, rather a quandary, or even a question. And she—did she, too, brood upon the handkerchief? Did she justify herself in dropping it, in the way she did? He arose, wearily. ‘I dunno,’ he said, defiantly, yet hopelessly, and sat down.”—_Advance sheets from H. James._

* * * * *

That the Stage has fallen into a very bad way none dispute, and under present conditions I cannot do better than to commend this ordinance, passed in London in 1642, to the earnest consideration of His Honor, the Mayor, and the Honorable Common Council of the City of New York:

Whereas the Acts of Stage-Plays, Interludes and Common Plays, Condemned by Ancient Heathens, and much less to be tolerated amongst Professors of the Christian Religion, is the occasion of many and sundry great vices and disorders, tending to the high provocation of God’s wrath and displeasure, and to the disturbance of the peace:

Therefore, for the better suppression of the said Stage-Plays, Interludes, and Common Plays, It is Ordered and Ordained by the Lords and Commons in this present Parliament Assembled, and by Authority of the same, That all Stage-Players, and Players of Interludes, and common Plays, are hereby declared to be Rogues, and punishable, within the Statutes of the thirty-ninth year of the Reign of Queen Elizabeth, and the seventh year of the Reign of King James, and liable unto the pains and penalties therein contained, and proscribed against according to the said Statutes.

And it is further Ordered and Ordained by the Authority aforesaid, That the Lord Mayor, Justices of the peace, and Sheriffs of the City of London and Westminster, and of the Counties of Middlesex and Surrey, or any two or more of them, shall, and may, and are hereby, Authorized and required to pull down and demolish, or cause or procure to be pulled down and demolished all Stage Galleries, Seats, and Boxes, erected or used, or which shall be erected and used for the acting or playing, or seeing acted or played, such Stage-Plays, Interludes, and Plays aforesaid, within the said City of London and Libertis thereof, and other places within their respective jurisdictions; and all such common Players, and Actors of such Plays and Interludes, or any one of them, or by Oath of two Witnesses shall be proved before them to have acted or played such Plays and Interludes as aforesaid at any time thereafter, by their Warrant or Warrants under their hands and seals, to cause to be apprehended, and openly and publicly given forty lashes on the bare back, during the time of the said Market, and also to cause such Offenders to enter into Recognizance with two sufficient Sureties never to act or play any Plays or Interludes any more, and shall return in the said Recognizance, or Recognizances, into the Sizes or Sessions to be then next holden for the said Counties and Cities respectively. And in case any such person or persons so convicted of the said offense, shall after again offend in the same kind, that then the said person or persons offending, shall be and is hereby declared to be, and be taken as an Incorrigible Rogue, and shall be punished and dealt with as an Incorrigible Rogue ought to be. And it is hereby further Ordered and Ordained, That all and every sum and sums of Money gathered, Collected, and taken by any person or persons, of such persons as shall come to see, and be Spectators of the said Stage-Plays, and Interludes, shall be forfeited and paid unto the Church-Wardens of the Church of the Parish.

* * * * *

The _presciences_ of the Seventeenth Century often held morning _conversazioni_, receiving their callers in bed. Like cyclones, fashions have a spiral movement; and now the good old custom of the _presciences_ has returned, and like the cyclone, manifests itself in the West: a Chicago woman giving a weekly “Thursday Morning.” The bed on which the hostess languishes is a Louis the Fourteen Times—a gigantic four poster, with curtains partially drawn. When each caller is announced a thin blue-veined hand is held out from behind the curtains, and visions of a snowy lace-trimmed, Marchale Field night gown swim before his eyes as the thin hand is reverently kissed. The room is dimly lighted, the air is heavy with strange mysterious perfumes and all the conversation is held in undertone. It may not be amiss to state also that the coverlet of the bed is a very modern crazy quilt that has been duly certified to by a commission de lunatico enquirendo.

* * * * *

Certainly the people of Boston are a generous folk: in their walk and conversation they even add an R to “banana,” and spell “law” with four letters when three suffice—for hoi polloi.

* * * * *

The pink tea for Authors was a pretty failure. A Fictionist standing behind a teacup with a pink tidy on his chest and pink bows on his legs is a depressive sight, everywhere but in Philadelphia. But while five o’clock tea does not work, eleven o’clock beer is a roaring success.

Little Journeys

SERIES FOR 1896

Little Journeys to the Homes of American Authors.

The papers below specified were, with the exception of that contributed by the editor, Mr. Hubbard, originally issued by the late G. P. Putnam, in 1853, in a book entitled _Homes of American Authors_. It is now nearly half a century since this series (which won for itself at the time a very noteworthy prestige) was brought before the public; and the present publishers feel that no apology is needed in presenting to a new generation of American readers papers of such distinctive biographical interest and literary value.

No. 1, Emerson, by Geo. W. Curtis. ” 2, Bryant, by Caroline M. Kirkland. ” 3, Prescott, by Geo. S. Hillard. ” 4, Lowell, by Charles F. Briggs. ” 5, Simms, by Wm. Cullen Bryant. ” 6, Walt Whitman, by Elbert Hubbard. ” 7, Hawthorne, by Geo. Wm. Curtis. ” 8, Audubon, by Parke Godwin. ” 9, Irving, by H. T. Tuckerman. ” 10, Longfellow, by Geo. Wm. Curtis. ” 11, Everett, by Geo. S. Hillard. ” 12, Bancroft, by Geo. W. Greene.

The above papers will form the series of _Little Journeys_ for the year 1896.

They will be issued monthly, beginning January, 1896, in the same general style as the series of 1895, at 50 cents a year, and single copies will be sold for 5 cents, postage paid.

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON

The ROYCROFT Printing Shop has in preparation GLYNNE’S WIFE, a story in verse by Mrs. Julia Ditto Young.

Mrs. Young is a Poet who has written much but published little. This, her latest and believed by her friends to be her best work, is the product of a mind and heart singularly gifted by Nature, and ripened by a long apprenticeship to Art. As a specimen of the pure “lyric cry,” illustrating the melody possible in the English tongue, the volume seems to stand alone among all books written by modern versifiers. The delicacy of touch, the faultless rhythm, the splendid vocabulary and the gentle tho’ sure insight into the human heart, make a combination of qualities very, very seldom seen. The author _knows_, and knowing blames not: a sustained sympathy being the keynote of it all.