WALKING-STICK PAPERS

BY

ROBERT CORTES HOLLIDAY

1918

AS A CAT MAY LOOK AT A KING

SO I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE DOINGS TO

THREE FINE MEN:

W. C. BROWNELL

HILAIRE BELLOC

ROYAL CORTISSOZ

BECAUSE THEY REPRESENT TO MY MIND

THE BEST THINGS GOING:

THE PURE MILK OF THE WORD

FOREWORD

These little records of some excursions made by what Mr. James called"a visiting mind" first saw the light of public countenance in thepages of various publications. "On Going to Art Exhibitions" has beenmuch expanded since its appearance in _Vanity Fair_. In _The UnpopularReview_ the original title of "That Reviewer 'Cuss'" was brought intoharmony with the dignity of its setting by being changed to "The HackReviewer. " "A Clerk May Look at a Celebrity" was printed in the NewYork _Times_ under the head "Glimpses of Celebrities. " This paper hasbeen included in this collection at the request of severaldistinguished gentlemen who have been so unfortunate as to lose theirnewspaper clippings of the article. That several of the personagesfiguring in this and one or two other of these papers have passed awaysince these papers were written seems to be thought an additionalreason for reprinting these essays here. _The Bellman_ fell for"Caun't Speak the Language"; the New York _Tribune_, "Humours of theBookshop"; _The Independent_, "Reading After Thirty, " "You Are anAmerican" appeared in the New York _Sun_; where the head "An AmericanReviewer in London" was substituted for the title of "Literary Levitiesin London. " The following papers were contributed to the New York_Evening Post_: "The Fish Reporter, " "On Going a Journey, " "ARoundabout Paper, " "Henry James, Himself, " "Memories of a Manuscript, ""Why Men Can't Read Novels by Women, " "The Dessert of Life, " "HuntingLodgings, " "My Friend, the Policeman, " "Help Wanted, " "Human MunicipalDocuments, " "As to People, " "A Town Constitutional, " and "On Wearing aHat. " "On Carrying a Cane" appeared in _The Bookman_. I thank theeditors of the publications named for permission to reprint thesepapers here. R. C. H. 

New York, 1918. 

CONTENTS

 PROLOGUE: ON CARRYING A CANE

 I THE FISH REPORTER II ON GOING A JOURNEY III GOING TO ART EXHIBITIONS IV A ROUNDABOUT PAPER V THAT REVIEWER "CUSS" VI LITERARY LEVITIES IN LONDON VII HENRY JAMES, HIMSELF VIII MEMORIES OF A MANUSCRIPT IX "YOU ARE AN AMERICAN" X WHY MEN CAN'T READ NOVELS BY WOMEN XI THE DESSERT OF LIFE XII A CLERK MAY LOOK AT A CELEBRITY XIII CAUN'T SPEAK THE LANGUAGE XIV HUNTING LODGINGS XV MY FRIEND, THE POLICEMAN XVI HELP WANTED--MALE, FEMALE XVII HUMAN MUNICIPAL DOCUMENTS XVIII AS TO PEOPLE XIX HUMOURS OF THE BOOK SHOP XX THE DECEASED XXI A TOWN CONSTITUTIONAL XXII READING AFTER THIRTY

 EPILOGUE: ON WEARING A HAT

WALKING-STICK PAPERS

PROLOGUE

ON CARRYING A CANE

Some people, without doubt, are born with a deep instinct for carryinga cane; some consciously acquire the habit of carrying a cane; and somefind themselves in a position where the matter of carrying a cane isthrust upon them. 

Canes are carried in all parts of the world, and have been carried--orthat which was the forefather of them has been carried--since humanhistory began. Indeed, a very fair account of mankind might be made bywriting the story, of its canes. And nothing that would readily occurto mind would more eloquently express a civilisation than its evidentattitude toward canes. Perhaps nothing can more subtly convey thepsychology of a man than his feeling about a cane. 

The prehistoric ape, we are justified in assuming, struggled uprightupon a cane. The cane, so to speak, with which primitive man wooed hisbride, defended his life, liberty and pursuit of happiness, and broughtdown his food, was (like all canes which are in good taste) admirablychosen for the occasion. The spear, the stave, the pilgrim's staff, the sword, the sceptre--always has the cane-carrying animal bornesomething in his hand. And, down the long vista of the past, the cane, in its various manifestations, has ever been the mark of strength, andso of dignity. Thus as a man originally became a gentleman, or a king, by force of valour, the cane in its evolution has ever been the symbolof a superior caste. 

A man cannot do manual labour carrying a cane. And it would be a moralimpossibility for one of servile state--a butler, for instance, or aticket-chopper--to present himself in the role of his occupationornamented with a cane. One held in custody would not be permitted toappear before a magistrate flaunting a cane. Until the stigma whichattaches to his position may be erased he would be shorn of this markof nobility, the cane. 

Canes are now carried mostly by the very youthful and the very aged, the powerful, the distinguished, the patrician, the self-important, andthose who fancy to exalt themselves. Some, to whom this privilege isdenied during the week by their fear of adverse public opinion, carrycanes only on Sundays and holidays. By this it is shown that on thesedays they are their own masters. 

Custom as to carrying canes varies widely in different parts of theworld; but it may be taken as a general maxim that the farther west yougo the less you see of canes. The instinct for carrying a cane is morenatural in old civilisations, where the tradition is of ancient growth, than in newer ones, where frequently a cane is regarded as the sign ofan effete character. As we have been saying, canes, we all feel, havean affinity with the idea of an aristocracy. If you do not admit thatthe idea of an aristocracy is a good one, then doubtless you are downon canes. It is interesting to observe that canes have flourished atall especially chivalrous periods and in all especially chivalrouscommunities. No illustrator would portray a young planter of the OldSouth without his cane; and that fragrant old-school figure, a southern"Colonel, " without his cane is inconceivable. Canes connote more orless leisure. They convey a subtle insinuation of some degree ofculture. 

They always are a familiar article of a gentleman's dress in warmclimates. The cane, quite strictly speaking, in fact has its origin inwarm countries. For properly speaking, the word cane should berestricted in its application to a peculiar class of palms, known asratans, included under the closely allied genera _Calamus_ and_Daemonorops_, of which there are a large number of species. Theseplants, the Encyclopedia tells us, are found widely extended throughoutthe islands of the Indian Archipelago, the Malay Peninsula, China, India and Ceylon; and examples have also been found in Australia andAfrica. The learned Rumphius describes them, under the name of_Palmijunci_, as inhabitants of dense forests into which the rays ofthe sun scarce can penetrate, where they form spiny bushes, obstructingthe passage through the jungle. They rise to the top of the tallesttrees and fall again so as to resemble a great length of cable, adorned, however, with the most beautiful leaves, pinnated orterminating in graceful tendrils. The plants creep or trail along toan enormous length, sometimes, it is said, reaching five hundred feet. Two examples of _Calamus verus_, measuring respectively two hundred andseventy feet and two hundred and thirty feet, were exhibited in theParis exhibition of 1855. 

The well-known Malacca canes are obtained from _Calamus Scipionum_, thestems of which are much stouter than is the case with the averagespecies of _Calamus_. Doubtless to the vulgar a Malacca cane is merelya Malacca cane. There are, however, in this interesting world choicespirits who make a cult of Malacca canes, just as some dog fanciers aredevotees of the Airedale terrier. Such as these know that inferiorMalacca canes are, as the term in the cane trade is, "shaved"; that is, not being of the circumference most coveted, but too thick, they havebeen whittled down in bulk. A prime Malacca cane is, of course, anatural stem, and it is a nice point to have a slight irregularity inits symmetry as evidence of this. The delicious spotting of a Malaccacane is due to the action of the sun upon it in drying. As the stemsare dried in sheaves, those most richly splotched are the ones thathave been at the outside of the bundle. What new strength to meetlife's troubles, what electric expansion of soul, come to the initiatedupon the feel of the vertebra of his Malacca cane!

The name of cane is also applied to many plants besides the _Calamus_, which are possessed of long, slender, reed-like stalks or stems, as, for instance, the sugar-cane, or the reed-cane. From the use aswalking-sticks to which many of these plants have been applied, thename cane has been given generally to "sticks" irrespective of thesource from which they are derived. 

Our distinguished grandfathers carried canes, frequently handsomegold-headed ones, especially if they were ministers. Bishops, or"Presiding Elders;" when, in those mellow times, it was the custom fora congregation to present its minister with a gold-headed cane dulyinscribed. Our fathers of some consequence carried canes of agentlemanly pattern, often ones with ivory handles. Though in the dayswhen those of us now sometime grown were small one had to have arrivedat the dignity of at least middle-age before it was seemly for one tocarry a cane. In England, however, and particularly at Eton, it haslong been a common practice for small aristocrats to affect canes. 

The dandies, fops, exquisites, and beaux of picturesque and courtlyages were, of course, very partial to canes, and sometimes wore themattached to the wrist by a thong. It has been the custom of theSurgeon of the King of England to carry a "Gold Headed Cane. " Thiscane has been handed down to the various incumbents of this officesince the days of Dr. John Radcliffe, who was the first holder of thecane. It has been used for two hundred years or more by the greatestphysicians and surgeons in the world, who succeeded to it. "The GoldHeaded Cane" was adorned by a cross-bar at the top instead of a knob. The fact is explained by Munk, in that Radcliffe, the first owner, wasa rule unto himself and possibly preferred this device as a mark ofdistinction beyond the knob used by physicians in general. Men ofgenius now and then have found in their choice of a cane an opportunityfor the play of their eccentricity, such a celebrated cane being thetall wand of Whistler. Among the relics of great men preserved inmuseums for the inspiration of the people canes generally are to befound. We have all looked upon the cane of George Washington at MountVernon and the walking-stick of Carlyle in Cheyne Walk. And is eachnot eloquent of the man who cherished it?

Freak canes are displayed here and there by persons of a pleasantlybizarre turn of mind: canes encased in the hide of an elephant's tail, canes that have been intricately carven by some Robinson Crusoe, orcanes of various other such species of curiosity. There is a veteranNew York journalist who will be glad to show any student of canes onewhich he prizes highly that was made from the limb of a tree upon whicha friend of his was hanged. In our age of handy inventions a type ofcane is manufactured in combination with an umbrella. 

Canes are among the useful properties of the theatre. He would be adecidedly incomplete villain who did not carry a cane. Imaginativeliterature is rich in canes. Who ever heard of a fairy godmotherwithout a cane? Who with any feeling for terror has not been startledby the tap, tap of the cane of old Pew in "Treasure Island"? There isan awe and a pathos in canes, too, for they are the light to blind men. And the romance of canes is further illustrated in this: they, withrags and the wallet, have been among the traditional accoutrements ofbeggars, the insignia of the "dignity springing from the very depth ofdesolation; as, to be naked is to be so much nearer to the being a man, than to go in livery. " J. M. Barrie was so fond of an anecdote of acane that he employed it several times in his earlier fiction. Thiswas the story of a young man who had a cane with a loose knob, which insociety he would slyly shake so that it tumbled off, when he wouldexclaim: "Yes, that cane is like myself; it always loses its head inthe presence of ladies. "

Canes have figured prominently in humour. The Irishman's shillelaghwas for years a conspicuous feature of the comic press. And there willinstantly come to every one's mind that immortal passage in "TristramShandy. " Trim is discoursing upon life and death:

"Are we not here now, continued the Corporal (striking the end of hisstick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of healthand stability)--and are we not (dropping his hat upon the ground) gone!in a moment!--'Twas infinitely striking! Susannah burst into a floodof tears. "

Canes are not absent from poetry. Into your ears already has come therefrain of "The Last Leaf":

 "And totters o'er the ground, With his cane. "

And, doubtless, floods of instances of canes that the world will notwillingly let die will occur to one upon a moment's reflection. 

Canes are inseparable from art. All artists carry them; and the poorerthe artist the more attached is he to his cane. Canes areindispensable to the simple vanity of the Bohemian. One of the mostmemorable drawings of Steinlen depicts the quaint soul of a child ofthe Latin Quarter: an elderly Bohemian, very much frayed, advanceswreathed in the sunshine of his boutonniere and cane. Canes areinvariably an accompaniment of learning. Sylvester Bonnard would ofcourse not be without his cane; nor would any other true book-worm, asmay be seen any day in the reading-room of the British Museum and ofthe New York Public Library. It is, indeed, indisputable that canes, more than any other article of dress, are peculiarly related to themind. There is an old book-seller on Fourth Avenue whose clothes whenhe dies, like the boots of Michelangelo, probably will require to bepried loose from him, so incessantly has he worn them within the memoryof man. None has ever looked upon him in the open air without hiscane. And is not that emblem of omniscience and authority, theschoolmaster's ferule, directly of the cane family? So large has thecane loomed in the matter of chastisement that the word cane has becomea verb, to cane. 

There was (in the days before the war) a military man (friend of mine), a military man of the old school, in whom could be seen, shining like aflame, a man's great love of a cane. He had lived a portion of hislife in South America, and he used to promenade every pleasantafternoon up and down the Avenue swinging a sharply pointed, steel-ferruled swagger-stick. "What's the use of carrying thatridiculous thing around town?" some one said to him one day. 

"That!" he rumbled in reply (he was one of the roarers among men), "why, that's to stab scorpions with. "

They've buried him, I heard, in Flanders; on his breast (I hope), hiscane. 

"When a Red Cross platoon, " says a news despatch of the other day, "wasadvancing to the aid of scores of wounded men. Surgeon William J. McCracken of the British Medical Corps ordered all to take cover, andhimself advanced through the enemy's fire, bearing a Red Cross flag onhis walking-stick. "

Indeed, the Great War is one of the most thrilling, momentous andcolourful chapters in the history of canes. "The officers picked uptheir canes, " says the newspaper, and so forth, and so forth. CaptainA. Radclyffe Dugmore, in a spirited drawing of the Battle of the Somme, shows an officer leading a charge waving a light cane. As an emblem ofrank the cane among our Allies has apparently supplanted the sword. Something of the dapper, cocky look of our brothers in arms on ourstreets undoubtedly is due to their canes. One never sees a British, French or Italian officer in the rotogravure sections without his cane. We should be as startled to see General Haig or the Prince of Waleswithout a cane as without a leg. With our own soldiers the cane doesnot seem to be so much the thing, at least over here. I have a friend, however, who went away a private with a rifle over his shoulder. Theother day came news from him that he had become a sergeant, and, perhaps as proof of this, a photograph of himself wearing a tin hat andwith a cane in his hand. It is also to be observed now and then that alady in uniformed service appears to regard it as an added militarytouch to swing a cane. 

Women as well as men play their part in the colourful story of thecane. The shepherdess's crook might be regarded as the precursor ofcanes for ladies. In Merrie England in the age when the May-poleflourished it was fashionable, we know from pictures, for comely missesand grandes dames to sport tall canes mounted with silver or gold andknotted with a bow of ribbon. The dowager duchess of romantic storyhas always appeared leaning upon her cane. Do not we so see the richaunt of Hawden Crawley? And Mr. Walpole's Duchess of Wrexe, certainly, was supported in her domination of the old order of things by a cane. The historic old croons of our own early days smoked a clay or acorn-cob pipe and went bent upon a cane. 

In England to-day it is swagger for women to carry sticks--in thecountry. And here the thoughtful spectator of the human scene notes anice point. It is not etiquette, according to English manners, for awoman to carry a cane in town. Some American ladies who admire andwould emulate English customs have not been made acquainted with thisdelicate nuance of taste, and so are very unfashionable when they wouldbe ultra-fashionable. 

Anybody returning from the Alps should bring back an Alpine stock withhim; every one who has visited Ireland upon his return has presentedsome close friend with a blackthorn stick; nobody has made a walkingtour of England without an ash stick. In London all adult males abovethe rank of costers carry "sticks"; in New York sticks are customarywith many who would be ashamed to assume them did they live in theMiddle West, where the infrequent sticks to be seen upon the citystreets are in many cases the sign of transient mummers. And yet it isa curious fact that in communities where the stick is conspicuouslyabsent from the streets it is commonly displayed in show-windows, incompany with cheap suits and decidedly loud gloves. Another oddcircumstance is this: trashy little canes hawked by sidewalk vendersgenerally appear with the advent of toy balloons for sale on days ofbig parades. 

In Jamaica, Long Island, the visitor would probably see canes in thehands only of prosperous coloured gentlemen. And than this factprobably nothing throws more light on the winning nature of thecoloured race, and on the character and function of canes. In SanFrancisco--but the adequate story, the Sartor Resartus--the World asCanes, remains to be written. 

This, of course, is the merest essay into this vast and significantsubject. 

I

THE FISH REPORTER

Men of genius, blown by the winds of chance, have been, now and then, mariners, bar-keeps, schoolmasters, soldiers, politicians, clergymen, and what not. And from these pursuits have they sucked the essence ofyarns and in the setting of these activities found a flavour to stirand to charm hearts untold. Now, it is a thousand pities that no manof genius has ever been a fish reporter. Thus has the world lost greatliterary treasure, as it is highly probable that there is not under thesun any prospect so filled with the scents and colours of story as thatpresented by the commerce in fish. 

Take whale oil. Take the funny old buildings on Front Street, out ofpaintings, I declare, by Howard Pyle, where the large merchants inwhale oil are. Take salt fish. Do you know the oldest salt-fish housein America, down by Coenties Slip? Ah! you should. The ghost of oldLong John Silver, I suspect, smokes an occasional pipe in that oldplace. And many are the times I've seen the slim shade of young JimHawkins come running out. Take Labrador cod for export to theMediterranean lands or to Porto Rico via New York. Take herringsbrought to this port from Iceland, from Holland, and from Scotland;mackerel from Ireland, from the Magdalen Islands, and from Cape Breton;crabmeat from Japan; fishballs from Scandinavia; sardines from Norwayand from France; caviar from Russia; shrimp which comes from Florida, Mississippi, and Georgia, or salmon from Alaska, and Puget Sound, andthe Columbia River. 

Take the obituaries of fishermen. "In his prime, it is said, there wasnot a better skipper in the Gloucester fishing fleet. " Take disastersto schooners, smacks, and trawlers. "The crew were landed, but lostall their belongings. " New vessels, sales, etc. "The sealing schooner_Tillie B. _, whose career in the South Seas is well known, is reportedto have been sold to a moving-picture firm. " Sponges from theCaribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico. "To most people, familiar onlywith the sponges of the shops, the animal as it comes from the seawould be rather unrecognisable. " Why, take anything you please! It issuch stuff as stories are. And as you eat your fish from the store howlittle do you reck of the glamour of what you are doing!

However, as it seems to me unlikely that a man of genius will be a fishreporter shortly I will myself do the best I can to paint the tapestryof the scenes of his calling. The advertisement in the newspaper read:"Wanted--Reporter for weekly trade paper. " Many called, but I waschosen. Though, doubtless, no man living knew less about fish than I. 

The news stands are each like a fair, so laden are they with magazinesin bright colours. It would seem almost as if there were a differentmagazine for every few hundred and seven-tenth person, as thestatistics put these matters. And yet, it seems, there is a vast, avery vast, periodical literature of which we, that is, magazine readersin general, know nothing whatever. There is, for one, that fine, old, standard publication, _Barrel and Box_, devoted to the subjects and theinterests of the coopering industry; there is, too, _The Dried FruitPacker and Western Canner_, as alert a magazine as one could wish--inits kind; and from the home of classic American literature comes _TheNew England Tradesman and Grocer_. And so on. At the place alonewhere we went to press twenty-seven trade journals were printed everyweek, from one for butchers to one for bankers. 

_The Fish Industries Gazette_--Ah, yes! For some reason not clear(though it is an engaging thing, I think) the word "gazette" is thegreat word among the titles of trade journals. There are _TheJewellers' Gazette_ and _The Women's Wear Gazette_ and _The Poulterers'Gazette_ (of London), and _The Maritime Gazette_ (of Halifax), andother gazettes quite without number. This word "gazette" makes itsappeal, too, curiously enough, to those who christen country papers;and trade journals have much of the intimate charm of country papers. The "trade" in each case is a kind of neighbourly community, separatedin its parts by space, but joined in unity of sympathy. "Personals"are a vital feature of trade papers. "Walter Conner, who for some timehas conducted a bakery and fish market at Hudson, N. Y. , has removed toFort Edward, leaving his brother Ed in charge at the Hudson place ofbusiness. "

_The Fish Industries Gazette_, as I say, was one of several in itsfield, in friendly rivalry with _The Oyster Trade and Fisherman_ and_The Pacific Fisheries_. It comprized two departments: the fresh fishand oyster department, and myself. I was, as an editorial announcementsaid at the beginning of my tenure of office, a "reorganisation of oursalt, smoked, and pickled fish department. " The delectable, mellowspirit of the country paper, so removed from the crash and whirr ofmetropolitan journalism, rested in this, too, that upon the _Gazette_ Idid practically everything on the paper except the linotyping. Reporter, editorial writer, exchange editor, make-up man, proof-reader, correspondent, advertisement solicitor, was I. 

As exchange editor, did I read all the papers in the English languagein eager search of fish news. And while you are about the matter, justfind me a finer bit of literary style evoking the romance of the vastwastes of the moving sea, in Stevenson, Defoe, anywhere you please, than such a news item as this: "Capt. Ezra Pound, of the bark _Elnora_, of Salem, Mass. , spoke a lonely vessel in latitude this and longitudethat, September 8. She proved to be the whaler _Wanderer_, and hercaptain said that she had been nine months at sea, that all on boardwere well, and that he had stocked so many barrels of whale oil. "

As exchange editor was it my business to peruse reports from Eastport, Maine, to the effect that one of the worst storms in recent years haddestroyed large numbers of the sardine weirs there. To seek fishrecipes, of such savoury sound as those for "broiled redsnapper, ""shrimps bordelaise, " and "baked fish croquettes. " To follow fishingconditions in the North Sea occasioned by the Great War. To hunt downjokes of piscatory humour. "The man who drinks like a fish does nottake kindly to water. --Exchange. " To find other "fillers" in theconsular reports and elsewhere: "Fish culture in India, " "1800 Miles ina Dory, " "Chinese Carp for the Philippines, " "Americans as FishEaters. " And, to use a favourite term of trade papers, "etc. , etc. "Then to "paste up" the winnowed fruits of this beguiling research. 

As editorial writer, to discuss the report of the commission recentlysent by congress to the Pribilof Islands, Alaska, to report on thecondition of our national herd of fur seals; to discuss the officialinterpretation here of the Government ruling on what constitutes"boneless" codfish; to consider the campaign in Canada to promote therea more popular consumption of fish, and to brightly remark apropos ofthis that "a fish a day keeps the doctor away"; to review the currentissue of _The Journal of the Fisheries Society of Japan_, containingleading articles on "Are Fishing Motor Boats Able to Encourage in OurCountry" and "Fisherman the Late Mr. H. Yamaguchi Well Known"; tocombat the prejudice against dogfish as food, a prejudice like thatagainst eels, in some quarters eyed askance as "calling cousins withthe great sea-serpent, " as Juvenal says; to call attention to the doomof one of the most picturesque monuments in the story of fish, thepassing of the pleasant and celebrated old Trafalgar Hotel atGreenwich, near London, scene of the famous Ministerial white-baitdinners of the days of Pitt; to make a jest on an exciting ideasuggested by some medical man that some of the features of aRitz-Carlton Hotel, that is, baths, be introduced into the fo'c's'lesof Grand Banks fishing vessels; to keep an eye on the activities of ourBureau of Fisheries; to hymn a praise to the monumental new Fish Pierat Boston; to glance at conditions at the premier fish market of theworld, Billingsgate; to herald the fish display at the CanadianNational Exhibition at Toronto, and, indeed, etc. , and again etc. 

As general editorial roustabout, to find each week a "leader, " atranslation, say, from _In Allgemeine Fishcherei-Zeitwung_, or_Economic Circular No. 10_, "Mussels in the Tributaries of theMissouri, " or the last biennial report of the Superintendent ofFisheries of Wisconsin, or a scientific paper on "The Porpoise inCaptivity" reprinted by permission of _Zoologica_, of the New YorkZoological Society. To find each week for reprint a poem appropriatein sentiment to the feeling of the paper. One of the "Salt WaterBallads" would do, or John Masefield singing of "the whale's way, " or"Down to the white dipping sails;" or Rupert Brooke: "And in thatheaven of all their wish. There shall be no more land, say fish"; or a"weather rhyme" about "mackerel skies, " when "you're sure to get afishing day"; or something from the New York _Sun_ about "the lobsterpots of Maine"; or Oliver Herford, in the _Century_, "To a Goldfish";or, best of all, an old song of fishing ways of other days. 

And to compile from the New York _Journal of Commerce_ better poetrythan any of this, tables, beautiful tables of "imports into New York":"Oct. 15. --From Bordeaux, 225 cs. Cuttlefish bone; Copenhagen, 173pkgs. Fish; Liverpool, 969 bbls. Herrings, 10 walrus hides, 2, 000 bagssalt; La Guayra, 6 cs. Fish sounds; Belize, 9 bbls. Sponges; Rotterdam, 7 pkgs. Seaweed, 9, 000 kegs herrings; Barcelona, 235 cs. Sardines;Bocas Del Toro, 5 cs. Turtle shells; Genoa, 3 boxes corals; Tampico, 2pkgs. Sponges; Halifax, 1 cs. Seal skins, 35 bbls. Cod liver oil, 215cs. Lobsters, 490 bbls. Codfish; Akureyri, 4, 150 bbls. Saltedherrings, " and much more. Beautiful tables of "exports from New York". "To Australia" (cleared Sep. 1); "to Argentina;"--Haiti, Jamaica, Guatemala, Scotland, Salvador, Santo Domingo, England, and to placesmany more. And many other gorgeous tables, too, "Fishing vessels atNew York, " for one, listing the "trips" brought into this port by the_Stranger_, the _Sarah O'Neal_, the _Nourmahal_, a farrago of charmingsounds, and a valuable tale of facts. 

As make-up man, of course, so to "dress" the paper that the "markets, "Oporto, Trinidad, Porto Rico, Demerara, Havana, would be together; that"Nova Scotia Notes"--"Weather conditions for curing have been morefavourable since October set in"--would follow "Halifax FishMarket"--"Last week's arrivals were: Oct. 13, schr. _Hattie Loring_, 960 quintals, " etc. --that "Pacific Coast Notes"--"The tug _Tatoosh_will perform the service for the Seattle salmon packers of towing avessel from Seattle to this port via the Panama Canal"--would follow"Canned Salmon"; that shellfish matter would be in one place; reportsof saltfish where such should be; that the weekly tale of the cannedfish trade politically embraced the canned fish advertising; and so onand so on. 

Finest of all, as reporter, to go where the fish reporter goes. Therethe sight-seeing cars never find their way; the hurried commuter hasnot his path, nor knows of these things at all; and there that racycharacter who, voicing a multitude, declares that he would rather be alamp post on Broadway than Mayor of St. Louis, goes not for to see. Uplower Greenwich Street the fish reporter goes, along an eerie, dark, and narrow way, beneath a strange, thundering roof, the "L" overhead. He threads his way amid seemingly chaotic, architectural piles ofboxes, of barrels, crates, casks, kegs, and bulging bags; roundaboutmany great fetlocked draught horses, frequently standing or plungingupon the sidewalk, and attached to many huge trucks and wagons; andmuch of the time in the street he is compelled to go, finding the sidewalks too congested with the traffic of commerce to admit of hispassing there. 

You probably eat butter, and eggs, and cheese. Then you would delightin Greenwich Street. You could feast your highly creditable appetitefor these excellent things for very nearly a solid mile upon the signsof "wholesale dealers and commission merchants" in them. The letterpress, as you might say, of the fish reporter's walk is a noble paeanto the earth's glorious yield for the joyous sustenance of man. Forthese princely merchants' signs sing of opulent stores of olive oil, ofsausages, beans, soups, extracts, and spices, sugar, Spanish, Bermuda, and Havana onions, "fine" apples, teas, coffee, rice, chocolates, driedfruits and raisins, and of loaves and of fishes, and of "fishproducts. " Lo! dark and dirty and thundering Greenwich Street isto-day's translation of the Garden of Eden. 

Here is a great house whose sole vocation is the importation of caviarfor barter here. Caviar from over-seas now comes, when it comes atall, mainly by the way of Archangel, recently put on the map, for mostof us, by the war. The fish reporter is told, however, if it besummer, that there cannot be much doing in the way of caviar untilfall, "when the spoonbill start coming in. " And on he goes to a greatsaltfish house, where many men in salt-stained garments are runningabout, their arms laden with large flat objects, of sharp and jaggededge, which resemble dried and crackling hides of some animal curiouslylike a huge fish; and numerous others of "the same" are trundling roundwheelbarrow-like trucks likewise so laden. Where stacks of these hidesstand on their tails against the walls, and goodness knows how many bigboxes are, containing, as those open show, beautifully soft, thick, cream-coloured slabs, which is fish. And where still other men, inoveralls stained like a painter's palette, are knocking off the headsof casks and dipping out of brine still other kinds of fish forinspection. 

Here it is said by the head of the house, by the stove (it is chillweather) in his office like a ship-master's cabin: "Strong market onforeign mackerel. Mines hinder Norway catch. Advices from abroadreport that German resources continue to purchase all availablesupplies from the Norwegian fishermen. No Irish of any account. Recent shipment sold on the deck at high prices. Fair demand from theMiddle West. "

So, by stages, on up to turn into North Moore Street, looking down anarrow lane between two long bristling rows of wagons pointed out fromthe curbs, to the facades of the North River docks at the bottom, withthe tops of the buff funnels of ocean liners, and Whistleraneansilhouettes of derricks, rising beyond. Hereabout are more importers, exporters, and "producers" of fish, famous in their calling beyond thecelebrities of popular publicity. And he that has official entree maylearn, by mounting dusky stairs, half-ladder and half-stair, and bypassing through low-ceilinged chambers freighted with many barrels, tothe sanctums of the fish lords, what's doing in the foreign herringway, and get the current market quotations, at present sky-high, andhear that the American shore mackerel catch is very fine stock. 

Then roundabout, with a step into the broad vista of homely WashingtonStreet, and a turn through Franklin Street, where is the man decoratedby the Imperial Japanese Government with a gold medal, if he shouldcare to wear it, for having distinguished himself in the development ofcommerce in the marine products of Japan, back to Hudson Street. Anauthentic railroad is one of the spectacular features of Hudson Street. 

Here down the middle of the way are endless trains, stopping, starting, crashing, laden to their ears with freight, doubtless all to eat. Tourists should come from very far to view Hudson Street. Here is aspectacle as fascinating, as awe-inspiring, as extraordinary as any inthe world. From dawn until darkness falls, hour after hour, alongHudson Street slowly, steadily moves a mighty procession of greattrucks. One would not suppose there were so many trucks on the face ofthe earth. It is a glorious sight, and any man whose soul is not deadshould jump with joy to see it. And the thunder of them altogether asthey bang over the stones is like the music of the spheres. 

There is on Hudson Street a tall handsome building where the fishreporter goes, which should be enjoyed in this way: Up in the lift yougo to the top, and then you walk down, smacking your lips. For all thedoors in that building are brimming with poetry. And the tune of itgoes like this: "Toasted Corn-Flake Co. , " "Seaboard Rice, " "ChiliProducts, " "Red Bloom Grape Juice Sales Office, " "Porto Rico andSingapore Pineapple Co. , " "Sunnyland Foodstuffs, " "Importers of FruitPulps, Pimentos, " "Sole Agents U. S. A. Italian Salad Oil, " "RaisinGrowers, " "Log Cabin Syrups, " "Jobbers in Beans, Peas, " "Chocolate andCocoa Preparations, " "Ohio Evaporated Milk Co. , " "Bernese Alps andHolland Condensed Milk Co. , " "Brazilian Nuts Co. , " "Brokers PacificCoast Salmon, " "California Tuna Co. , " and thus on and on. 

The fish reporter crosses the street to see the head of the SardineTrust, who has just thrown the market into excitement by a heavy cut inprices of last year's pack. Thence, pausing to refresh himself by theway at a sign "Agency for Reims Champagne and Moselle Wines--BordeauxClarets and Sauternes, " over to Broadway to interview the most augustpersons of all, dealers in fertiliser, "fish scrap. " These mightygentlemen live, when at business, in palatial suites of officesconstructed of marble and fine woods and laid with rich rugs. Thereporter is relayed into the innermost sanctum by a succession ofrichly clothed attendants. And he learns, it may be, that fishing inChesapeake Bay is so poor that some of the "fish factories" may decideto shut down. Acid phosphate, it is said, is ruling at $13 f. O. B. Baltimore. 

And so the fish reporter enters upon the last lap of his rounds. Through, perhaps, the narrow, crooked lane of Pine Street he passes, tocome out at length upon a scene set for a sea tale. Here would a lad, heir to vast estates in Virginia, be kidnapped and smuggled aboard tobe sold a slave in Africa. This is Front Street. A white ship lies atthe foot of it. Cranes rise at her side. Tugs, belching smoke, bobbeyond. All about are ancient warehouses, redolent of the Thames, withsteep roofs and sometimes stairs outside, and with tall shutters, acrescent-shaped hole in each. There is a dealer in weather-vanes. Other things dealt in hereabout are these: chronometers, "nauticalinstruments, " wax gums, cordage and twine, marine paints, cotton wooland waste, turpentine, oils, greases, and rosin. Queer old taverns, public houses, are here, too. Why do not their windows rattle with a"Yo, ho, ho"?

There is an old, old house whose business has been fish oil within thememory of men. And here is another. Next, through Water Street, onecomes in search of the last word on salt fish. Now the air is filledwith gorgeous smell of roasting coffee. Tea, coffee, sugar, rice, spices, bags and bagging here have their home. And there are haughtybonded warehouses filled with fine liquors. From his white cabin atthe top of a venerable structure comes the dean of the salt-fishbusiness. "Export trade fair, " he says; "good demand from SouthAmerica. "

II

ON GOING A JOURNEY

One of the pleasantest things in the world is "going a journey"--butfew know it now. It isn't every one that can go a journey. No doubtone that owns an automobile cannot go. The spirit of the age has gothim fast. Begoggled and with awful squawks, feverish, exultant, ignorant, he is condemned to hoot over the earth. Thus the wealthyknow nothing of journeys, for they must own motors. Vain people andenvious people and proud people cannot go, because the wealthy do not. Silly people do not know enough to go. The lazy cannot, because oftheir laziness. The busy hang themselves with business. The halt northe aged, alas! cannot go. In fine, only such as are whole anywise andpure in heart can go a journey, and they are the blessed. 

"We arrive at places now, but we" (most of us) "travel no more. " Theway a journey is gone, to come to the point, is walking. Asking manyfolks' pardon, to tear through the air in an open car, deafened, hilariously muddled by the rush and roar of wind, is to driveobservation from the mind: it is to be, in a manner, complacently, intellectually unconscious; is to drink an enjoyment akin to that ofthe shooters of the chute, or that got on the very latest of this sortof engine of human amusement called the "Hully-Gee-Whizz, " a pleasureof the ignorant, metaphorically, a kind of innocents' rot-gut whiskey. The way a journey is gone, which is walking, is a wine, a mellowclaret, stimulating to observation, to thought, to speculation, to theflow of talk, gradually, decently warming the blood. Rightly taken(which manner this paper attempts to set forth), walking is among thepleasures of the mind. It is a call-boy to wit, a hand-maiden tocultivation. Sufficiently indulged in, it will make a man educated, awit, a poet, an ironist, a philosopher, a gentleman, a better Christian(not to dwell upon improving his digestion and prolonging his life). And, too, like true Shandyism "it opens the heart and the lungs. "Whoso hath ears, let him hear! Once and for all, if the mad world didbut know it, the best, the most exquisite automobile is awalking-stick; and one of the finest things in life is going a journeywith it. 

No one, though (this is the first article to be observed), should evergo a journey with any other than him with whom one walks arm in arm, inthe evening, the twilight, and, talking (let us suppose) of men's givennames, agrees that if either should have a son he shall be named afterthe other. Walking in the gathering dusk, two and two, since the worldbegan, there have always been young men who have time to one anotherplighted their troth. If one is not still one of these, then, in thesense here used, journeys are over for him. What is left to him oflife he may enjoy, but not journeys. Mention should be made in passingthat some have been found so ignorant of the nature of journeys as tosuppose that they might be taken in company with members, or a member, of the other sex. Now, one who writes of journeys would cheerfully beburned at the stake before he would knowingly underestimate women. Butit must be confessed that it is another season in the life of man thatthey fill. 

They are too personal for the high enjoyment of going a journey. Theymust be forever thinking about you or about themselves; with themeverything in the world is somehow tangled up in these matters; andwhen you are with them (you cannot help it, or if you could they wouldnot allow it), you must be forever thinking about them or yourself. Nothing on either side can be seen detached. They cannot rise to thatphilosophic plane of mind which is the very marrow of going a journey. One reason for this is that they can never escape from the idea ofsociety. You are in their society, they are in yours; and themultitudinous personal ties which connect you all to that great ordercalled society that you have for a period got away from physically arepresent. Like the business man who goes on a vacation from businessand takes his business habits along with him, so on a journey theywould bring society along, and all sort of etiquette. 

He that goes a journey shakes off the trammels of the world; he hasfled all impediments and inconveniences; he belongs, for the moment, tono time or place. He is neither rich nor poor, but in that which hethinks and sees. There is not such another Arcadia for this on earthas in going a journey. He that goes a journey escapes, for a breath ofair, from all conventions; without which, though, of course, societywould go to pot; and which are the very natural instinct of women. 

The best time for going a journey (a connoisseur speaks it) is somemorning when it has rained well the day or night before, and the soilof the road, where it is not evenly packed, is of about that substanceof which the fingers can make fine "tees" for golfing. This is theprecise composition of earth and dampness underfoot most sympathetic tothe spine, the knee sockets, the muscles, tendons, ligaments of limb, back, neck, breast and abdomen, and the spirit of locomotion in theancient exercise of walking. On this day the protruding stones havebeen washed bald in the road; the lines and marks of drainage are stillclearly, freshly defined in the soil; in the gutters light-colouredsand has risen to the surface with the dark moist soil in a grainedeffect not unlike marbled chocolate cake; and clean, sweet gravel islaid bare here and there in the wagon ruts. This is the chosen timefor the nerves and senses. On such a day the whole world greets onecleansed and having on a fresh bib-and-tucker. It is a consciouspleasure to have eyes. It is as if one long near-sighted withoutknowing it had suddenly been fitted with the proper spectacles. It issweet to have olfactories. Whoso hath lungs, let him breathe. Man wasmade to rejoice!

How green, on such a day, are the greens; the distant purples howpurple! The stone walls are cool. The great canvas of the sky hasbeen but newly brushed in, as if by some modern landscape painter (thetube colours seem yet hardly dry); the technique, the brush-marks, showin the unutterably soft, warm-white clouds; or, like a puff ofbeaten-egg white, wells above that orchard hill. Higher up, thinlytouched across the blue, a great sweep of downy, swan breast-breastfeathers spreads. But not one canvas is this sky; ceaselessly itchanges with the minutes. To observe is to walk through an endlessgallery of countless pictures. It is alone a life-study. Now the windhas blown it clear as blue limpidness; now scattered flakes appear; nowit is deep blue; now pale; now it tinges darkly; now it is a layer ofcream. Again, it breaks into shapes--decorative shapes, odd shapes, lovely shapes, shapes always fresh. Its innovations are unflagging, inexhaustable. Always art, its genius is infinite. 

One must go a journey to discover how vast the sky really is, and theworld. To mount, bending forward, up by a long, tree-walled ascentfrom some valley, and come upon this spectacular sight--the fair globethat man inhabits lying away before one like a gigantic physical map, amap in relief, cunningly painted in the colours of nature, laid off bywoods and orchards and roads and stone walls into many decorativeshapes until it melts into purple, and fainter and fainter and stillfainter purple Japanese hills. The sight is some of the noble quarry, the game; this is the anise-seed bag of him that goes a journey. Someglimmering of the nobility of the plan of which he is a fell, erringspeck comes over one as he looks. This is the religious side of goinga journey. 

It is best to go a journey on a road that you do not know; on a roadthat lures you on to peep over the crest of yonder hill, that everflees before you in a game of hide-and-seek, disappearing behind great, jutting rocks and turns and trees, to leap out again at your approachand laughingly, elusively, continually slip before you; a road thatwinds anon where some roaring brook pours near by; a road that maydeceive you and trick you into miles out of your way. 

A high breeze rushes through the trees and fans the traveller's openedpores. With a sudden, startling whir, mounting with their hearts, abird flushes from the tangled growth at the roadside. 

The worst roads for walking are such as are commonly called the best;that is, macadam. A macadam pavement is a piece of masonry, whollywithout elasticity, built for vehicles to roll over. To go a journeywithout a walking-stick much would be lost; indeed it would be folly. A stick is the fly-wheel of the engine. Something is needed to whackthings with, little stones, wormy apples, and so forth, in the road. It can be changed from one hand to the other, which is a great help. Then if one slips a trifle on a down-grade turn it is a lengthened armthrown out to steady one. It is the pilgrim's staff. On the up-gradesit assists climbing. It is a weapon of defence if such should ever beneeded. It is a badge of dignity, a dress sword. It is the sceptre ofwalking. 

Dipping the dales, riding the swells, the automobiles come, likegigantic bugs coming after the wicked. With a sucking rush of wind anddust and an odour of gasoline they are past. Stray pieces of paper atthe roadside arise and fly after them, then, further on, sink impotent, exhausted. 

"I have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds muchnearer to one another!" One who goes much a-journeying cannotunderstand how Thoreau got it so completely turned around. But afterthe first effervescence of going a journey (of speech a time of times)has passed, and when, next, the fine novelty of open observation hasbegun to pale, there are still copious resources left; one retires onthe way, metaphorically speaking, into one's closet for meditation, formiles of silent thought--when one's stride is mechanical, and is likean absent-minded drumming with the fingers; but that it is better, forit pumps the blood for freer thought than in lethargic sitting. 

In this rhythmic moving one thinks as to a tune. To sit thusabsolutely silent, absent in thought completely, even with that friendone wears in one's heart's core, will at length become dull for one orother; sitting thus one is tempted, too, to speech. Walking, it is notso. One may talk or one may not. If both wish to think, both feel asif something sociable is being done in just walking together. If onedoes not care to go wool-gathering, the other does not leave himwithout entertainment; walking alone is entertainment. It is assumed, of course, that one goes a journey in silence as in speech with thecompanion with whom one has been best seasoned. Silently walking, themovement of the mind keeps step in thought exactly with the movement ofthe man, so that the pace is a thermometer of the temperature at thatmoment of one's brain. 

One who has written on going a journey as well perhaps as the worldwill ever see it done owned that he never had had a watch. Further, heintimated that the possession of one was an indication of poverty ofmental resource. It was his own wont, he said, to pass hours, wholedays, unconscious of the night of time. He described his father astaking out his watch to look at whenever he could think of nothing elseto do. His father, our author says, was no metaphysician. It must beconfessed that one now writing of journeys, sometimes, somewhatunmetaphysician-like, conscious of the flight of time, hascommunication with a watch; and, finding the day well advanced, decides, speaking very figuratively, to lay the cloth, beneath sometwisted, low, gnarled apple tree. 

"At the next shadow, " he suggests. 

"Let's wait until we get to the top of this hill, first. "

"Here we are. "

Sweet rest! when one throws one's members down upon the turf and therelets them lie, as if they were so many detached packages dropped. Thenone feels the exquisite nerve luxury of having legs: while one reststhem. One's back could lie thus prone forever. One feels, sucking allthe rich pleasure of it, that one couldn't move one's arms, lift one'shand, if one had to. What are the world's rewards if this is not one!

At length in going a journey comes a time when one tiredly shrinks fromthe work of speech, when observation dozes, and thought lolls like alimp sail that only idly stirs at the passing zephyrs; the legs likepiston-rods strike on; when the pleasure is like that almost of dullnarcotics; one realises only dimly that one is moving. At such timesas these, coming from one knows not whence, and one feels too weak tosearch back to discover, there flit across the mind strange fragments, relevant, as they seem, to nothing whatever present. 

When a journey has been made one way, the trick has been done; thesuperfluous energy which inspired it has found escape; the way toreturn is not by walking. A friend to fatigue is this, that in walkingback one is not on a voyage of discovery; one knows the way and verymuch what one will see on it; one knows the distance. In fact, thefruit has been plucked: the bloom is gone; to walk back would be liketedious marching with a regiment. One should return resting. Ontrains one _returns_ from a journey. 

Whoso hath life, one thinks as his journey draws to its close, let himlive it! What does it profit a man, if he gain the whole world andnever know his own soul?

III

GOING TO ART EXHIBITIONS

There are two opposing views as to going to art exhibitions. And muchwith a good deal of reason may be said on both sides. There is one veryvigorous attitude which holds that the pictures are the thing. This, indeed, is a perfectly ponderable theory. But it may be questionedwhether in its ardour it does not go a little far. For it affirms thatpeople are a confounded nuisance at art exhibitions, and should not bepermitted to be there, to distract one's attention from the peacefulcontemplation of works of art, and to infuriate one by their asinineremarks in the holy presence of beauty. I have heard it declared withvery impressive spirit, and reasoned with much force, that only oneperson, or at most only one person and his chosen companion, should beallowed in an art gallery at a time. It is debatable, however, whetherthis intellectually aristocratic idea is altogether practicable. On theother hand, was it not even Little Billie who found the people at artexhibitions frequently more interesting than the pictures?

Anyhow, persons who write about art exhibitions confine themselvesexclusively to the subject of art. When they gossip it is about thepictures, the painters, and the sculpture. True, of course, this istheir job, and then, these persons go on press days and so only see, outside of that which is intentionally exhibited, other critics. 

Now, there is nothing in all the world quite like art exhibitions. Beyond any other sort of show they possess a spirit which (to use a petand an excellent critical expression of one of our foremost art critics)is "grand, gloomy, and peculiar. " You feel this charged atmosphere atonce at an art exhibition. You walk softly, you speak low, and youendeavour to become as intelligent as possible. Art exhibitions, inshort, present various features indigenous to themselves which, so far asI am aware, have not before been adequately commented upon. Theprincipal observations which they solicit are as follows:

First, art exhibitions are attended by two classes of people: veryfine-looking people, and funny-looking people. There is a very strikingkind of a young man goes to art exhibitions that I myself neveraccomplish seeing anywhere else, though sometimes I see pictures of him. This young man is superbly patrician. You may have remarked thissingular phenomenon. All the young men in all the advertisements in themagazine _Vanity Fair_ are the same young man, whether riding in asplendid motor car, elegantly attending the play, or doing a littleshooting of birds. You know him, for one thing, by his exquisitemoustache. This fastidiously groomed, exclusively tailored young man, tobe seen in the pages spoken of and at art exhibitions, is certainly notof Art, nor is he of business. He takes no account whatever, apparently, of time, as men of business do; and manifestly one could not work in sucha moustache and such clothes without mussing them. He is, in fine, ofVanity Fair. Oscar Wilde was, as usual, wrong when he said that allbeautiful things were quite useless. This immaculate young man'spractical function at art exhibitions, as perhaps elsewhere, is that ofescort. 

He is escort to groups of very handsome and very expensive-looking youngladies; and these fragrant, rustling groups, with the waxen, patricianyoung man in tow, stroll slowly about, catalogues unnoticed in hand, without pause skirting the picture-hung walls. They are very still, andthey gaze upon the art that they pass with the look of a doecontemplating the meaning of the appearance of a man. The perfectescorts of these groups, who would seem naturally to be rather gay youngmen, look very serious indeed. Now one of them gracefully, though as ifcareful not to make any noise, bends to one of the young ladies; and, indicating by a solemn look one of the paintings, he whispers to herapparently concerning it. She silently nods: it is, evidently, quite ashe says. When an art exhibition is so undertakery a thing you wouldn'tthink that one would come. Though perhaps it is that one ought. 

At any rate, there is quite a turn-out to-day moving beneath the ghostlyglow of the shrouded sky-light ceiling. Half the Avenue seems to behere. What a play it is, this highly urban throng! Let us sit here onthis divan down the middle of the room. With what a stately march thepictures go in their golden frames along the symphonious, burlap walls!There, by that copious piece of intelligence, Manet's "Music Lesson, " is--

But see! What has come over our earnest group? Those who compose it areall quite changed. They look as happy as can be, all beaming withsmiles, their backs to the neighbouring walls. Friends, it seems, havegreeted them. How they all bubble on, all about the outside world! Butgoodness! Now what is the matter? Suddenly one of the newcomers isstruck by a startled look. She sees, that is it, one of the pictures. In an arrested voice she says: "Oh, isn't that perfectly lovely!" Atonce the happy light fades from the faces of all. An awed hush fallsupon them as stiffly they turn their heads in the direction of her view. "Charming!" one of the young men breathes, staring intently at thepainting which has come upon them. That it is awkward for everybody isplain. But, happily, there is much rebound to youth. One of the youngladies, at length, shakes herself free from the pall upon her spirits;the mesmeric spell is broken; and presently all are chatting again, gailyoblivious to Art. 

By the way, there is the proprietor of the gallery, just before the threeRenoir pastels. Is there anything about art exhibitions that moreenlists the imagination than the study of the "dealers" themselves? Thegentlemen who preside at art exhibitions fall, rather violently, intothree, perhaps four, classes. You have, I dare say, been repeatedlystruck by the quaintly inappropriate character in appearance of those ofone of these classes. I mean, of course, those very horsey-looking men, with decidedly "hard" faces, loudly dressed, and dowered with hoarsevoices. They would seem to be bookmakers, exceedingly prosperouspublicans, bunco-brokers, militant politicians--anything save of theKingdom of Art. Are their polished Bill Sykes' exteriors but bizarredomiciles for lofty souls? I cannot tell. 

Here and there, it is true, you find the aesthete in effect amongdealers: the wired moustaches, the spindle-legged voice, and the ardentspirit in discussing his wares with lady visitors. Our horsey type seemsrather ponderous and phlegmatic in this matter. Then there is, too, aland of art exhibition which is very close indeed to Art, a kind ofspirited propaganda, in fact, which is presided over by those ofhierarchical character, beings as to hair and cravat, swarthy complexionand mystic gesticulation, holy from the world and mocked by the profane. 

But, to my mind, the most satisfying sort of a host to observe at an artexhibition is that of the description of this admirable dealer before us. Benign, frock-coated, hands clasped behind him, he stands, symbol ofgentlemanly, merchantly dignity. Occasionally he rises upon his toes, and then sinks again to his heels obviously with satisfaction. But thatwhich proclaims the perfect equity of his mind is this: his nicerecognition of the nuances in human kind. You perceive that his bow toeach of his guests, that he recognises at all, is graduated according tothe precise degree of that person's value to Art; that to some few, royalpatrons presumably, being at an angle of forty-five degrees; while acommon amateur of Art is acknowledged by one of five. Where--to continuethe paraphrase of a pleasant observation upon Mr. George Brummell--it isa mere question of recognising the fact that a certain person dwells onthe same planet with Art "a slight relaxation of the features" is made tosuffice. 

So! This profound bow is plainly meant for a particular tribute to onewho wears the richest purple. Lo! He advances with unclasped hands. Pleasure beams from his countenance. Without such as she Art, anddealers, and galleries, and the recorded beauty of the world wouldperforce pass away. This entertaining personage, who is the great flurryat art exhibitions, is of the novelists' dowager Duchess type. A short, obese, and jovial figure, or dried and withered but imperiousdistinction, as the case may be. There is much crackling of finegarments, a brilliant display of lorgnette, and this penetrating andcomprehensive royal critical dictum: "Isn't that interesting! So full offeeling. "

Two outstanding features, you mark, of art exhibitions everywhere arehere presented. Is any one who doesn't know what he is talking about atart exhibitions (and which of us does?) properly equipped for attendancethere without this happy esoteric phrase "full of feeling"? It is safe, or as safe as anything can be, to say about any picture. It graphicallyindicates in the speaker delicate sensitivity and emotionalresponsiveness to Art. And, most beneficently, it subtly evades anythinglike the trying ordeal of an analysis of a work of art. It is, indeed, invaluable. 

The other thing is this: There is no place going which is so well adaptedto the exhibition of handsome, fashionable, or eccentric eye-glasses asan art exhibition. You observe there all that is newest and classy inglasses, and you are insistently invited to admiring study of the art ofwearing queer glasses effectively, and of taking them off, letting thembound on their leash, doubling them up, opening them out, and puttingthem on with a gesture. 

The complimentary type to the storied Duchess at art exhibitions isrepresented by yonder portly blood, in this case a replica of the lateKing Edward. The fruitful spectacle of art exhibitions, I think, presents nothing which gives one a more gratifying sense of their dignityand of the imperial character of Art than the presence there of thesepatently highly solvent, ruddy joweled, admirably tailored, andimpressively worldly looking connoisseurs of painting to be seenscrutinising the pictures at close range, in a near-sighted way, andrather grimly, as though somewhat sceptically appraising possibly dubiousmerchandise. 

Hello, there's Mr. Chase! And that's a fortunate thing, too, as nosympathetic picture of a representative American art exhibition shouldomit Mr. Chase. Whether or not we think of him as our premier painter, we should be inordinately proud of him. Undoubtedly he is a greatartist. He has wrought himself in the grand manner. In person hedelights the eye, and satisfies the imagination. With his inevitabletop-hat, his heavy eye-glasses cord, his military moustaches and upwardpointing beard, his pouter-pigeon carriage, his glowing spats and hisboutonniere, his aroma of distinction, and his ruddy consciousness of hisprestige, he is our great tour-de-force as a figure in the artisticscene. He is here, naturally, now the target of popular interest. 

The practice of having artists shown at their own exhibitions is one toolittle cultivated. The Napoleonic brow and the Napoleonic forelock(famous in their circle) of George Luks, the torrential Luksean mirth, how would not their actual presence open the spiritual eyes of visitingschool-children to the humane qualities of the works of the Lukseangenius! And why should we who procure for our better perception of theirworks illuminating biographies of the Old Masters not be permitted theintellectual stimulation of beholding the Ten American Painters seatedalong on a bench at their annual show? The subject of the artiststhemselves, however, brings us around to the line between the two kindsof people having to do with art exhibitions: fine-looking people andfunny-looking people. 

Come; let us trot along. Artists themselves are, in a most pronounceddegree, of both kinds. And a very singular thing is this: the funnier anartist's pictures are, the funnier-looking is the artist that made them. We'll stop in here, at The Advanced Gallery. 

"Ah! How are you?"

That, just going out, is one of the newest groups of painters, known asthe Homeopathics. I used to know him before he went abroad. And thecurious thing is, that at that time he was very good-looking. He wasclean shaven. This strange assortment of whiskers of different fashionson various parts of his face, imperial, goatee, burnsides, he broughtback with him. 

Notice as we step from the car at the gallery floor the numerous othershere who also were at the show we just left. And those who are thusmaking the rounds, you perceive, are not of what is called society, butof the kind known in these circles, doubtless, as interesting. Nearlyeverybody in this gallery, in fact, is of the interesting sort. At onceit is apparent that there is nothing of the perfunctory here. Art isvital. Art is earnest. The atmosphere is tense. The young women areclad in a manner giving much freedom to the movement of their bodies. They walk with a stride. Their clothes are not of the mode of theAvenue, but they have--how shall I say? To twist what Whistler said ofhis model: Character, character is what these clothes have. Theysuggest, many of these young women, the type that has never got backfrom--

"Do you know Chelsea at all?" asks one of them, of an anarchic-lookingyoung man. 

Never got back, as I was about to say, from Chelsea. A couple of otheranarchic-looking young men are viewing a painting in the manner that apainting, or perhaps this particular painting, is intended to be viewed;that is by squinting at it first over the tops of their hands and thenthrough their fingers. They discuss it darkly, in low, passionate tones. They advance upon it; and, a few inches before it, one, as though holdinga brush in his hand, sweeps eloquently with his arm, following thecontour of the painted figure. Legerdemain kind of thing, painting, isn't it? Sort of a black art, when you see into the science of it. 

Well, I declare! Here's a friend of mine--there, talking with theTitian-haired lady in the exotic gown. Now, he is coming over to us. 

He says he wants us to know Ben-Gunn, who is here, "one of the newcrowd, " he says. My friend is very keen on the new crowd; everythingelse he declares is "passe. " Anyhow, it is a very valuable experience totalk with an exhibitor at an art exhibition. Your mind is impregnated, until it swells dizzily in your head. That would be he, theilliterate-looking little creature with the uncombed andunsanitary-looking mop. 

There! I knew he would say something, something that would never leaveyou again the same. "Nothing is shiny in Nature, " says Mr. Ben-Gunn asthough rather depressed, surveying a canvas in this respect unhappilydivorced from the truth. "Nature, " he adds with Brahminic finality, "isalways dull. "

Mr. Ben-Gunn is greeted affectionately by a gentleman you always see atevery art exhibition. This is Mr. --I forget his name--it is French; Iknow he writes on Art for _Demos_; a remarkable being who apparentlytalks, hears, and sees nothing else but aestheticism. For as there aretypes peculiar to art exhibitions, so there are certain individualsapparently quite peculiar to art exhibitions. Come, let us go on down tosee some Old Masters. Notice there in the corner the foreign-lookinggentleman with the three foreign-looking children. That, the quiet, cultivated, foreign father and his children, is one of the pleasantestsights frequently to be seen at art exhibitions. Thus he is to be seen, easily and intimately discussing the pictures with his attentivefollowers. 

The great point about the study of art exhibitions from the point of viewof the humanist is the affinity between pictures and people. Here, forinstance, on Madison Square, amid the art heritage of times past, what isit that at once strikes you? Why, that old paintings evidently are quitepasse to the new crowd. At these exhibitions preliminary to the bigauction sales of venerable masters, and of middle-aged masters, and ofvenerable and middle-aged not-quite-masters, there is a very attractiveclass of people, a class of funny-looking, fine-looking people, a class, that is, of rather shabby-looking people who look as if they might bevery rich, of dull-looking people who look as if they might be verybright. They buy huge catalogues at a dollar or so apiece, which theyconsult continually. They arrive early and remain a long time. 

The women of this audience frequently are rather dowdy, and shapen invery individual fashions. The men generally are elderly beings, now andthen reminiscent of the period of Horace Greeley. They are very bald, orwith untrimmed white (not grey) hair, and, sometimes, Uncle-Sam-likewhiskers. They are usually very wrinkled as to trowsers and overcoats. Here and there among the gentlemen of this company is to be seen one wholooks strikingly like Emile Zola, or the late Mr. Pierpont Morganslightly gone to seed. All these charming folk make of looking atold-fashioned pictures a very busy occupation, and also in effect arather mundane occupation, as though they were alertly considering thepossibility of making a selection from among a variety of serviceablekitchen chairs. 

Argumenting the throng are authentic representatives of the world offashion; some who appear to be students; the ever present foreigners, including the frequently present Jap; a number of those enigmatic beingswho continually take notes at art exhibitions; and a respectable quota ofthose ladies we always have with us at art exhibitions who in thepresence of pictures and it necessary to say: "Isn't that wonderful, marvellous tone quality!" Occasionally a decidedly quaint student of Artstrolls in, past the imposing flunky (in finery a bit faded) at the door, strolls in in the form of a lodger in Madison Square. He looks at thepictures as if thoughtfully, but without animation. 

Well, we have now covered, in an elementary way, about every importantspecies of art show, except one, the most human perhaps of all, that heldannually on Fifty-seventh Street. We should hardly have time to go upthere to-day. I'll tell you about it. There are several reasons whythis exhibition is the most human perhaps of all. One is that morepeople go than to any other. And these people, taken by and large, aremore human, too, than one sees at most art exhibitions, that is more likejust ordinary people. This may be, for one thing, because the picturesas a rule are more ordinary pictures. And a very human touch, indeed, isthis: when you see the card "Sold" on a painting it is fairly certain tobe one of the most ordinary pictures of the lot. 

That reminds one of museums. People who are called in the world to thecurious pursuit of copying pictures in museums, for some reason or otherwhich I have been unable as yet to work out, apparently always copy themost bourgeois pictures there. But museums, with their throngs ofsubdued holiday makers and their crowds of weary gaping aliens of thesubmerged order, museums comprise a separate study. 

At any rate, I hope in our stroll I have been able to give you a newinsight into the fascination of the great world of Art. 

IV

A ROUNDABOUT PAPER

No reader of _The Spectator_ will have forgotten an article whichappeared there some years ago entitled "As to Bears. " Or ever willforget it until his shall be "the shut lid and the granite lip of himwho has done with sunsets and skating, and has turned away his facefrom all manner of Irish, " as William Vaughn Moody says. Not onlybecause it was one of the finest things ever in _The Spectator_, oranywhere else (after, possibly, that imperishable dissertation of thegreat Dean's--or was it Sir William Temple's?--"On a Broomstick"), butalso because it was one pure flower in our day of a kind of art littlecultivated any more. "As to Bears. " All, me! How engaging, simple, gracious, and at ease; what perfection of literary breeding; what anamused and genial wave of the finger tips; how marked by good-humouredacuteness, and animated nonchalance; how saturated with adistinguished, humane tradition of letters--that title!

That is just the note I would strike in the great book I have beenbrooding for years, "Bums I Have Known. " It has been my felicity tohave known more bums, I think, than any living man. But I fear I shallnever get that book written. And this is a pity. It is a pity becausethis book would be of great value in the years to come. With ourmodern passion for efficiency, and with efficiency rapidly becomingcompulsory everywhere, that colourful class of ancient lineage, thebums, is quickly becoming _persona non grata_ to our civilisation, andwill soon be extinct. To the next generation, in all probability, theword bum will be but an empty name. I doubt whether it would be afeasible plan for Dr. Hornaday to undertake to preserve a small numberof this species in the Bronx Park. The bum nature, I fear, wouldlanguish in captivity. The creature would likely lose its health, and, worse, its spirits. It is a nomad, a child of nature. It takes nothought for the morrow, as our modern prophets teach us to do. Iremember well an excellent bum (I mean excellently conforming to type), one Bain, who, growing restive under restraint, lost a position whichhe happened to have. I asked him what he was going to do now. Therewas something sublime about that being. He had faith that the Lordwould provide. His simple reply was: "Well, the ravens fed Elijah. "

Stuffed bums in the American Museum of Natural History would not be anygood. Any good, that is, as objects of study. Our children willrequire to know, to see the past steadily and see it whole, the_habits_ of bums, their manners and customs. So, as I say, my workwould be invaluable. The wastrel (as they say in England) has, ofcourse, been celebrated in the literature of the past from timeimmemorial. I can't at the moment put my finger on any, but I have nodoubt there are bums in the pages of Homer, That Persian philosopherwho found paradise enow with a jug of wine and a book of verse beneatha bough, Falstaff, Richard Swiveller, how they flock to the mind, theyof the care-free kidney! They are in the Books of the great Hebrewliterature. There was he that took his journey into a far country. "Gil Blas" and all the early picaresque novels on into the pages of"The Romany Rye" swarm with them. But what is wanting, what will beneeded, is a richly informed picture of the last of the race, thosenow, like the Indian and the buffalo, fast passing away. There is onlyone way in which such a book could be, or should be written. 

"Peace be with the soul of that charitable and Courteous Author whointroduced the ingenious way of miscellaneous writing, " wrote LordShaftsbury in the opening paragraph of his "Miscellaneous Reflections. "Peace be with the souls of all those who, for the delight of theanointed, have practised that most debonair of all the arts, theingenious way of miscellaneous writing! Now, as highly successfulnovelists always say nowadays when interviewed for highly successfulnewspapers, "I know very little about literature, " but I fancy thisbenign way of writing had its well-spring in those preposterous days, now long fled, when men of reading were content to give their bestthoughts first to their friends and then--ten years or soafterwards--to the "publick. " Its period was the day of the"wits"--those beaux of the mind. 

I guess the reason it has gone by the board is that it was what wouldbe called "literary. " And there is nothing we are so scared of to-dayas the literary. It was not those dons the critics, we are told on thesubway cards, who made Dickens immortal--it was YOU. And our foremostmagazines advertise the "un-literary essay. " "Literary expression, "that Addisonian English stuff, whose elegance pleasantly conceals thelack of ideas beneath, is taboo in these parts. What we want iswriters who have something to say, and who say it naturally and withoutany beating about the bush. 

While the spell of miscellaneous writing, for those who savour it, isthe author's joyous inability, it would seem, to get any "forrader, " tostick to the point, to carry anything with a rush. See the greatestmiscellaneous writer who ever lived, as an admirable latermiscellaneous writer the late (in a literary sense) Hon. AugustineBirrell calls him, the Rev. Laurence Sterne. See positively the mostbuoyant book in all the world; I mean, of course, "The Path to Rome, "by Hilaire Belloc. That glorious newspaper article, "Is GeniusConscious of Its Power?" starts off, indeed, with an allusion to thesubject of genius. But the genius of this writer, of such unsurpassedand ingratiating savagery, soon turns to its true business of gettinglost in the woods, and we take it from William Hazlitt that all inpower are a lot of crooks. 

So one born under the miscellaneous writer's star who purposed to writeon, say, bums he had known would quite likely begin with a disquisitionupon the importance of a good shape of human ear, and very naturallywould conclude, with some warmth, with a denunciation of tighttrowsers. And he would, of course, wander by the way into pleasantreminiscences of his childhood--how, for instance, the child gets hisidea of what a native is from the cuts in his geography book. I wellremember the first time I was alluded to in my presence as a native. Iwas very indignant. I knew what natives looked like from the cuts Ihad pored over. They were a fine, spirited race, very picturesquelyattired, mostly in bows and arrows, and as creatures of romance Iadmired them greatly. Persons such as I and my parents were generallydepicted in this connection as fleeing from them. And it did strike meas an ignoramus kind of thing that I should be called a native. When Iwas reasoned with to the effect that I was a native of Indiana, myresentment but grew. There were no natives in Indiana. 

Speaking of efficiency reminds me of the real estate business. I haverecently come somewhat into contact with this business and I haveobserved certain outstanding facts about it which I have not seencommented upon before. To set up in the real estate business one thingabove all else is necessary, that is uncommon familiarity with the word"imagination. " If you are thinking of buying a lot you will meet atall, fair man, or a short, dark man (as the case may be), but in anycase as unimaginative-looking a man as you could readily imagine. Fromthis person you will learn that the thing at the bottom of every greatfortune was imagination. If the location of the lot which you viewstrikes you as rather a desolate and barren-looking part of the worldthe trouble is not with the location but with you. Forty-second Streetlooked worse than that at one time. Thus, I imagine, if you havesufficient imagination you buy the lot. 

It is a remarkable thing that the most startling spectacle in New Yorkhas never struck any one but myself. Forty-second Street puts me inmind of this. If you were a native of the Sandwich Islands and hadnever before been in town and were standing at the South-East corner ofBroadway and Fulton Street at nine o'clock in the morning and werefacing West, you would cry out aghast at this sight: You would see thequiet, old world grave-yard of St. Paul's Chapel, the funereal stoneurn upon its stone post marking the corner and the leaning headstonesbeyond. There is no trumpet sound. But from a mouth at thegrave-yard's side the earth belches forth a host which springs quickinto the new day. It is a remarkable spectacle to contemplate, fraughtwith portent and symbol, though the mouth is a subway kiosk, mySandwich friend. 

Now, there are men who walk about London just as some men collectbooks. They are amateurs of London. Year by year they add precioussouvenirs to their rich collections, the find of an old passage wayhere, there the view when the light is quite right from one precisespot, say, on Waterloo Bridge. Sometimes, indeed, they write booksabout their hobby, more or less useful to the neophyte: as "AWayfarer's London, " or "A Wanderer in London, " or "Ghosts ofPiccadilly, " or some such thing; but more frequently they are of thehighest type of amateur, the connoisseur who will gladly share his joyin his treasures with a cultivated friend but has nothing of his loveto sell. I doubt whether there are any such amateurs of New York, anywho for thirty years and more have walked our streets as anintellectual sport with unabated zest. London, of course, has the dropon us in the matter of richness of material for this sort of collector, but there is plenty to bag at home. Not far from the corner ofBroadway and Fulton Street, I recollect, is a queer place calledVandewater Street. 

Some twenty years or so ago you used to go to melodramas, realmelodramas. There are aesthetic revivals of melodrama in Boston, Ihear. There was nothing aesthetic about the ones I mean, and theenjoyment of them was untainted by the malady of thought. Come alongnow. We'll dive through Park Row and turn here down Frankfort Street. Few do turn down Frankfort Street, and I fear its admirable points areunappreciated. For one thing, it goes down, down, down a very steepincline; which is a spirited thing for a street to do, I think. And itis very narrow, at the beginning, with sidewalks that hug the walls, and is always in shadow, so that it has a fine, wild, villainous look. Horses climbing it always come with a plunge and a grinding of sparks. And the roar from the cobble stones is deafening, very stimulating tothe imagination. The atmosphere is one of typefounders, leather, hides, and oyster houses. 

Very few people, I fancy, could tell you where there is a portcullis inNew York just like the one at a gateway in The Tower. But if you snookaround the arches of the Brooklyn Bridge you'll find one, with awinding stair disappearing beyond it, and mounting, presumably, to adungeon. Newswomen, I think, are pleasanter to see than newsboys. There is a newsgirl who minds a stand here at the corner of Rose andFrankfort Streets who is charming as a type of 'Arriet. She alwayswears an enormous hat. A fine thing for a 'Arriet to do, I think. Sometimes the stand is minded by her mother. (I take it, it is hermother. ) An old body who always has her head wrapped in a knittedaffair. A fine thing for an old body to do, I think. Phil May wouldhave delighted in Frankfort Street. So would Rembrandt. Here comes anelderly person, evidently George Luk's "My Old Pal, " who is balancing alarge bundle of sticks on her head. Across the way is a Whistleretching; Whistler did not happen to etch it; but it is a Whistleretching all the same. You look up a frowsy little courtyard, the wallsof which are more graceful than plumb, and you see a horse's headsticking out into the etching. Also, across the way the "k" hasdropped out of steak on the window of a chop-house. The public-housesdown this way, many of them, are very low places. The thing to do inthis world is to get as much innocent pleasure out of the spectacle aspossible. 

Well, the streets here twist about beneath the Bridge, so that you donot know what's beyond the turning. People going and coming throughthe arches are silhouettes. Overhead it is like the grumbling of athunder storm. Wagons going over the stones rattle tremendously, andthey carry lanterns swung beneath to be lighted at night. The streetshave fine names: there is Gold Street, and then Jacob Street. Frankfort Street widens out and becomes a generous thoroughfare, all insunlight. There is a huge, gay hoarding to the right as you go down. On your left you see one of the towers of the Bridge rising high in theair. Directly ahead the "JL" crosses the way!

Now comes the point which I have been getting at. You dip and turninto Vandewater Street. Under the Bridge at once you go, where allsounds are weird, hollow sounds, and then out again. The atmospherehas been becoming more and more charged with the character of theprinting business. Now may be felt the tremour and heard the sound ofmoving presses. Printing houses, dealers in "litho inks, " linotypecompanies, paper makers, "publishers and jobbers of books, " "photoengraving" establishments are all about. Here is a far-famedpublishing house the sight of which takes you back with a jump to yourboyhood, your youthful, arrant, adventurous reading. Those were thehappy days when the flavour of Crime was like ginger i' the mouth. Perhaps the recollection of this affects your thoughts now, and makesyour mind more active than want. 

All the people going through Vandewater Street appear to becompositors. Fine, strapping, romantic people, compositors, smearedwith ink! Though there are other interests in this street besidesprinting. There is a big schoolhouse with every window in it broken;grand, desolate look to it! There is a delightful sign which says:"Horse collars, up stairs. " There are little homes toward the end ofthe street--it is one block long--little, old, two-story, brickdwelling houses, in charmingly bad repair, with fire escapes, littlestairs twisting up to the doors and iron railings there, andwindow-boxes at the windows. 

As you turn at Pearl Street to go back again something comes over you. It is melodrama that comes over you. The vista of this queer, cold, lonesome, hard little street, down by the great city's river front, waspainted, or something very like it was painted, on back curtains longago. The great, gloomy pile of the Bridge rises before over all. Tomake it right there should be a scream. A female figure with hairstreaming upward should shoot through the air to black waters below, where there is a decrepit boat with a man in a striped jersey pullingat the oars. 

V

THAT REVIEWER "CUSS"

There are very young, oh absurdly young! reviewers; and there areelderly reviewers, with whiskers. There are also women reviewers. Absurdly young reviewers are inclined to be youthful in their reviews. Elderly reviewers usually have missed fire with their lives, or theywouldn't still be reviewers. The best sort of a reviewer is thereviewer that is just getting slightly bald. He is not aflippertigibbet, and still an intelligent man--if he is a good reviewer. 

Book reviews are in nearly all the papers. Proprietors of newspapersdon't read these things: they think they are deadly stuff. Manyauthors don't: because they regard them as ill-natured and exceedinglystupid. Book clerks don't read them much: for that would be likeworking overtime. Business men infrequently have time for suchnonsense. University professors are inclined to pooh-pooh them asthings beneath them. Still somebody must read them, as publishers payfor them with their advertising. No publishers' advertising, no bookreviews, is the policy of nearly every newspaper; and the reviews aregenerally in proportion to the amount of advertising. Now publishersare sagacious men who generally live in comfortable circumstances, andwho occasionally get quite rich and mingle in important society. Theyset considerable store by reviews; they employ publicity men at goodwages who continually supply reviewers with valuable information bypost and telephone; they are fond of quoting in large type remarks fromreviews which please them; and sometimes, at reviews they don't like, they stir up a fuss and have literary editors removed from office. 

Yes, reviews have much power. They are eagerly read by multitudes ofpeople who write very indignantly to the paper to correct and rebukethe reviewer when, owing to fatigue, he refers to Miss Mitford ashaving written "Cranford, " or otherwise blunders. They are the wingsof fame to new authors. They can increase the sale of a book by sayingthat it should not be in the hands of the young. They are tolerated bythe owners of papers, who are very powerful men indeed, engaged in thevast modern industry of manufacturing news for the people, and inconstant effort to obtain control of politics. Reviewers are paidspace rates of, in some instances, as much as eight dollars a column, with the head lines deducted. When there is no other payment theyalways get the book they review free for their libraries, or to sellcheap to the second-hand man. Reviewers are spoken of as "thecritics"--by simple-minded people; when their printed remarks areuseful for that purpose, the remarks are called "leading criticalopinions"--by advertisements; and reviewers are sometimes invited tolunch by astute authors, and are treated to pleasant dishes to cheerthem, and given good cigars to smoke. 

Occasionally somebody ups and discusses the nature of our literaryjournalism and what sort of a creature the reviewer is. Dr. BlissPerry was at this not long ago in the _Yale Review_. Editor for acouple of decades of our foremost literary journal, and now a professorin one of our great universities, Dr. Perry certainly knows a good dealabout various branches of the book business. His highly criticalreview of the reviewing business has somewhat the character of ahistory that a great general might write of a war. A man who hadserved in the trenches, however, would give a more intimate picture, though of course it would not be as good history. 

I will give an intimate picture of the American reviewer at workto-day: the absurdly young, the slightly bald, and the elderly withwhiskers; and of his hard and picturesque trade. 

There was an old man who had devoted a great many years to a closestudy of engraved gems. He embodied the result of his elaborateresearches in a learned volume. I never had a gem of any kind in mylife; at the time of which I write I did not have a job. A friend ofmine, who was a professional reviewer, and at whose house I wasstopping, brought home one day this book on engraved gems, and told mehe had got it for me to review. "But, " I said, "I don't know anythingabout engraved gems, and" (you see I was very inexperienced) "I canwrite only about things that particularly interest me. " "You are adevil of a journalist, " was my friend's reply; "you'd better get towork on this right away. You studied art, didn't you? I told theeditor you knew all about art. And he has to have the article byThursday. "

He instructed me in certain elementary principles of the art ofsuccessful reviewing; such, for example, as getting your informationout of the book itself; and he cautioned me against employing too manyquotation marks, as the editor did not like that. 

My review, of a couple of columns, cut a bit here and there by theliterary editor, appeared in a prominent New York paper. Speakingquite impartially, simply as now a trained judge of these things, Iwill say that it was a very fair review: it "gave the book, " as theterm is. I discovered that I had something of a talent for this work;and so it was that I entered a profession which I have followed, withdivers vicissitudes, for a number of years. 

I became good friends with that literary editor, and began tocontribute regularly week by week to his paper. He liked my style, andalways gave me a good position in the paper. He liked me personally, and always put my name to my reviews; which was a thing against therule of the paper--that being that only articles by celebrated personswere to be signed. 

This is a point sometimes questioned. It seems to me that it is a goodthing for the reviewer to have his work signed, particularly for theyoung reviewer, whose yet ardent spirit craves a place in the sun. Itcontributes to his pleasant conception of reviewing as a fine thing todo. It makes him more alive than the anonymous thing. He meets peoplewho brighten at the recollection of having read his name. I know a manwho was a very witty reviewer (when he was young); that fellow used toget love letters from ladies he had never seen, just like a baseballpitcher, or a tenor; there was a rich man who ate meals at the CenturyClub had him there to dinner, because he thought him funny; he got anote from a Literary Adviser asking him for a book manuscript; and twopersons wrote him from San Francisco. I myself have had courteousletters thanking me from authors here and in England. That fellow ofwhom I just spoke undoubtedly was on the threshold of a brilliantcareer; he was full of courage and laughter, though very poor. Then agreat man offered him a Position as a literary editor. His name ceasedto be seen; I heard of him after a year, and it was said of him that hewas dreadfully bald and had a long beard, I mean of coursemetaphorically speaking. 

Whether signed reviewers are conducive to honesty I am not sure. Therewas a man (I know him well) wrote a book on Alaska or some such place, claimed he had been there. There was another man, his friend, who wasa reviewer. Now the Alaskaian said to the critic: "Why don't you getmy book from the paper? I'll write the review--I know more about thebook than anybody else, anyway; and you sign it and get the money. "And this was done; and it was an excellent review; and the paper (whichyou read every day) was no wiser. 

The literary editor who signed my reviews for me was a youth of anindependent turn of mind. He encouraged the expression in reviews ofexactly what one thought; he liked an individual note in them; he hadan enthusiasm for books of literary quality, somewhat to the neglect ofother branches of the publishing business; he gathered about him agroup of writers of a spirit kindred to his own; and he was rapidlymoulding his department of his paper into a thing, perhaps a plaything, of life and colour. 

But he lacked commercial tact. He wanted to make something like theEnglish lighter literary journals. He offended the powers behind theman higher up. I saw him last on a Wednesday; he outlined his plansfor the future. On Friday, I know he "made up" his paper. Saturday Ilooked for him, but he had gone from that place. There was in it adried man of much hard experience of newspapers, who reigned in thatyouth's stead. The wrath of authority grinds with exceeding quickness. 

This which I have written is history, as many excellent of mind know, and should be put into a book: for it reveals how close we came tohaving in this country a Literary Doings that could be read forpleasure. I continued to learn the business. 

Sometimes reviewers are poets also. I know fifteen. Sometimes theyare Irishmen. Sometimes both. I knew one who was one of those CelticPoets. His name had all the colour of the late Irish literarymovement. That is, after he became a man of letters; before that itwas Bill Somethingorother. He was an earnest person, without humour(strange for an Irishman!), eloquent, very pronounced in his opinions;and he had never read anything at all (outside of Columbia University)before he was called to the literary profession. Later he went intopolitics, and became something at Washington. Some reviewers, again, are lexicographers. I know about a dozen of these, ranging in age fromtwenty-seven years to seventy. When they had finished writing thedictionary, they joined the army of the unemployed, and becamereviewers. I am acquainted with one reviewer who has been everything, almost, under the sun--a husband, a father, and a householder; he hasbeen successively a socialist, an aesthete, a Churchman, and a RomanCatholic. He is an eager student of the universe, a prodigiouslyenergetic journalist, a lively and a humorous writer, a person ofmarked talent. He will be thirty shortly. 

Sometimes reviews are charmingly written by veteran literary men, suchas, for instance, Mr. Le Gallienne, and Mr. Huneker. Dr. Perrymentions among reviewers a group of seasoned bookmen, including Mr. Paul Elmer More and Professor Frank Mather, Jr. Mr. Boynton is anothersound workman. On the other hand, by some papers, books areeconomically given out for review to reporters. And again (for thesame reason), to editorial writers and to various editors. InAmerica, you know, practically everybody connected with a newspaper isan editor. The man who sits all day in his shirt sleeves smoking acorncob pipe, clipping up with large scissors vast piles of newspapers, is exchange editor. There was a paper for which I worked from morntill dewy eve, reviewing hooks, where we used to say that we had anelevator editor and a scrub editor, and a nice charwoman she was. 

Reviewers of course frequently differ widely in their conceptions of abook. I said one time of a book of Lady Gregory's that it was a highlyamusing affair; and I gave numerous excerpts in support of mystatement. I had enjoyed the book greatly. It was delightful, Ithought. It was then a bit of a jolt to me to read a lengthy articleby another reviewer of the same book, who set forth that Lady Gregorywas an extremely serious person, with never a smile, and who gavecopious evidence of this point in quotations. Each of us made out aperfectly good case. 

Now suppose you read in the New York _This_, a daily paper, thatSuch-and-Such a book was the best thing of its kind since Adam. Andsuppose you found the same opinion to be that of the New York _WeeklyThat_ and of the New York _Weekly Other_. Notwithstanding that the NewYork Something-Else declared that this was the rottenest hook that evercame from the press, you would be inclined to accept the conclusion ofthe majority of critics, would you not? Well, I'll tell you this: theman who "does" the fiction week by week for the New York _This_ and for_The That_ and for _The Other_, is one and the same industrious person. I know him well. He has a large family to support (which iscontinually out of shoes) and his wife just presented him with a newset of twins the other day. He is now trying to add the job on _TheSomething-Else_ to his list. 

Let us farther suppose that you are a magazine editor. You wrote thisSuch-and-Such book yourself. You are a very disagreeable person (wewill imagine). You rejected three of my stories about my experiencesas a vagabond. Farthermore, when I remonstrated with you about thisover the telephone, you told me that you were very busy. When yourbook came out I happened to review it for three papers. I tried to doit justice although I didn't think much of the book, or of anythingelse that you ever did. 

Now, reflecting upon the vast frailty of human nature, and consideringthe power of the reviewer to exercise petty personal pique, I thinkthere is little dishonesty of this nature in reviews. The prejudice isthe other way round, in "log rolling, " as it is called, among littlecliques of friends. Though I have known more than one case more orless like that of a reviewer man, otherwise fairly well balanced, whohad a rabid antipathy to the work of Havelock Ellis. Whenever he gothold of a book of Havelock Ellis's he became blind and livid with rage. 

In the period when I was a free lance reviewer, I used to reviewgenerally only books that I was particularly interested in, books onsubjects with which I was familiar, books by authors whom I knew allabout. And in writing my reviews I used to wait now and then for anidea. Those were happy, innocent, amateur days. That is: when mythoughts got stalled I would throw myself on a couch for a bit, or Iwould look out at my window, or I took a turn about Gramercy Park for abreath of air. Reviews sometimes had to be in by the following day, or, so my editor would declare to me with much vigour over thetelephone, the paper would go to smash; and then he would hold them intype for three weeks. But they rarely had to be done within a coupleof hours or less. 

In the course of time I got down to brass tacks; I took a staffposition, a desk job. It was up to me to review everything going, in asteady ceaseless grind. I began work at half past nine in the morning. When I was commuting I began earlier, taking up a book on the train. Between nine thirty and a quarter to eleven I did a book, say, on theextermination of the house-fly; from then until lunch time, threehundred words on a very pleasant novel called, for instance, "RoastBeef, Medium"; in the afternoon, three-quarters of a column on a"History of the American Negro"; winding up the day, perhaps, with alively article about a popular book on "Submarine Diving and LightHouses"; and taking home at night the "Note Books of Samuel Butler. " Ibegan the morrow, very likely, with an "omnibus article" lumpingtogether five books on the Panama Canal. And then, as the publishersof the latest book on art had turned in a double-columnhundred-agate-line "ad" the week before, it was necessary to dosomething serious "for" that masterpiece. I reviewed a dictionary anda couple of cookery books. At the holiday season I polished off ajumble of Christmas and New Year's cards, a pile of picture calendars, and a table full of "juveniles. " Woman suffrage, alcoholism, NewThought, socialism, minor poetry, big game hunting, militarism, athletics, architecture, eugenics, industry, European travel, education, eroticism, red blood fiction, humour, uplift books, whiteslavery, nature study, aviation, bygone kings (and their mistresses), statesmen, scientists, poverty, disease, and crime, I had always withme. I became a slightly bald reviewer. 

Books of theology and of philosophy were given out to a theologian;books concerning the dramatic art were done by the dramatic critic; andthose on music went to the music critic. We had an occasional letterfrom Paris on current French literature. 

In addition to writing (for I was an editor), I read the "literary"galley proofs; "made up" once a week down in the composing room late atnight; compiled the feature variously called in different papers _BooksReceived_, _Books of the Week_, or _The Newest Books_; and got out thecorrespondence of the literary department--with publishers and withfools who write in about things. I also went over the foreignexchange, that is: clipped literary notes out of foreign papers. Oncea month I surveyed the current magazines. I worked in the office onevery holiday of the year except Christmas and New Year's, andfrequently on Sundays at home. 

With a view to attracting the intellectual elite to a profession wherethis class is needed, I will tell you what I got for this. It shouldbe understood, however, that I was with one of the great papers, whichpaid a scale of generous salaries. Mine was forty dollars a week. That is a good deal of money for a literary man to earn regularly. But--

I did, indeed, have an assistant in this office; there was a personassociated with me who took the responsibility of everything in thedepartment that was excellent. That is, I was "assistant literaryeditor. " Few newspapers can afford to employ a chief solely for eachdepartment. It is recognised that the work of the literary editor canbe economically combined with that of the dramatic editor, or with thatof the art critic; or the art critic runs the Saturday supplement, orsome such thing. My chief looked in every day or so, and frequently, perhaps in striving for exact honesty I should say regularly, contributed reviews. He directed the policy of the department, subject, of course, to criticism from "down stairs. "

But (as I was about to say above) that regular income is veryuncertain. Universities cultivate a sense of security in theirprofessors, in order to obtain loyal service and lofty endeavour. Theeditorial tenure, as all men know, is a house of sand--a summer'sbreeze, a wash of the tide, and the editor is a refugee. I know theeditor of literary pages that go far and wide, who has held down thatjob now for over a year. That man is troubled: none has ever stood inhis shoes for much longer than that. 

"Don't fool yourself, " I heard a successful young journalist say theother day to a very conscientious young reviewer. "Good work won't getyou anything. Play politics, office politics all the while. "Doubtless sound advice, this, for any gainful employment. 

Now about that prime department of the press called the businessoffice. Many people firmly believe that all book reviews--and dramaticcriticisms and editorials--are bought by "the interests. " One of theprincipal librarians of New York holds this view of reviews. I neverknew a reviewer who was bound to tell anything but the truth as he sawit. Nor have I ever written in any review a word that I knew to befalse; and I believe that few reviewers do. Because, however, this orthat publishing house was "a friend of ours, " or because the husband ofthis author used to work for the paper (pure sentiment!), or that oneis a friend of the wife of The Editor (caution!), it has been suggestedto me by my chief that I "go easy" with certain books. 

The good reviewer does go easy with most books. It is a mark of hisexcellence as a reviewer that he has a catholic taste, that he seesthat books are written to many standards, and that every book, almost, is meet for some. It is not his business to break things on the wheel;but to introduce the book before him to its proper audience; alwaysrecognising, of course, sometimes with pleasant subtle irony, itslimitations. It is only when a book pretends to be what it is not, that he damns it. All that is not business, but sensible, sensitivecriticism. 

To return. The business office exerts not a direct but a moralinfluence, so to put it, upon the literary department. Business tactmust be recognised. A hostile review already in type and in the planof the next issue may be "killed" when a large "ad" announcing booksbrought out by the publisher of this one so treated comes in for thenext paper; and then search is made for a book from the same publisherwhich may be favourably reviewed. Or a hostile review may be held overuntil a time more politic for its release, say following severalenthusiastic reviews. And there is no sense in noticing in one issue adisproportionate number of books published by one house. 

In concluding my discussion I will draw two portraits of professionalreviewers, one composite of a class, the other a picture of a man whostands at the top of his profession. 

Seated at his desk is a little man with a pointed beard and a largebald spot on top of his head. This man has been all his life aliterary hack. He has read manuscript for publishing houses; he hasnovelised popular plays for ha-penny papers, and dramatised trashynovels for cheap producers; he has done routine chore writing inmagazine offices, made translations for pirate publishers, and pickedup an odd sum now and then by a "Sunday story. " He has always been ananonymous writer. He has never had sufficient intellectual characterto do anything well. The downward side of middle age finds himafflicted with various physical ailments, entirely dependent upon aprecarious position at a moderate salary, without influential friends, completely disillusioned, with a mediocre mind now much fagged, devoidof high ambition, and with a most unstimulating prospect before him. His attitude toward the business of book reviewing is that he wishes hehad gone into the tailor business or that his father had left him agrocery store. He would not have succeeded, however, as either atailor or a grocer, as he has even less business than literary ability. Farther, he regards himself as a gentleman, and books strike him asbeing more gentlemanly than trade. He has got along as well as he has, by bluff about his extensive acquaintance with literature, and his longexperience in writing and publishing. 

This type of reviewing man says that he does the thing "mechanically. "About the new crop of juvenile books, let us say, he says the samething again now that he said four years ago. "One idea every otherparagraph, " is his principle, and he thinks it sufficient in a review. Sufficient, that is, to "get by. " And whatever gets by, in his view, "pleases them just as well as anything else. " Our friend of thischaracter has a considerable number of stock remarks which may at anytime be written very rapidly. One of these sentences is: "This bookfurnishes capital reading;" another says that this book "is welcome;"and he holds as a general principle that, "the reviewer who reads thebook is lost. "

Occasionally, very occasionally, there is found among reviewers thetype of old-fashioned person who used to be called a "man of letters. "This is a wild dream, but it would be a grand thing for Americanreviewing if every one of our young reviewers could have for an houreach week the moral benefit of the society of such a man. I know onewho now has been active in New York literary journalism for somethinglike thirty years--a fine intellectual figure of a man. He makes hisliving out of this, indeed, but his interest is in the thing itself, inliterature. He has all that one really needs in the world, he has theesteem of the most estimable people, and he follows with unceasingpleasure a delightful occupation. He is as keen to-day, he declares, on the "right way of putting three words together" as he was when hebegan to write. His mellow, witty, and gentlemanly style is saturatedwith the sounds, scents and colours of literature. The exercise of hiscultivated judgment is not a trade, but a sacred trust. To look at himand to think of his admirable career is to realise the dignity of hiscalling--discussing with authority the books of the world as they comefrom the press. 

VI

LITERARY LEVITIES IN LONDOW

Now it's a funny thing, that, come to think of it. Some folks havequestioned whether, the other way round, it could be done in thiscountry at all. It's a pleasant view anyhow that the matter presentsof that curious affair the English character. 

There is a notion knocking about over here that considerable rigmaroleis required to meet an Englishman. And very probably few who havetried it would dispute that it is somewhat difficult to "meet" anordinary Englishman to whom you are not known in a railway carriage. With the big 'uns, however, the business appears to be simple enough. Foolish doings do clutter up one's luggage with letters of introductionwhen all that is needed to board round with the most celebrated peoplein England is a glance at a "Who's Who" in a public library to getaddresses. 

For the purpose of convenience the writer of these souvenirs will referto himself as "I" and "me. " I was all done up in health and wasadvised by doctors to clear out at once. So I bought a steamshipticket, packed a kit bag, crossed the water and took a couple ofstrolls about that island over there; when, feeling fitter, I turned upin London for a look about. 

It sort of came over me that in my haste of departure I had neglectedto bring any of my friends along, or to equip myself with the means ofmaking others here. I was unarmed, so to say--a "Yank" in an obviouslyhostile country. This, you see, was before the war, before we andBritain had got so genuinely sweet on one another. 

At that time I had two acquaintances resident in London. One, aBostonian, whose attention was quite occupied with a new addition tohis family; the other was the errand man stationed before my place ofabode. He was an amiable soul, whose companionable nature, worldlywisdom and topographical knowledge I much appreciated. He instructedme in the culinary subject of "bubble and squeak" and many otherlearned matters; but unfortunately his social connections were limitedto one class. 

One time not a great while back I happened to review in succession fora New York paper several books by Hilaire Belloc. Mr. Belloc hadwritten me a note thanking me for these reviews. I decided to writeMr. Belloc that I was in London and to ask if he could spare a momentfor me to look at him, Mr. Belloc being one of my literary passions. 

Then an ambitious idea popped into my head. I determined to write thesame request to all the people in England I had ever reviewed. Reviewing, mostly anonymous, had been my business for several years, with other literary chores on the side. I communicated to Mr. Chesterton the fact that I had come over to look about, told him mybelief that he was one of the noblest and most interesting monuments inEngland, and asked him if he supposed that he could be "viewed" by me, at some street corner, say, at a time appointed, as he rumbled past inhis triumphal car. 

Writing to famous people that you don't know is somewhat like the drinkhabit. It is easy to begin; it is pleasurably stimulating; it soonfastens itself upon you to the extent that it is exceedingly difficultto stop indulgence and it leads you straight to excess. I wound up, Ithink, with Hugh Walpole. I had liked that "Fortitude" thing very much. 

My Englishised Boston friend--he's the worst Englishman I saw overthere--simply threw up his hands. He groaned and fell into a chair. 

"Holy cat!" he cried, or English words to that effect, "you can't comeover here and do that way. It's not done, " he declared. "You can'tmeet Englishmen in that fashion. These people will think you are awild, bounding red Indian. They'll all go out of town until you leavethe country. "

Well, I saw it was awfully bad. I have disgraced the U. S. A. That'swhat comes of having crude notions about meeting people. I felt prettycheap. I felt sorry for my friend too, because he had to stay therewhere he lived and try to hold his head up while I could slink off backhome. My friend pointed out to me that Mr. Chesterton and the othergentlemen had only my word for it that I had any connection withliterature, and that as far as they were aware I might be the worstkind of crook, and at the very best was in all likelihood a very greatbore. 

Annie, the maid at my lodgings, handed me a bunch of mail. Mr. Bellocwas particularly eager to see me, he said. He gave me an intimate twopage account of his movements for the past couple of weeks or so. Hehad just been out to sea in his boat, the _Nona_, and had only got backafter a good deal of difficulty outside; this he hoped would accountfor the delay of a day or so in his reply. 

During the Whitsun days he had to travel about England to see hischildren at their various schools, and after that he had to go tosettle again about his boat, where she lay in a Welsh port. Then hemust speak at Eton. He would be "available, " however, at the beginningof the next week, when he hoped I would "take a meal" with him. Perhaps he could be of some use in acquainting me with England; itwould be such a pleasure to meet me, and so on. Very nice attitude fora man so slightly acquainted with one. 

Mr. Chesterton wished to thank me for my letter and to say that hewould be pleased if I cared to come down to spend an afternoon with himat Beaconsfield. Mr. Walpole apologised very greatly for seeming socurtly inhospitable, but he was only in London for a short time and haddifficulty in squeezing his engagements in. This week, too, wasinfernally complicated by Ascot. But couldn't I come round on Mondayto lunch with him at his club?

Mr. Chesterton is a grand man. Smokes excellent cigars. But first, asyou come up the hill, from the railway station toward the old part ofthe village and to the little house Overroads, you enter, as like asnot, as I did, a gate set in a pleasant hedge, and you knock at a sidedoor, to the mirth later of Mrs. Chesterton. 

This agreeable entrance is that for tradesmen. The way you should havegone in is round somewhere on another road. A maid admits you to asmall parlour and in a moment Mrs. Chesterton comes in to inquire ifyou have an appointment with her husband. She always speaks of Mr. Chesterton as "my husband. " It develops that the letter you sentfixing the appointment got balled up in some way. It further developsthat a good many things connected with Mr. Chesterton's life and houseget balled up. Mrs. Chesterton's line seems to be to keep things abouta chaotic husband as straight as possible. 

Mr. Chesterton is a very fat man. His portraits, I think, hardly dohim sufficient honour in this respect. He has a remarkably red face. And a smallish moustache, lightish in colour against this background. His expression is extraordinarily innocent; he looks like a monstrousinfant. A tumbled mane tops him off. He sits in his parlour in a verysmall chair. 

Did I write him when I was coming? Wonder what became of the letter?Doesn't remember it. Perhaps it is in his dressing gown. Has a habitof sticking things that interest him into the pocket of his dressinggown. Where, do you suppose, is his dressing gown? However, nomatter. "Have a cigar. Do have a cigar. Wonder where my cigars are!Where are my cigars?" Mrs. Chesterton locates them. 

Now about that poem, "The Inn at the End of the World, " or some suchthing. He is inclined to think that he did write it, but he cannotremember where it was published. Now he has lost his glasses, ridiculously small glasses, which he has been continually attempting tofix firmly upon his nose. Slapping yourself about the chest is anexcellent way to find glasses. 

Well, it is very flattering to be told that one is so well known inAmerica. But so he had heard before. Describes himself as a"philosophical journalist. " Did not know that there was an audience inAmerica for his kind of writing. Wonders whether democracy as carriedon there "on such a gigantic scale" can keep right on successfully. Admits a division between our two peoples. "Trenches have been dugbetween us, " he declares. 

Rises to a remark about the Englishman's everlasting garden. "He likesto have a little fringe about him, " he says. And then tells a littlestory, which one might say contains all the elements of his art. 

When he first came to Beaconsfield, Mr. Chesterton said, the policemenused to touch their helmets to him, until he told them to stop it. Because, he said, he felt that rather he should touch his hat to thepolicemen. "Saluting the colours, as it were, " he explained. "For, "he added, "are they not officers of the King?"

Mr. Chesterton apologised for being, as he put it, excessivelytalkative. This was occasioned, he said, by "worry and fatigue. " Ideclined to stay for tea, as I noticed a chugging car awaiting in frontof the house. "You must come to see me again, " said the grand youngman of England. The last I saw of him he was rolling through hisgarden, tossing his mane; the famous garden that rose up and hit him, you remember, at the time of his unfortunate fall. 

Fine time I had with young Walpole. Those English certainly have thedrop on us in the matter of clubs. They live about in the hauntsbeloved of Thackeray, and everybody else you ever heard of. Pleasantplace, the Garrick. Something like our Players, but better. Slickcollection of old portraits. Fine bust there of Will Shakespeare, found bottled up in some old passage. 

Fashionable young man, Walpole. I can't remember exactly whether ornot he had on all these things; but he's the sort that, if he had onnothing, would look as if he had: silk topper, spats, buttonholebouquet. Asked me if I had yet been to Ascot. "Oh, you must go toAscot. " Buys his cigarettes, in that English way, in bulk, not by thebox. "Stuff some in your pocket, " he said. "Won't you have a whiskeyand soda?"

Difficult person to talk with, as the only English he knows is theKing's English. I was endeavouring to explain that I had left New Yorkrather suddenly. "I just beat it, you know, " I said. 

"You beat it?" said Mr. Walpole. 

"Yes, I just up and skidooed. "

"You skidooed?"

I saw that I should have to talk like John Milton. "Sure, " I said, "Ileft without much preparation. " And then we spoke of some writer I donot care for. "I don't get him, " I said. 

"You don't get him?" inquired Mr. Walpole. 

"No, " I said, "I can't see him at all. "

"You can't see him?" queried Mr. Walpole. 

More Milton, I perceived. "I quite fail, " I said, "to appreciate thegentleman's writings. "

Mr. Walpole got that. 

"Fortitude" had done him very well. The idea of Russia had alwaysfascinated him; he had enough money to run him for a couple of years, and he was leaving shortly for Russia. "Is there any one here youwould like me to help you to see?" he asked. Queer way for a gentlemanto treat a probable crook. "Have you met Mr. James?" Walpole was verystrong with Mr. James, it seemed. 

Read aloud a letter just received from Mr. James, which he had beenfingering, to show that his informal, epistolary style was identicalwith that of his recent autobiographical writings, which we had beendiscussing. "Bennett, of course you should see Arnold Bennett. " Greatfriend of Walpole's. "And Mrs. Belloc Lowndes, " said Mr. Walpole, "youreally must know her; knows as much about the writing game as any onein England. I'll write those three letters to-night. "

Suddenly he asked me if I were married. "All Americans are, " was hiscomment. He had to be going. Some stupid affair, he said, for theevening. We walked together around into the Strand. "Well, good-bye, "said Mr. Walpole, extending his hand, "I've got to beat it now. "

There was an awesome sort of place where Thackeray went, you remember, where he was scared of the waiters. This probably was not the ReformClub, as he was very much at home there and loved the place. However, just the outside of this "mausoleum" in Pall Mall scared Mr. HopkinsonSmith, who had been inside a few clubs here and there, and who spoke, in a sketch of London, of its "forbidding" aspect, "a great, square, sullen mass of granite, frowning at you from under its heavy browedwindows--an aloof, stately, cold and unwelcome sort of place. "

An aristocratic functionary, probably a superannuated member ofParliament, placed me under arrest at the door, and in a vast, marblepillared hall I was held on suspicion to await the arrival of Mr. Belloc. 

A large, brawny man he is, with massive shoulders, a prizefighter'shead, a fine, clean shaven face and a bull neck. Somehow he suggestedto me--though I do not clearly remember the picture--the portrait ofWilliam Blake by Thomas Phillips, R. A. , in the National PortraitGallery, frequently reproduced in books. 

He gives your hand a hearty wrench, turns and strides ahead of you intoanother room. You--and small boys in buttons, with cards and letterson platters, to whom he pays no attention--trot after him. A driving, forceful, dominating character, apparently. Looks at his watchfrequently. Perpetually up and down from town, he says, andcontinually rushing about London. Keen on the job, evidently, all thewhile. 

He does not know how far you are acquainted with England; "there is awonderful lot of things to be seen in the island. " Tells you all sortsof unusual places to go; how, somewhere in the north, you can walkalong a Roman wall for ever so long, "a wonderful experience. " Makesyour head spin, he knows so much that you never thought of aboutEngland. 

Discussing a tremendous meeting later on, where all the literarynobility of London are to be with you, he follows you down the stepswhen you go. Later forgets, in the crush of his affairs, all aboutthis arrangement. Then sends you telegrams and basketfuls of lettersof apology, with further invitations. 

"Here you are, sir! All the winners! One penny. " This had been thecry of the news lads but the week before. 

"England to fight! Here you are, sir. Britain at war!" suddenly theybegan to yell through the streets. 

It was not an hour now, I felt, to trouble Englishmen with my pettyliterary adventures. Also, I became a refugee, to some extent. And, well--I "beat it" back 'ome again. This was the only way I knew, as aneutral (then), to serve the countries at war. 

VII

HENRY JAMES, HIMSELF

We have now to record an extraordinary adventure. Our later educationwas derived in some considerable measure from the writings of Mr. HenryJames. This to explain our emotion. We had never expected to beholdhimself, the illustrious expatriate who had so far enlightened anunkempt mind. But the night before we had been talking of him. Indeed, it is impossible for us to fail to perceive here something ofthe supernatural. 

But hold! "William Edwards, " says a newspaper notice, "who used todrive a post stage between New York and Albany, died on Saturday at hishome. He was born in Albany, " and so and so, "and many were thestories he had to tell of incidents connected with the famous men whowere his passengers. " Even so. We were ourselves a clerk. That is, for a number of years we waited on customers in a celebrated book shop. This is one of the stories we have to tell of the personages who were, so to say, our passengers. Or perhaps we are more in the nature ofthose unscrupulous English footmen to high society, of whom we haveheard, who "sell out" their observation and information to the societypress. 

Anyhow, we are of a loquacious, gossipy turn; and we were booksellers, so to speak, to crowned heads. We have recently heard, too, of anotherprecedent to our garrulous performance, the publication in Rome of thememoirs of an old waiter, who carefully set down the relativeliberality of prominent persons whom he served. After having servedCardinals Rampolla and Merry del Val, this excellent memoirist enteredopposite their names, "Both no good. " With this we drop the defensive. 

We noticed Mr. Wharton sitting down, legs crossed, smoking a cigar. Awaiting, we presumed, his wife. A not unpicturesque figure, tall, rather dashing in effect, ruddy visage, dragoon moustache, and habitedin a light, smartly-cut sack suit of rather arresting checks, conspicuous grey spats; a gentleman manifesting no interest whatever inhis surroundings. 

Mr. Brownell, the critic, entered through the front door and moved tothe elevator. 

There stepped from the elevator car a somewhat portly little man whojoined Mr. Wharton. He wore a rather queer looking, very big derbyhat, oddly flat on top. His shoulders were hooped up somewhat like thefigure of Joseph Choate. A rather funny, square, box-like body onlittle legs. An English look to his clothes. Under his arm anodd-looking club of a walking-stick. Mr. Brownell turned quickly tothis rather amusing though not undistinguished figure, and said, "Mr. James--Brownell. " The quaint gentleman took off his big hat, discovering to our intent curiosity a polished bald dome, and beganinstantly to talk, very earnestly, steadily, in a moderately pitchedvoice, gesticulating with an even rhythmic beat with his right hand, raised close to his face. 

Joined presently by Mrs. Wharton, the party, bidding Mr. Brownelladieu, took a somewhat humorous departure (we felt) from the shop; Mr. James, with some suddenness, preceding out the door. Moving nimbly upthe Avenue, he was overhauled by Mrs. Wharton under full sail, whoattached herself to his arm. Her husband by an energetic forward playaround the end achieved her other wing. In this formation, sticksflashing, skirt whipping, with a somewhat spirited mien, the augustspectacle receded from our rapt view, to be at length obliterated as aunit by the general human scene. 

We saw Mr. James after this a number of times. Accompanied again byMrs. Wharton, and later in the charge (such was the effect) of anotherlady, who, we understood, drives regularly to her social chariotliterary lions. In something like six years' observation of the humanbeing in a book shop, we have never seen any person so thoroughly in abook store, a magazine, that is, of books, as Mr. James. One can be, you know--it is most common, indeed--in a book store and at the sametime not be in a book store--any more than if one were in a hotellobby. Mr. James "snooked" around the shop. He ran his nose over thetables, and inch by inch (he must be very shortsighted) along thewalls, stood on tiptoe and pulled down volumes from high places, rummaged in dark corners, was apparently oblivious of the presence ofanything but the books. He was not the slightest in a hurry. He wouldhave been, we felt, content and quite happy, like a child with blocks, to play this way by himself all day. 

Happening, by our close proximity, to turn to us the first time in theshop that he required attention, upon each succeeding visit he soughtout us to attend to his wishes. The position of retail salesman "onthe floor" is one completely exposed to every human attitude andhumour. Against arrogance, against contempt of himself as a shopperson, a species of "counter-jumper, " against irascibility, againstbigoted ignorance, against an indissoluble assumption, perhaps logical, that he is of inferior mentality, this factotum has no defence. Hisvery business is to meet all with amenity. It is his daily portion, included in the material with which he works. 

It (he finds) injures him not, essentially; it ceases to particularlyaffect him, beyond his inward appraisement of the character before him. Toward him one acts simply in accordance with the instincts of one'snature. His status counsels no constraint, invites no display, has noproperty of stimulation. Thus the view of a famous man's characterfrom the position of retail clerk is valuable. Mr. James's manner withMr. Brownell would hardly be the same as toward us. But it was, exactly. There was present in his mind at the moment, was quiteapparent, absolutely no consciousness of any distance of mind, orposition, between him and us. He sought conversation (any suggestionof so equalising a thing as conversation with a clerk is not uncommonlyrepressed by the important as preposterous). In his own talk with us, he seemed to us to be a man consciously striving with the material ofwords and sentences to express his thought as well as he could. 

He was very earnest. He looked up at us constantly (we are a littletall) with fixed concentration of gaze, and moved his hand to and froas though seeking to balance his ideas. He asked questions withdeference. Among other things, he desired very much to know what percent. Of the novels on the fiction table was the product of writers inEngland. "I live in England myself, " he said, very simply, "and I amcurious to know this. " He expressed a little impatience at themeasureless flood of mediocre fiction, making a fluttering gestureconveying a sense of impotence to give it attention. He barely glancedat the pile of his own book, and did not mention it. He did not seemat first (though we believe later he changed this opinion) to thinkhighly of Arnold Bennett (this was at the first bloom of Mr. Bennett'svogue here), nor to have read him. "Oh, yes, yes; he is an Englishjournalist, " in a tone as though, merely a journalist. Clear artist infibre. When he took his departure he bade us "Good day, " and liftedhis hat. 

Succeeding visits caused us to suspect that Mr. James's ideas of themachinery of business are somewhat naive. He seemed to regard us as, so to say, the whole works. It entered our head that maybe Mr. Jamesthought we received and answered all manner of correspondence, editorial as well as that connected with the retail business, opened upin the morning, read, accepted, and rejected manuscript, nailed upboxes for shipment, swept out the shop, and were acquainted perfectlywith all confidential matters of the House. "I wrote you" (us), "youknow, " he said. And he referred by the way, apparently upon theassumption that the matter had been laid before us, to business ofwhich we could not possibly have cognizance. And then he desired tosend some books. Fumbling in his breast pocket, he produced a letter, from which he read aloud a list of his own works apparently requestedof him. Carefully replacing his letter, he said: "I should like tosend these books to my sister-in-law. " With that he started out. 

Now, it was not a difficult problem to assume that this could be noother than Mrs. William James, still, it is customary for purchasers tostate the name of the person to whom goods are to go, and many peopleare sceptical that the salesman has it down right even then. "Yoursister-in-law, Mr. James, is------?" we suggested. "Oh, yes, ofcourse--of course; Mrs. William James; of course--of course, " Mr. Jamessaid. Now, certainly, he supposed (it was evident) he had got finallysettled a difficult and complicated piece of business. Mrs. WilliamJames's regular address we might reasonably infer. Still it might bethat she was at the moment somewhere else, on a visit. It were betterto have Mr. James give his order in the regular way. "And theaddress?" we mentioned. "Oh, yes--oh, yes; of course--of course, " Mr. James said apologetically. Then, pausing a moment to see if there wasanything more in this bewildering labyrinth of details to such acomplex transaction, he departed, taking, as he drew away, his hat, asMrs. Nickleby says, "completely off. "

Instead of ascending directly to that regal domain which is unaware ofour existence, Mr. James, with the inclination of a bow, approached usone day and inquired, in a manner as though the decision rested largelywith us, whether he "could see" the head of the firm. The lady who washis escort swept past him. "Oh, I am sure he will see him, " shedeclared; "this" (with impressive awe) "is Mr. James. " Had we said, No, right off the bat, so to say, like that, we believe (unchampioned)Mr. James would have gently withdrawn. 

VIII

MEMORIES OF A MANUSCRIPT

I was born in Indiana. That was several years ago, and I have sinceseen a good deal of the world. I was reading in a newspaper the otherday of a new film which shows on the screen the innumerable adventuresof a book in the making, from the time the manuscript is accepted tothe point where the completed volume is delivered into the hands of thereader. And it struck me that the intimate life of a manuscript beforeit is accepted might be even more curious to the general public. Thecareer of many an obscure manuscript, I reflected, doubtless is muchmore romantic than its character. I wonder why, I said, manuscriptshave all been so uncommonly reticent concerning themselves. Butmanuscripts, one recollects, have sensitive natures; and theirexperiences, at least the experiences of those not born to a greatname, could hardly be called flattering to their feelings. Indeed, manuscripts suffer much humiliation, doubtless little suspected of theworld. And it requires a manuscript strong in the spirit of detachmentto lay bare its heart. 

My parent--manuscripts commonly have but one parent--bore me greatlove; indeed I think he loved me beyond everything else in the world. He was a young man apprenticed to the law, but he cared more for me, Ithink, than for his calling, which I suspect he decidedly neglected formy sake. I know that in his family he was held a rather disappointingyoung man; but his family did not know the fervour of his heart, or thetenacity of purpose of which he was capable. He toiled over myup-bringing for two years, and often and often into the very smallhours. I think I was never altogether absent from his thoughts, evenwhen he was abroad about his business or his pleasure. I was his firstmanuscript--his first, that is, that ever grew up. And though I knowhe was not ashamed but very proud of me, he attempted to keep myexistence something of a secret. I could not but feel that as Ideveloped I was a great happiness to him, and yet at times he wouldgive way to black discouragement about me. I know that I have passageswhich caused him intense pain to bring about. Throughout the time ofmy growth my dear parent alternated between periods of high exultationand of keen torture. As time passed he became more and more completelyabsorbed in me. When my climax came into sight he fell to working uponme with exceeding fury, and in the construction of my climax it wasplain that he wrestled with much agony--an agony, however, which seemedto be a kind of strange, mad joy. 

And then one night (I remember a storm raged without) my parent came tome with a wild, yet happy, light on his face. He pounded at me harderthan ever before; and at intervals paced the floor, up and down, up anddown, like a man demented, throwing innumerable half-smoked cigarettesover everywhere. The wind blew, and the little frame house strainedand groaned in its timbers. As he bent over me a face enwrapt, striking the keys with a quick, nervous touch, great tears started frommy dear parent's eyes. Then, it must have been near dawn and thelittle room hung and swayed in a golden fog of tobacco smoke, I knewthat I was finished. My parent was bending over my last page like asix-day bicycle racer over his machine, when he straightened up, raising his hands, and drove his right fist into his left palm. "Done!" he cried, and started from his chair to pace the room in such afrenzy as I had never seen him in before. It was fully half an hourbefore his excitement abated, when he fell back into his chair, andsmoked incessantly until the light of morning paled our lamp. Atlength I noticed he had ceased to smoke, his head gradually slippedbackward, his eyes closed, and he slept. Thus I was born and broughtup and grew to manuscript's estate in a little Middle-Western town, ona rented typewriter. 

One day shortly after this I was packed up with great care and verycarefully addressed, and under my parent's arm I boarded an interurbancar. We new over the friendly-looking Hoosier landscape, and at lengthrolled into the interurban station of the bustling capital, the largestcity I had as yet seen. I did not see much of it, however, on thisfirst visit, as we went quickly around the handsome Soldiers' Monumentto the office of the American Express Company on Meridian Street. Iwas given over in charge of a man there who very briskly weighed me andasked my parent my value. My parent seemed to be in a good deal of adilemma as to this. He hemmed and hawed and finally replied: "Well, Ihardly know. "

"Is its value inestimable?" inquired the clerk. "Why, in a way I guessyou might say it is, " said my parent. 

Finally, against the clerk's mounting impatience, an estimate waseffected, and I was declared to be worth $500. I was cast carelesslyon to a pile of other packages of various shapes and sizes, and myparent, giving me a farewell lingering look of love, went out the door. 

Of my journey there is not much to say. I arrived in New York amid aprodigious crush of packages, and was delivered, in company with abouta dozen others, which I knew to be brother or rival, manuscripts, atthe office of a great publishing house. Here I was signed for, and, inthe course of the day, unwrapped. I was ticketed with a number and mytitle, and placed in a tall cabinet, where I remained in the society ofseveral shelves full of other manuscripts for a number of days. Here Iwas delighted to find quite a coterie of fellow-Hoosiers. But aremarkable proportion of my associates, I discovered, was from theSouth. The majority of us hailed from small towns. In our companywere three or four of somewhat distinguished lineage. 

As time passed and nothing happened, I grew somewhat nervous, as I knewwith what anxiety my dear parent in Indiana would be counting the days. One of my new-found friends, a portly manuscript (a story ofsponge-fishers) that had been out of the cabinet and had had a readingbefore my arrival, told me in the way of gossip something of thesituation at the moment in this house. My friend was an oldcampaigner, very ragged and battered in appearance, and had been (I wasappalled to hear) submitted to seventeen publishing houses beforearriving here. It had lost all hope of any justice in the publishingworld, and was very cynical. Heavens! would I------

However, it appeared that at this house the first reader had just beenobliged to take a vacation owing to ill-health occasioned by tooassiduous application to her task of attempting to keep somewhereabreast of the incoming flood of manuscripts. She was, it seems, alarge elderly lady who had tried out her own talents as a novelistwithout marked success some twenty years ago. Her niece, a miss oftwenty or so, who had a fancy for an editorial career and who hadvainly been seeking a situation of this character for some time, founda windfall in the instant need for a substitute first reader. It waswith some petulance, it struck me, that she yanked the door open oneday. She was, apparently, showing some one about her office. "Allthat, " she said, waving her hand toward my case, "practicallyuntouched; and mountains besides. I don't know how I'm to get awaywith it. I suppose I'll have to do a couple every night. " I don'tknow what time it was, but the light was going and the young lady hadgot into bed when she began to read me, propped up against her knees. She yawned now and then and sighed repeatedly as she shifted back mypages. I thought I noticed that her, knees swayed, just perceptibly, at times. Then suddenly my support sank to one side; I started toslide, and would have plunged to the floor, very nearly pulling herafter me, if the disturbance had not as suddenly caught the young ladyback into wild consciousness, and she grabbed me and her knees and theslipping bedclothes all in a lump. Shortly after this she turned backto see how I ended, and then went to sleep comfortably, lights out. 

I did not see the report the young lady wrote of me, but I had occasionto think that she declared I was rather stupid. However, I got anotherreading. I was given next to a young man, not, so I understood, aregular reader, but a member of the advertising department who wasfrequently called on to help weed out manuscript, who took me home withhim and threw me onto a couch littered with books and papers. Here Istayed for ever so long. One day I heard the young man say to hiswife, nodding toward me: "I ought to try to get that unfortunate thingoff my hands before my vacation, but I never seem to get around to it. "As, alack-a-day! he did not get around to me before that occasion, Iwent, packed in the bottom of a trunk, with the young man and his wifeon their annual holiday. In my pitchy gaol I had, of course, no meansof calculating the flight of time, but when I next saw the light, afterwhat seemed to me an interminable spell, I appeared to be the occasionof some excitement. The young man brought me up after several vigorousdives into the bottom of the trunk, as his wife was saying with muchenergy: "Well, of course, you can do as you please, but if I were youI'd telegraph an answer right straight back that I did not propose tospend my vacation working for them. The idea! After all you do!""Oh, well, " was the young man's reply, "some poor dog of an authorwrote the thing, and it's only right that he should have some kind ofan answer within a reasonable time. I ought to have got around to itlong ago. "

Whatever the kind-hearted young man may have said about me I was givenyet another chance. A very business-like chap "took a shot at me, " ashe expressed it, one forenoon at his desk, I was considerablydistressed, however, by the confusion and the multiplicity ofinterruptions to which his attention to me was subject. When I thoughtof the sacred privacy devoted to my creation, the whole-heartedconsecration of my dear parent's life-blood to my being, I felt thatsuch a reading was little short of criminally unjust. And how couldany one be expected to savour my power and my charm in the midst ofsuch distractions? The business-like chap sat somewhere near themiddle of a vast floor ranged with desks. In his immediateneighbourhood a score or more of typewriters were clicking and perhapshalf as many telephones were going. The chap's own telephone rang, itseemed to me, every five or six pages, and, resting me the while on hisknee, he expectantly awaited the outcome of his secretary's answeringconversation. At frequent intervals he was consulted by colleagues asto this and that: covers, jackets, electros, fall catalogues, what not?Nevertheless, he got through me in rather brisk order. At myconclusion I observed no tears in his eyes. And, it was evident, hesettled my hash, as the phrase is, at this house. 

I certainly felt sick at heart in that express car back to the cornbelt. My poor parent, when I again met him, unwrapped me verytenderly, and sat for a long time turning me through very dully. Istayed on his desk for several days, and then fared forth again on myquest, valued this trip at a hundred dollars. 

After the initial formalities, I fell this time first into the hands ofa driving sort of fellow who had the air of being perpetually up to hisneck in work, and who handed me to his wife with the remark: "Here'sanother job for you tomorrow. Make a careful, working synopsis of thestory, and I'll dip into the manuscript here and there when I come hometo get a line on the style and general character of the thing. " Thenext night, after rustling energetically through me, he wrote out hisreport, and, passing it to his wife, said: "There are no outrightmis-statements of fact as to the plot in that, are there?"

I next fell in the way of a fashionable character just leaving for aweek-end, who read me in the smoking-car on his way up into thecountry. He burned several holes in my pages with the falling ash ofhis cigarettes. He read me in bits between scraps of conversation withhis seat neighbour and recesses of enjoyment of the flying scenery. And he found it rather awkward holding me balanced on his legs crookedup against the seat in front of him. This, my precarious position, ledto a grievous calamity. I toppled and fell, and my reader, making aswooping clutch at me as I went, but the more scattered my pages overthe polluted floor of the car. An evil draught carried my third pageunderneath a seat, the third forward from my reader. It was ananguishing thing, but I could not cry out, I could not tell him: as myreader, cursing me heartily (for what I cannot admit was my fault)gathered me up, he neglected to crawl far enough under the seat beforehim to perceive my page three. 

But it does not fall within the scope of my present design to extendthis chronicle to the length of an autobiography. With what pain andlabour my poor parent recovered from his memory, and then veryimperfectly, of course, my third page; how he grew more melancholy ofcountenance at each of my successive returns to the house of my birthand formative years; how I sometimes remained away for months at atime, and how once an office boy mis-addressed me to a lady in NewJersey who very graciously herself forwarded me to my parent; how mypoor parent was obliged at length by the increasing dilapidation of myappearance to go to the expense of having me completely re-typed by apublic typist, and how directly after this he entirely re-wrote, expanded, and elaborated me at the instigation of one firm ofpublishers; how I was read by a delightful old lady who knitted in heroffice as she read; by a lady of cosmopolitan mien who had me togetherwith many other manuscripts sent to her home in a box, and who consumedinnumerable cigarettes as she perused me; by a young gentleman who I amsure had a morning "hang over" at his desk; by a tough-looking customerwho wore his hat at his desk; by a young lady of futurist aspect whotook me home to her studio; by an old, old man who seemed to "see" mequite, and by many more--all this I may merely indicate. 

One very striking phenomenon I should by no means fail to mention, andthis uncanny fact may be illustrated thus: If an object is blue or ifit is yellow it will be recognised by all men as being blue or yellow, as the case may be. One will not say of it, "See that lurid yellowobject, " to have another reply, "What! that object directly before us?I see nothing yellow about it; it is as black as ink. " But I wasapparently exactly like such an impossible object. I was, figurativelyspeaking, no colour of my own and I was all colours. One, so to speak, saw me as green, another as white, and yet another as orange, whilesome saw quite red as they looked at me. That is, my characterconsisted altogether, it seemed, in the amazingly diverse reactions Iinspired in my successive readers. I was intolerably dull, I wasabundantly entertaining, I was over-subtle, I was painfully obvious, Iwas exceedingly humorous, and I lacked all humour. 

How, at length, a group of editorial gamblers succeeded in comingsufficiently into harmony about me to render a composite verdict that Iwould be a fair publishing risk; but how the title my poor parent hadgiven me it was unanimously held wouldn't do at all; and how I gotanother in book committee meeting; how, after I was (wonderful thing!)"accepted, " I lay in a safe until I thought I should crumble away withage; and how I was suddenly brought forth and hastily read by themanufacturing department for ideas for my cover to be, and then by theadvertising department for "copy dope, " before being rushed to thecomposing room--of these things I have not time to speak further, as Iam now on the press, and am rapidly ceasing to be merely a manuscript. 

IX

"YOU ARE AN AMERICAN"

 "Lavender, sweet lavender, Who will buy my sweet blooming lavender? Buy it once, you'll buy it twice, And make your clothes sweet and nice!"

She was a wretched-looking creature, with a great basket; and it was soshe sang through the street. By this you know where we are, for thisis one of the old cries of London town. 

For the sake of my clothes, and for the noble pleasure of associatingfor an instant with the original of a coloured print of old Londontypes, I bought a sprig of lavender. "Thank you, sir, " she said. 

I saw it coming; ah! yes, by now I knew she would. "You are anAmerican, sir, " she added, eyeing me with interest. 

You would think that since the "American invasion" first began ever solong ago, some time after Dicky Davis "discovered" London, they, theBritish, would have seen enough of us to have become accustomed to usby now. But, as you have found, it is not so--we are a strange racefrom over the sea. 

"You are an American, sir, " said the barmaid. She was a huge youngwoman who could have punched my head in. I am not so delicate, either. And she had a pug nose. 

"I do not so much care for American ladies, " she said. "I think theyare a bit hard, don't you?" Then, perhaps feeling that she may haveoffended me, she quickly added: "Not of course that I doubt that thereare maidenlike ladies in America. "

They are a curious people, these English, with their nice ideas, evenamong barmaids, of the graces of a mellow society. For some time Icould not understand why she was so beautiful. Then I perceived thatit was because of her nose. She looked just like the goddesses of theElgin marbles, whose noses are broken, you know. Still I doubt whetherit would be a good idea for a man to break his wife's nose in order tomake her more beautiful. 

I will grave her name here on the tablet of fame, so that when you goagain to London you may be able to see her. It is Elizabeth. 

He was a cats' meat man. And on his arm he carried a basket in whichwas a heap of bits of horse flesh (such I have been told it is), eachon a sliver of stick. There was a little dog playing about near by. "Would you care to treat that dog to a ha'penny's worth of meat, sir?"asked the man. 

I had never before treated a dog to anything, though treating is anAmerican habit. So I "set up" the dog to a ha'penny's worth of meat. "Thank you, sir, " said the cats' meat man. I saw by the light comeinto his eye that he had recognised me. "You are------" he began. "Iknow it, " I said; "I am. "

I looked at the wretched dog. Would he too accuse me? But he ate hismeat and said never a word. Perhaps he was not an Englishman. No, Ithink he was a tourist, too, like myself. I was glad I had befriendedhim in an alien land. 

"What is the price of this?" I asked. "Thri'pence?" I inquired, reading a sign. 

"Three pence, " pronounced the attendant very distinctly. It was buthis way of saying, "You are an American. "

I went into an office to see a man I know. "How are you?" I said in mydemocratic way to the very small office boy. "You are looking betterthan when I saw you last, " I remarked with pleasant home humour. 

"I never saw you before, sir, " replied the office boy. "He is anAmerican, " I heard him, apologising for me, tell the typist. 

Some considerable while after this I went to this office again. I hadquite forgotten the office boy. I handed him my card. A bright lad, he. "I'm feeling much better, sir, " he said. 

In Pall Mall there is a steamship office in the window of which isdisplayed a miniature sheet of water. At opposite sides of this littleocean are small dabs of clay, one labelled England, the other America. Tiny ships ply back and forth between the two countries. Observerscannot make out how it is that these little boats turn about as theydo, apparently of their own accord. And the scene has continually anumber of spectators. (This was before the war. )

One day I was looking in at this window, very much interested in thisproblem. Standing next to me was a fine specimen of a Pall Mallian, with his silk "topper, " his black tail coat, his buttonhole, hischecked trowsers, his large grey spats, his shining boots, his stickand his glass on its ribbon, apparently equally absorbed. I turned tohim after a hit--a quite natural thing to do, I thought--and, "How thedeuce do you suppose that thing works?" I said. 

The tall gentleman slowly turned. Slowly, stiffly, with anaristocratic gesture, he raised his arm and placed his glass in hiseye, for a moment. I was frozen by his blank stare, quite through. Then he lifted his eyebrow; the glass dropped and bounded before him onits ribbon. And he turned and walked away. Walked away, I dare say, to his frowning club, to tell how he had just been set upon in thestreet and insulted by some strange ruffian. But, you see, I didn'tknow; I was an American. 

To Epsom I went in a cart to see the Derby. It was at Epsom, you know, that the King's horse was thrown several seasons ago by a suffragettewho lost her life in the act. Well, most of the fine gentlemen ofEngland, I think, were there, all in splendid tall grey hats and withtheir field glasses slung over their shoulders. And a horde of thecleverest crooks in Europe also. 

There I had my pocket "cut" by a pickpocket. That is the way they gothrough you in England, neatly lift your pocket out. I thought thiswas an interesting thing, so I told it about that I had had my pocketcut, but I did not see any international significance in the affair. 

The achievement, however, I discovered was much relished by my hearersin England. I, an American, had come over there and had my pocket cut. He, the crook, an Englishman very probably, had been "cuter" than I; hehad "had" me, an American. 

It is a curious thing, and a fact not generally known, I believe, thatall decayed taxicab drivers in London, those who are unfortunate, havefallen from a high estate. Each and every one of them used to drivethe London to Oxford coach in the days of 'orses. 

I met a number of these personages, fat, with remarkably red faces andlarge honeycombed noses. Not at all like the alert, athletic lads, atype of mechanical engineer, who have arisen as cabbies with the adventof taxis. What do they know about 'orses?

It was such an old boy who drove me from the neighbourhood of RussellSquare, where I was stopping, to Chelsea, where I went into lodgings. He frequently had the pleasure of driving Americans, he remarked. "Thank you, sir, " he said. 

I required to have my shoes repaired, and I inquired of my landlordwhere might be found a good cobbler. He told me that there was anexcellent one in Battersea. "In Battersea!" I said. "Is there none inChelsea? How am I to get my shoes clear over to Battersea?"

"Why, " he replied, "we will send the cobbler a card and he'll send someone over for the boots and----"

"And then, I suppose, " I said, "he will send us another card sayingthat the boots are done and so on. And in the meantime I could havehad the boots repaired and worn out again. "

Naturally I was for wrapping up the shoes in a piece of newspaper andsetting out straight off to find a cobbler. But my landlord would nothear of such a thing at all. "Of course you are an American, " he said. 

I gathered that while such a proceeding might be all right in mycountry it wouldn't do in England. He did not want lodgers, Iunderstood, going in and out of his house with parcels under theirarms. It would reflect on him. He was a man with a lively mind, andhe told me a little story. 

"How do you like the new lodger?" asked the first housemaid of thesecond. 

"Oh, he's very nice indeed, " replied the second housemaid. "But he'snot a gentleman. He helped me carry the coals upstairs yesterday. "

"Could you spare me a trifle, sir?" asked the errand man in my street. "I haven't had tea today. "

It's a funny thing, that; isn't it?--our just being all "Americans"(when we are not referred to as "Yankees" or "Yanks"). We are neverUnited Statesians. It is the "American Ambassador, " and the "AmericanConsul-General. " I have even heard Dr. Wilson referred to as the"President of America. "

One day I saw a tourist. He was an American, a young man I knew in NewYork. I found him going into the Houses of Parliament. I was fond ofgoing in there frequently, and said I would accompany him. 

With an easy stride, at a speed I should say of about two miles anhour, he walked straight through the Houses of Parliament; through theNorman porch, through the King's robing room, the Royal or Victoriagallery, the Prince's chamber, the sumptuously decorated House ofPeers, the Peers' lobby, the spacious central hall, the Commons'corridor and the House of Commons; glancing about him the while at artand architecture, lavish magnificence and the eternal garments andsymbols of history. Returning to the central hall, we passed throughSt. Stephen's and Westminster Hall and arrived again in the street. 

"How long did it take us to do that?" said my friend, questioning hiswatch. 

"Oh, about fifteen minutes, " I replied. 

He said he thought he would go across the way and "do" the Abbey nextwhile he was in the neighbourhood. 

I suppose I could have helped him in the matter of despatch, but Ididn't think of it at the time. Later I heard of two Americans whodrove up to the abbey in a taxi. Leaping out, one said to the other:"You do the outside and I'll do the inside, and that way we'll save alot of time. "

The thing a man does in America, of course, when he gets into arailroad train is to light a cigar and begin talking to the fellow nextto him. There were two of us in the railway carriage compartment on myway down into Surrey. I made a number of amiable observations; I askeda number of pleasant questions. My object was to while away the timein human companionship. "Quite so, " was his reply to observations. 

In replying to questions he would commit himself to nothing; hewouldn't even say that he didn't know. "I shouldn't undertake to say, sir, " was his answer. And then, certainly, there was no possibility ofpursuing the subject further. 

He wasn't reading a paper; he wasn't doing anything but gaze straightin front of him. I concluded that he was "sore" at me; I concludedthat he was a surly bear, anyway. And so an hour or so passed in uttersilence. 

The pretty landscape whirled by; we went through a hundred tunnels(more or less); the little engine gave a shrill little squeak now andthen; at old, old railway stations, that remind one agreeably of jails, rough-looking men in black shirt sleeves and corduroy waistcoats ranout to the train to open the carriage doors, and I forgot the gentlemanaltogether. Till at length we came to his station. 

When he had got out he turned to latch the door, and putting his headin at the window, he said to me in the pleasantest manner possible:"Good aufternoon, sir. " He wasn't sore at me a bit! That was simplyhis fashion of travelling, in silence. 

I was going into the countryside, to the country places where the oldmen have pleasant faces and the maidens quiet eyes. To fare forth uponthe King's highway, to hedgerows and blossoms and the old lanes ofMerrie England, to mount again the old red hills, bird enchanted, anddip the valleys bright with sward, to the wind on the heath, brother, to hills and the sea, to lonely downs, to hold converse with simpleshepherd men, and, when even fell, the million tinted, to seek someancient inn for warmth in the inglenook, and bite and drop, and where, when the last star lamp in the valley had expired, I would rest myweary bones until the sweet choral of morning birds called me on my way. 

There was an ancient character going along the road. He walked with astaff, a crooked stick. His coatless habit was the colour of clay; hislegs were bound about just below the knee by a strap (wherein, at oneside, he carried his pipe), so that his trowsers flared at the bottomlike a sailor's; over his shoulder he bore a flat straw basket. Underhis chin were whiskers; his eyes were merry and bright and his cheeksjust like fine rosy apples, with a great high light on each. I askedof him the way and we trudged along together. "You are from Mericy, "he said with delight. 

He told me about himself. He was seventy-four and he had never had "asingle schooling" in his life. Capel was his home, a village of abouttwenty houses which we were approaching, thirty miles or so fromLondon. The last time he been to London was when he was fifteen. Hehad then seen some fireworks there. No fireworks in Capel, he said, had ever been able to touch him since. He had been pushing on, hesaid, pushing on, pushing on all the while. 

"You were not born in Capel, then?" I said. 

Born in Capel! Why, he had been born seven miles from Capel. 

The difficulty was that I had overlooked the fact that everybody goesout of London town at Whitsuntide. Village and county town I tried andI could not find where to lay my head. Everything was, as they say inEngland, "full up. " It was coming on to rain and the night fell chilland black. Would I have to use my rucksack for a pillow and sleep inthe fields?

At length I found a man--it was at quaint Godalming, I think, where thefamous Charterhouse School is--who could not give me a room, butoffered me a bed and breakfast at half a crown. "There's anotherfellow up there, " he said. "But he's a nice, quiet fellow; somethinglike yourself, " he said. "I think you'll like him. "

"You are an American, " remarked my landlord. I sat with him in hislittle parlour behind the bar. It had a gun over the mantelpiece, agreat deal of painted china and a group of stuffed birds in a glasscase. He asked me if I liked reading, because, if I did, he had an olddictionary to which I was welcome at any time. 

At length it was the hour for bed. I followed my heavy host with hiscandle up difficult stairs. "I think they're all asleep, " he said. 

"They're all asleep!" I exclaimed. "Who are?"

"Why, " replied my landlord, "there are five of them, you know. Butthey are nice quiet fellows. Something like yourself, " he added. "Ithink you will like them. "

In that shadowed, gabled room were the noises of many sunk in slumber. Well, they were, I found in the morning, rather inoffensive youngfellows, all cyclists, and indeed not altogether unlike myself. It wasafter my bacon and eggs that I found on my way a place for a "wash andbrush up, tuppence. "

"Traveller, sir?" inquired the publican, in response to my knock andpeering cautiously out at his door. For it was Sunday, after threeo'clock in the afternoon and not yet six; and to obtain refreshment ata public house at that hour one must be a "traveller over three miles'journey. " "I'm a traveller all the way from the U. S. A. , " said I. 

I stood my battered shilling ash stick in a corner and looked out againfrom my window over the old red roofs and at the back of the housewhere he dwelt who when the Queen had commanded his presence said, "I'man old man, ma'am, and I'll take a seat. " When Annie, the maid, hadbrought my "shaving water, sir, " in a kind of a tin sprinkling can andwhen I had used it I took up my Malacca town cane and went out to seehow old Father Thames was coming on. 

I thought I would buy some writing paper and I went into a drug storekind of a place. "I see you are an American, sir, " said the shopman. "This is a chemist's shop, " he explained; "you get paper at thestationer's, just after the turning, at the top of the street. "

Hurrying for my passport, I inquired as to the location of such andsuch a street--whatever the name of it is--where, I understood, theplace was where this was to be had. "Ah!" said he whom I addressed, "you want the American Consul-General. "

X

WHY MEN CAN'T READ NOVELS BY WOMEN

George Moore once presented the idea that the only thing of interestand value about the creative art of a woman was the feminine quality ofthat art. The novels of Jane Austen come readily to mind as anargument in support of this provocative idea. Quite first among theircharms, every one will admit, is the indisputable fact that no mancould possibly have written them. They have the lightness, brightness, sparkle, perfume, flavour, grace, fun, sensitivity of a young femininemind. No one more than Miss Austen has captivated the roarers amongmen. A man admires, say, Conrad. He--if he is a manly man--falls inlove with Jane Austen. Very well. 

Now, then, it is a curious and a paradoxical thing that no man ofmasculine character can read the novels written by women to-day, unlesshe has to; that is, unless he is a book-reviewer, publisher's reader, magazine editor, proofreader, or some such thing. And the reason hecan't do it, in view of George Moore's idea and Miss Austen's renownedmagnetism, is curious indeed. It is because of the peculiarly feminineattitude of mind of our present women-novelists. At least, this is thearresting pronouncement delivered with much robust eloquence by myleonine friend, Colonel Bludgeon. 

The present writer (a pale, spectacled, middle-aged young man) is tooconscious of the wondrous nature of women to question their ability inanything. But of one of whom he stands in greater awe than of anythingelse in the world he is a humble friend. The dictum of this my friendcomes from a quite different character than myself. He is a great man;he has read everything; seen everything; known everybody. Exception tohim could be taken only on one ground. He is perfectly awful. Hebelongs to an old school; splenetic, choleric. He isSir-Anthony-Absolute-like; a critic in the spirit of the thunderingdays of William Ernest Henley. His face is like a beefsteak. Hisframe is like "a mountain walking. " His voice, Johnsonian. He knowsmore about literature than probably any other living man. 

"No, sir, " he rumbled, "you cannot find to-day a cigar-smoking animal"(though the Colonel is so erudite a man, his language is terrible) "whocould be lured into the pages of our women novelists withoutsnorts--snorts, sir--of disgust, or bellows of derisive mirth. Why?Because these pages no longer contain an acute transcript of life asonly a sensitive feminine mind would have the cunning to observe it, and of a form of human life in itself highly feminine in its character, but they now present a singularly insular travesty of man, anunconscious caricature of man as he could only appear to a femininemind bound by the romantic limitations of sex, a mind, that is, devoidof masculine understanding, unable to recognise by virtue ofaffiliation of instinct that which is fine in the male character andthat which is false to type. 

"Sir, " continued the Colonel, "these pictures are coloured, on onehand, by ludicrous prejudice against masculine qualities which thefeminine nature temperamentally feels to be antagonistic, or dangerous, to itself; and, on the other hand, by sentimental worship of masculineattributes conceived to be desirable complements to the frailty ofwomen. This amusing view of man springs not only from the element ofsex, as I have said, but from the very marrow of sex. We do not getfrom the contemporary authoress creative literature at all; that is, adisinterested criticism of mankind; we get in each picture of a malecharacter her instinctive, and intensely interested, feeling as towhether or not he is a man whom it would be desirable, and safe, for ayoung woman to marry. Paradoxically enough, it would seem that womenhave less and less knowledge of the world as they have contrived to seemore of it; that as they have become more emancipated in liberty ofaction they have become more clannish in thought; and that as the rangeof their opportunities has widened and their interests have multiplied, their concern with the most elemental female instinct, theirpreoccupation with their immemorial business of the chase, has butintensified. By word of mouth the modern woman tells us that in herpractical and intellectual capacities she has advanced far beyond hersisters of an earlier day; we chance to look into that pool of fictionwherein she mirrors her heart, and we find her the same self-centredhuntress as of yore. 

"Sir, " cried the Colonel, jolting some tobacco ash off the ledge madeby his abdomen, which he did by pounding the side of his torso with abulky volume of the "Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini, " "what is thetheme of the most conspicuous portion of our fiction by feminine hands?In large measure it is a peevish criticism of husbands. We have thepopular creator of a type of husband held up to the scorn and ridiculeof the sorority of her readers, remarking by way of commentary on hersatirical pictures that there should be 'a school for husbands. ' Itis, apparently, this lady's complacent belief that the origin of thedomestic difficulties of the world is in the inadequate training ofhusbands for their delicate office. One of 'the essentialrequirements' for marriage which 'men should go to school to learn' shementions as 'understanding. ' Wives, presumably, are born perfectlyequipped for their functions and do not require to be made. At anyrate, as the production of fiction nowadays is so largely a feminineindustry, and as a dominant trait of the male, even when recording hisobservations, is his chivalrous point of view, there is little or noopportunity given us on the benches, as you might say, to catch aglimpse of life pointing a way for us to see it steadily and see itwhole. "

The Jovian Colonel blew a heavy cloud of tobacco smoke from out hismassive ebony beard, and sat for a moment looking like some portentoussmouldering volcano; then continued:

"Men with hair on their chests would find the most agreeable society inthe pages of our women novelists to be that of the horrible or, as thecase may be, pitiful scoundrels at whom the authors themselves are mostindignant. These miserable beings, generally amiable though ratherpurposeless spirits, are, as Colonel Harvey not long ago remarked ofone of them, of a sort that almost all men like and hardly any womancan tolerate. Men are free to enjoy their engaging qualities becausemen are not subject to possible misfortune by reason of thecorresponding infirmities of such characters, that is, men are notdependent upon them for their own safety. Women, on the other hand, fear such characters because instinct tells women that they could nottrust their own comfortable security to them; and, consequently, womenheartily dislike such as these and find them villainous, beings to bebranded in any feminine discussion of life as enemies of the sex. 

"In the latest novel by one of our most prominent women novelists, " theColonel went on, "for months the best-selling book in the country, andalso undoubtedly the work of an artist sincerely interpreting the worldaccording to her lights, we are presented with a distressing scene, anincident holy horror at which would make a thrilling and delicioussuccess of any tea party. An undisciplined young pup who is thehusband comes home a bit late one night, and, as a man would describeit, somewhat 'lit up. ' An earnest student of this story cannot findthat this misguided youth was any worse than is ordinarily the case insuch delinquencies. It is intimated, however, that he has been thisway before. The horror, the loathing, which the humorous young scamp'sweakness inspires in his wife, a young woman of thoroughly feminineloftiness of character, is dramatic indeed, and partakes of the natureof that which so frequently is occasioned by the nervous organism ofwomen, a 'scene. ' The total lack of large-hearted and intelligent'understanding' of human nature displayed by the conduct of the youngman would send any connubial craft on to the rocks. "

The Colonel mopped his brow with a large bandanna handkerchief. "Sir, "he resumed, "obnoxious as it is to a sensible man to do so, let usglance at the hero type of the most popular recent novels by women, thefigure which strikes admiration into the feminine soul. Now, " heroared (and I declare, my hair rose on end), "the most awful thing anynigger can call another is a 'nigger. ' So we all rebel against what wefeel to be the weaknesses of our own position. None so quick as thevulgar to denounce 'no gentleman. ' And so on. Thus, as we see, thereis nothing the weaker sex so much despises in a man as weakness ofcharacter, and, as is consistent with all such reactions of feeling, nothing which so much attracts it as a firmness and strength of willbeyond itself. Naturally, the adored figures in the popular women'sfiction are always of the 'strong man' type, in feminine eyes. Andhere we come to a most extraordinary obliquity of the feminine eye. 

"What, " he demanded, "are the marks by which you are to know a 'strongman'--in the feminine picture? A strong man, of course, is a man withthe bark on; polish is incompatible with rugged strength. Anexhilarating air of brusqueness breathes from all strong men. They areas ignorant of manners as they are of the effete conventions ofgrammar. They have fought their way up, and no one can down them. They can be depended upon absolutely as what are called 'goodproviders. ' In short, by the written confession of her heart, woman'sidea of a 'dear, ' after several centuries more or less of civilisation, remains precisely the primitive conception that it was in the days whenman wooed her by grabbing her by the hair and handing her one with aclub. "

The Colonel was breathing heavily with the exertion of animated speechas he added: "In real life a man of any stability of judgment would bedecidedly suspicious of the hero of a modern woman's novel if oneshould walk into his office, or, doubtless, he would observe thiswhimsical caricature with something of the amusement he would find inthe ludicrously false comic Irishman of the vaudeville stage. Thisirreverent flight of fancy on our part, however, is yanking the strongman from his appropriate and supporting setting, where paste is giventhe glow of an authentic stone; in the sympathetic pages created byfeminine intuition he dominates the machine. When the heroine takesinto her own hands the right of the individual to a second chance forhappiness, " the Colonel declaimed with a demoniac grin, "she turns toexperience with such a one perfect love, as the honoured wife of asplendid and prosperous man and the mother of beautiful children. 

"The ethics of that engrossing theme of divorce, " the Colonel went on, lighting another corpulent and very black cigar, "as decided by theSupreme Court of our contemporary women novelists suggests that justlycelebrated principle of perfect equity: 'What's yours is mine andwhat's mine is my own. ' Listen, " he demanded; "listen (as the authorof 'The Gentle Art of Making Enemies' was wont to introduce hislectures) to the story of the unfolding of a woman's heart throughmarriage, as it is unfolded in the recent book of a novelist whom boththe million-headed crowd and shoals of reviewers, of very unevencritical equipment, place 'well forward among America's novelists. ' Apenniless young woman brought up amid the standards of very commonpeople marries for money, and comes to face the collapse of her dreams. She realises that she is tied to a man for whom she cares nothing. Also he is a brute, a typical bad egg of a husband from the extensivethough rather monotonous stock of this article dealt in by our womennovelists. Is it right for this young woman to throw away the chancesof her whole life for happiness--and so on? It certainly should notseem so to readers of the book. And it is natural enough, as herhusband has totally failed to hold her, that this young woman's mind, and heart, too, should convince her that she may make what she regardsas a wiser disposition of her life. 

"The inevitable strong man whom she eventually marries seemsunfortunately to have a bit of a flaw in his granite character; at anyrate, something is wrong with him, as the heroine fails to hold himaltogether, and matters even begin to look as though she might losehim. But with her great happiness had come a new standard of honour, and a distrust of divorce as the solution of any marital problem. Would it be right for her to lose a husband who has tired of her? Notby a long shot! Marriage is the one vow we take before God. It is acontract. Is it not against all moral law to break a contract? Andall the rest of it. So feminine logic disposes of what is described asone of the great problems of the day. "

Suddenly the Colonel broke into a terrifying smile. "This novelist ofwhom we have just been speaking, " he said, "somewhere remarked in aninterview that it was too bad about poor George Gissing--where shepicked up Gissing, God only knows--as, writing away all his life atstuff people didn't care for, he was one of the tragedies ofliterature. Well, Gissing may be dead and gone, but his works stickon. I could tell her"--the Colonel glared as he pawed his enormoushand through his mane--"of a more profound tragedy of literature. "

XI

THE DESSERT OF LIFE

Birds of a feather flock together, you can tell a dog by its spots, aman is known by the company he keeps--and all that sort of thing. 

It is quite astonishing that nobody has before been struck by what Ihave in my eye. People go round all the while writing about OldGreenwich Village, the harbour, the Ghetto, the walk uptown. ConeyIsland, the Great White Way, the subway ride, Riverside Drive, thespectacle of Fifth Avenue, the Night Court, the "lungs" of themetropolis, the "cliff dwellers, " "faith, hope, and charity" onUniversity Heights--a cathedral, a university, and a hospital, "lobsterpalace society, " the "grand canons" of lower Manhattan, and about everyother part of and thing in New York except this most entertainingsection which I am about to discuss. 

Now, I never lived on Mars----

You know "Sunday stories" in the newspapers are continually bringing agentleman resident on Mars to marvel, with his fresh vision, at thewonders of this world. 

As I say, I never lived on Mars, but, what amounts to the same thing inthis case, perhaps, I did live all of my New York life, up to a shorttime ago, below Forty-second Street. I gathered from reading andconversation that there were districts of the city above this wherepeople dwelt and went about their daily affairs, just, I supposed, asfish do at the bottom of the ocean, and beasts in the jungle. But Iknew that I could not breathe at the bottom of the ocean, nor becomfortable in the jungle. 

However, it's this way. The person to whom I am married declared thatshe could not live below Forty-second Street; said that that was notdone at all, nobody "lived" below Forty-second Street. So the matterwas settled. I moved "uptown. " Of course, by stealth I continue tovisit the neighbourhood of Gramercy Park, as a dog, it is said, willreturn to that which is not nice. 

The beauties and the advantages of the region in which I now live havebeen pointed out to me. It is quite true that everything hereabout isnew and "clean. " Here the streets are not infested by "old bums" asthose are in that dirty old downtown. Here one is just between thebeautiful Drive on the one hand and our handsome Central Park on theother. Here there is fresh air. Here Broadway is a boulevard, and, further, it winds about in its course like the roads, as they call themthere, in London, and does not have that awful straight look ofeverything in that checker-board part of town. Here everybody is welldressed. And even the grocers' and butchers' shops are quite smart. All this is indisputable. 

But all this is a description of the physical aspects of this part oftown. What I purpose to do is an esoteric thing. Through the outwardaspects of this part of town, its vestments, the features of itsphysiognomy, I will show, as through a glass, the beatings of itsheart. I will exhibit the soul of it, interpret its spirit, make plainfor him that runs its inner, hidden meaning. 

The part of town that I mean may be said to begin at Seventy-secondStreet; it runs along Broadway, and comprises the neighbourhood ofBroadway, to, say, a bit above One Hundred and Tenth Street. Now weshall see what we shall see. 

You remember what a celebrated irascible character said about acirculating library in a town. Be that as it may. As you stroll alongBroadway, up from Seventy-second Street, you observe, being a person ofhighly alert mind, an astonishing number of circulating libraries, devoted exclusively to the latest fiction. And you note that allcorner drug stores and all stationers' shops present a window displayof "50-cent fiction. " Ah! refinement. Reading people are nice people;they are not rough people. There is, you feel at once, an air, thereis taste--how shall I say?--selectness, about this part of town. It isnot as other parts of town are. 

You perceive, as you continue your stroll with a brightened and a moreperfumed mind, that there are no shoe stores here. Shoo stores!!"Booteries, " these are. Combined with "hosieries. " Countless are thesmart hat shops for women. That is to say, the establishments of"chapeaux importers. " In the miniature parlours framed by the windows'glass these chic and ravishing creations, the chapeaux, rise in a rowhigh upon their slim and lovely stems. This one is the establishmentof Mlle. Edythe, that of Mme. Vigneau. Countless, too, are theterrestrial heavens devoted to "gowns. " Headless they stand, thesesymphonies in feminine apparel, side by side here in the windows of theMaison la Mode, there of the Maison Estelle. Frequent are the placeswhere the figure is cultivated with famous corsets, the retreats of"corsetieres"; this one before you bears the name Fayette; it is wherethe model "Madame Pompadour" is sold. And numerous are shopsluxuriating in waists, "blouses, " lingerie, and "novelties" of dress. Conspicuous among them, the "Dolly Dimple Shop. " The many "furriers"here all deal in "exclusive" furs and their names all end in "sky. "

And there are roses, roses all the way. That is to say, "roseries, ""violeteries, " and the like--what we call florists' shops, you know. Spots of gorgeous colour and intense fragrance, heaped high withorchids, violets, roses, gardenias, or, in some cases, "artificialflowers. "

See! the luscious wax busts in the window. With their grandescoiffures. And their pink and yellow bosoms resplendent with gems. Itis a hair-dresser's, just as in London, with a gentlemen's parlour atthe back. "Structures" are made here in human hair, and "marcelwaving" is done, not, however, we may suppose, for gentlemen. Here maybe had an "olive oil shampoo, " and a "facial massage. " One could be"manicured" in the stroll you are taking every ten minutes or so, ifone wished. And "hair cutting" is done along this way by artistes fromvarious lands. There is, for instance, the Peluqueria Espanola. "Service, " too, is offered "at residence. " Beauty here is held inesteem as it was among the Greeks. Upon one side of the "chemist's"window "toilet requisites" are announced for sale. The "valet system"is extensively advertised. The industry of "dry cleansing" nourishes, and the "shoe renovator" abounds. And hats are "renovated, " and"blocked, " and "ironed, " in places without number. 

What a delightful tea-room is this! With its woodwork, its panelling, and its little window lattices, all in beautiful enamelled white. _That_ is not a tea-room! I'm 'sprised at you. That is a laundry. Alaundry? Shades of Hop Loo! It is even so. There are a variety oftypes of laundry in this part of the world, but the great point of themall is their "sanitary" character. All things are sanitary here; theshaving brushes at the barber's are proclaimed sanitary; "sanitarytailoring" is announced; and the creameries of this district, it wouldseem, go beyond anything yet achieved elsewhere in the way ofsanitation. It might be imagined from a study of window signs that aperverse person bent upon procuring un-"pasteurized" milk in this partof town would be frustrated of his design. 

I was sent to what my understanding conceived to be the "bakery" in ourimmediate neighbourhood, on an errand. This place, I found, was calledthe "Queen Elizabeth. " I was dreadfully abashed when I got inside. Iwas afraid that there might be some bit of mud on my shoes which wouldsoil the polished floor; and I became keenly conscious that my trowserswere not perfectly pressed. I should, of course, have worn mytail-coat. There were several ladies there receiving guests thatafternoon. I had a tete-a-tete with one of these, who gossipedpleasantly about the cakes--I was to get some cakes. The nicest cakesat the "Queen Elizabeth, " it seems, are of two kinds: "Maids of Court"and "Ladies in Waiting. " Our neighbourhood is rich in shops given to"pastry, " "sweets, " "bon bons. " Shops of charming names! There is the"Ambrosia Confection Shop, " and the place of the "Patisserie etConfiserie. "

In our neighbourhood there are, too, a vast number of "caterers" and"fruiterers, " and, particularly, delicatessen shops. Delicatessenshops in our neighbourhood are described upon the windows as placesdealing in "fancy and table luxuries. " I have heard my wife say thatmany people "just live out of them. " They are certainly handsomeplaces. Why, you wouldn't think there was any food in them. Everything is so dressed up that it doesn't look at all as if it wereto eat, it is so attractive. 

Restaurants hereabouts are commonly named "La Parisienne, " or somethinglike that, or are called "rotisseries. " There are some just ordinaryrestaurants, too, and many immaculate, light-lunch rooms. "AfternoonTea" is a frequent sign, and one often sees the delicate suggestion inneat gilt, "Sandwiches. " Grocers in this part of town, it would seem, handle only "select, " "fancy, " and "choice" groceries, and "hot-houseproducts. " There are a number of fine "markets" in this district, veryfine markets indeed. In the season for game, deer and bears may beseen strung up in front of them; all their chickens appear to come fromPhiladelphia, their ducks are "fresh killed Long Island ducks, " andthey make considerable of a feature of "frogs' legs. " These marketsare usually called the "Superior Market, " or the "Quality Market, " orsomething like that. Great residential hotels here bear the name of"halls, " as "Brummel Hall" on the one hand and "Euripides Hall" on theother. 

You will by now have begun to perceive the note, the flair, of my partof town. Its care is for the graces, the things that sweeten life, therefinements of civilisation, the embellishments of existence. Nothingmore clearly, strikingly, bespeaks this than the proofs of itsextraordinary fondness for art--I have mentioned literature. Paintingand sculpture, music, the drama, and the art of "interior decoration, "these things of the spirit have their homes without number along thisstretch of Broadway. 

"Art" shops and art "galleries" are on every hand. In the windows ofthese places you will see: innumerable French mirrors; stacks of emptypicture frames of French eighteenth-century design, at an amazinglycheap figure each; remarkably inexpensive reproductions in brightcolours of Sir Joshua, Corot, Watteau, Chardin, Fragonard, some ItalianMadonnas; an assortment of hunting prints, and prints redolent of OldEnglish sentiment; many wall "texts, " or "creeds"; a variety of thekind of coloured pictures technically called, I believe, "comics";numerous little plaster casts of anonymous works and busts of standardauthors; frequently an ambitious original etching by an artist unknownto you; and an occasional print of the "September Morn" kind of thing;together with many "art objects" and a great deal of "bric-a-brac. "Upon the windows you are informed that "restoring, " "artistic framing, ""regilding, " and "resilvering" are done within. And, in some cases, that "miniatures" are painted there. There are, too, a number of"Japanese art stores" along the way, containing vast stocks of Japaneselilies living in Japanese pans, other exotic blossoming plants, pinkand yellow slippers from the Orient, and striking flowered garmentslike a scene from a "Mikado" opera. 

In this part of town photography, too, is made one of the fine arts. You do not here have your photograph taken; you have, it seems, your"portrait" made. "Home portraiture" is ingratiatingly suggested onlettered cards, and, further, you are invited to indulge in "art posingin photographs. " The "studios" of the photographers display about anequal number of portraits of children and dogs. The people of thiscommunity take joy not only in the savour of art, and in taking part inits professional production, but they would themselves produce it, asamateurs. The sign "Kodaks" is everywhere about, and "enlarging" isdone, and "developing and printing for amateurs" every few rods. So wecome to the subject of music. 

Caruso, Melba, Paderewski, Mischa Elman, Harry Lauder, Sousa, Liszt, Beethoven, Chopin, Wagner, Brahms, Grieg, Moszkowsky, the "latest songhit" from anything you please. Ask and you will find along thisthoroughfare. There are no more prosperous looking bazaars on thisstreet than those consecrated to the sale of "musical phonographs" ofevery make. And if the name of these places is not exactly legion, itis something very like that. Besides every species of Victophone andOlagraph, the music lover may muse upon the wonders and the variety of"mechanical piano players. " All of de luxe "tone quality. "

As for the drama. The brightest word at night in this galaxy of ultrasigns is the gracious word "Photo Play House. " Deep beyond plummet'ssound is the interest of this part of town in the human story, asrevealed upon the "screen. " Grief and mirth, good and evil, danger anddaring, and the horizon from Hatteras to Matapan may be scanned uponthe poster boards before the entrances of these showy temples of themighty film. Here one is invited to witness "Carmen, " and also a"drama of life, " "Tricked by a Victim, " and also "a comedy drama fullof pep" entitled "Good Old Pop, " productions of the "Premier PictureCorporation. " Announcements of scenes of tornadoes, the Great War, of"Paris fashions, " and, ah, yes! of "beauty films" line the way. 

To turn to the home. The people of this part of town dwell, accordingto their shops, entirely amid "period and art furniture. " And it wouldseem, by the remarkable number of places in this quarter where this isdisplayed for sale, that they dwell amid a most amazing amount of it. These marts of household gods are of two kinds: ones of imposing size, with long windows stretching far down the cross street, and dealing inshining "reproductions, " and the tiny, quaint, intimate, delightfulkind of thing, where it is said on a sign on a gilded chair that"artistic picture hanging by the hour" is done. 

The fascinating places are the more alluring. Herein rich jumbles are, of tapestries, clocks of all periods--including a harvest of those ofthe "grandfather" era--fire-screens, brass kettles, andirons, stained-glass, artistic lamps in endless variety, the latest things inpillow cushions, book racks, wall papers, wall "decorations" and"hangings, " draperies, curtains, cretonnes. The "decorators" deal, too, in "parquet floors, " and flourish and increase in their kind inresponse, evidently, to the volume of demand for "upholstering" and"cabinet work. " And the floors of this part of town must hold richstores of Oriental rugs, as importers of these are frequent on our way. 

The higher civilisations turn, naturally, to refinements of religiousthought. What the Salvation Army is to Fourteenth Street, what theRescue Mission is to the Bowery, the Christian Science Reading Room isto this stretch of Broadway, and there is no trimmer place to be seenon your stroll. Then, one of the marks of our culture to-day is theaesthetic cultivation of the primitive. Our neighbourhood is invited, on placards in windows, to assemble "every Sunday evening" to enjoy the"love stories of the Bible. "

For the rest, you would see on your stroll, for man cannot live bytaste and the spirit alone, sundry places of business concerned withreal estate, electrical accoutrement, automobile accessories, toys, theinvestment and safeguarding of treasure, and so on, and particularlywith ales, wines, liquors, and cigars. Each and all of these, however, are affirmed to be "places of quality. "

Now, the social customs of this part of town, as they may be abundantlyviewed on our thoroughfare, are agreeable to observe. At night ourboulevard twinkles with lights like a fairyland. The view of acrossthe way through the gardens, as they should be called, down the middleof the street, is enchanting. All aglow our spic-and-span trolleycars--all our trolley cars are spic-and-span--ride down the way like"floats" in a nocturnal parade. Upon the sidewalks are happy throngs, and a hum of cheery sound. The throngs of our neighbourhood aretouched with an indescribable character of place; they are not thethrongs of anywhere else. They are not exactly Fifth Avenue; they arenot the Great White Way. They are nice throngs, healthy throngs, care-free throngs, modish throngs in the modes of magazineadvertisements. And all their members are young. 

You will notice as you go and come that you pass the same laughinggroups in precisely the same spot, hour after hour. Those who composethese groups seem to be calling upon one another. Apparently, onpleasant evenings, it is the form here for you to receive your guestsin this way, in the open air. And you jest, and converse, and whilethe time amiably away, just as many people do at home. "Well, " says mywife, "the rooms in the apartments in this part of town are so smallthat nobody can bring anybody into them. "

XII

A CLERK MAY LOOK AT A CELEBRITY

A clerk may look at a celebrity. For a number of years, we, beingdiligent in our business, stood and waited before kings in a celebratedbook shop. Now (like Casanova, retired from the world of our triumphsand adventures) we compose our memoirs. "We know from personalexperience that a slight tale, a string of gossip, will often alter ourentire conception of a personality, "--from a contemporary book review. This, the high office of tittle-tattle, is what we have in our eye. Weare Walpolian, Pepysian. 

"These Memoirs, Confessions, Recollections, Impressions (as the titlehappens) are extremely valuable in the pictures they contain of thetime. Especially happy are they in the intimate glimpses they give usof the distinguished people, particularly the men of letters, of theday. The writer was an attache of the court, " the writer was this, thewriter was that, but always the writer had peculiar facilities forobserving intimately--and so forth. So it was with the writer here. 

We remember with especial entertainment, we begin, the first time wesaw F. Hopkinson Smith. (We are ashamed to say that he was known amongour confrere, the salesmen, as "Hop" Smith. ) He introduced himself tous by his moustache. Looming rapidly and breezily upon us--"Do youknow me?" he said, swelling out his "genial" chest (so it seemed) andpointing, with a militarish gesture, to this decoration. We looked amoment at this sea gull adornment, somehow not unfamiliar to us, andsaid, "We do. " Mr. Hopkinson Smith, we perceived, regards thisliterary monument, so to say, as a household word (to put it so) inevery home in the land. Mr. Smith, a very robust man, wore yellow, sulphur-coloured gloves, a high hat, a flower in his buttonhole, whitepiping to his vest. A debonair figure, Chanticleerian. Freshcomplexion. Exhaling a breeze of vigour. Though not short in stature, he is less tall than, from the air of his photographs, we had been ledto expect. A surprise conveying a curious effect, reminded one of thatsubconscious sensation experienced in the presence of a one-time tallchair which has been lowered a little by having had a section of itslegs sawed off. 

Mr. Smith's conversation with book clerks we found to be confined toinquiries (iterated upon each reappearance) concerning the sale of hisown books. We appreciate that this may not be the expression of anirrestrainable vanity, or obsessing greed, realising that very probablyhis professional insight into human character informs him that thesubject of the sales of books is the range of the book clerk's mind. He expressed a frank and hearty pride (engaging in aspect, we felt) inthe long-sustained life of "Peter, " which remarkably selling booksurvived on the front fiction table all its contemporaries, and in fullvigour lived on to see a new generation grow up around it there. In afull-blooded, sporting spirit Mr. Smith asked us if his new book was"selling faster than John Fox's. " Heartiness and geniality is hisrole. A man built to win and to relish popularity. With a breezysalute of the sulphur-gloved hand, he is gone. Immediately we feelmuch less electric. 

Alas, what an awful thing! Oliver Herford, with heavily dipped penpoised, is about to autograph a copy of his "Pen and Ink Puppet, " when, lo! a monstrous ink blot spills upon the fair page. Hideous! Mr. Herford is nonplused. The book is ruined. No! Mr. Herford is not Mr. Herford for nothing. The book is enriched in value. Sesame! With hispen Mr. Herford deftly touches the ink blot, and it is a most amusinghuman silhouette. How characteristic an autograph, his delightedfriend will say. 

We were quite satisfied in the introduction given us in our sojourn asa book clerk with Mr. Herford. That is to say, our early education wasreceived largely from the pages of _St. Nicholas Magazine_; and whengrown to man's estate and brought to mingle with the great we mighteasily have suffered a sentimental disappointment in Mr. Herford. Butno, he is as mad as a March hare. He never, we should say, has anyidea where he is. An absolutely blank face. Mind far, far away. Doesn't act as though he had any mind. A smallish, clean-shaven man, light sack suit, somewhat crumpled. A fine shock of greyish-hair. Cane hooked over crooked arm. List to starboard, like a postman. Approaches directly toward us. We prepare to render our service. Perceives something in his path (us) just in time to avert a collision, swerves to one side. Takes an oblique tack. But speaks (alwaysparticular to avoid seeming to slight us) in a very friendly fashion. Though gives you the impression that he thinks you are some one else. A pleasant, unaffected man to talk to. Somewhat dazed, however, ineffect. Curious manner of speech, of which evidently he isunconscious, partly native English accent, partly temperamentalidiosyncrasy. A very simple eccentric, what in the eighteenth centurywas called "an original. " Reads popular novels. 

It was given to us to see the launching throes of a nouveau novelist. We noticed day after day a well-built young man come in to gaze at thefiction table, a sturdy, spirited, comely chap. A fine snap to his eyewe particularly noticed, and admired. He seemed to derive muchsatisfaction from this occupation and to be in an excellent frame ofmind. And then, it struck us, he grew of troubled mien. He asked usone day how "Predestined" was selling. So we had the psychology of thesituation. He asked, on another, if we had sold a copy of"Predestined" yet. A few days following he inquired, "How long does ittake before a book gets started?" Dejected was his mien. It took"Predestined" some time. Then it went very well. We sold ajoyous-looking Stephen French Whitman, an embodiment of gusto--therewas a positive crackle to his fine black eyes--a pile of booksconcerning themselves with Europe, and did not see him again for sometime. Then he flashed upon us a handsome new moustache. 

Our acquaintance with Mrs. Wharton was--merely formal. "Oh, verypleased, " exclaimed an equiline lady, patrician unmistakable, ofaristocratic features which we recognised from the portraits ofmagazines, "I'll take this. " She had in her hand a copy of the thenquite new pocket edition "Poems" of George Meredith. She was veryfashionably, strikingly, gowned, somewhat conspicuously; a largepattern in the figure of the cloth. She carried a little dog. Therewas about her something, difficult to denote, brilliant and hard ineffect, like a polished stone. And we felt the rarefied atmosphere ofa wealthy, highly cultivated, rather haughty society. "Charge toEdward Wharton, " she said, very nicely, bending over us as we wrote"Lenox, Mass. " She pronounced it not Massachusetts, but Mass, as isnot infrequent in the East. "Thank you, " she said; she swept from us. Our regard was won to this incarnation of distinction by the pleasanthumanity of her manners, her very gracious "Good morning" to theelevator man as she left. 

"Dicky" Davis we always called him behind his back. And such he looks. A man of "strapping" physique, younger in a general effect thanprobably he is; immense chest and shoulders, great "meaty" back;constructed like (we picture) those gladiators Borrow lyricallyacclaims the "noble bruisers of old England"; complexion, (to employperhaps an excessive stylistic restraint) not pale. A heavy stick. Afondness for stocks. Very becoming. A vitality with an aversion, apparently, to wearing an overcoat in the coldest weather; deeming thisprobably an appurtenance of the invalid. Funny style of trowsers as ifmade for legs about a foot longer. In the reign of "high waters"!

We had picked up the notion that Mr. Davis was a snobbish person; wefound him a very friendly man; gentle, describes it, in manner. Veryrespectful to clerks. "One of the other gentlemen here ordered anotherbook for me, " he mentions. But more. A sort of camaraderie. Says, one day, that he just stepped in to dodge some people he saw coming. Inquires, "Well, what's going on in the book world?" Buys travelbooks, Africa and such. Buys a quart of ink at a clip. He conveyed tous further, unconsciously, perhaps, a subtle impression that he was, insympathy with us, on our side, so to say; in any difficulty, that wouldbe, that might arise; with "the boys, " in a manner of speaking. Veteran globe trotter and soldier of fortune on the earth's surface, Mr. Davis suffered a considerable shock to discover in tete-a-tete thatwe had never been in London. _London_? Such a human vegetable, wesaw, was hardly credible. 

"Charge, " he said, "to James Huneker. " He pronounced his name in avery eccentric fashion, the first syllable like that in "hunter. " Inour commerce with the world we have, with this rather importantexception, invariably heard this "u" as in "humid. " A substantialfigure, very erect in carriage, supporting his portliness with thatphysical pride of portly men, moving with the dignity of bulk; aphysiognomy of Rodinesque modelling. His cane a trim touch to theensemble. Decidedly affable in manner to us. "Very nice man, "comments our hasty note. "One of our young gentlemen here, black eyes, black hair. "--describes with surprising memory of exact observation afellow-serf--"was to get a book for me a couple of months ago. " Boughtthe Muther monograph on Goya. Referred humorously to his new book--oneon music. Said, "Many people won't believe that one can be equallygood, or perhaps bad, at many things. " Spoke of Arnold Bennett; saidhe was "a hard-working journalist as well as a novel writer. " Seemedto possess the greater respect, great esteem, for the character ofjournalist. We felt a reminiscence of that solid practicality ofsentiment of another heavy man. "Nobody but a blockhead, " said Dr. Johnson, "ever wrote except for money. "

Mentioned the novel then just out, "Predestined. " "He [the author] isone of our [_Sun_] men, you know. " Fraternal pride and affection ininflection, though he said he did not know Mr. Whitman. "Thank youvery much indeed, " he said at leaving. 

From his carriage, moving slowly in on the arm of a Japanese boy, hisservant, came one day John La Farge. Tales of the Far East. Profounderudition, skin of sear parchment, Indian philosophies, exotic culture, incalculable age, inscrutable wisdom, intellectual mystery, a dignitydeep in its appeal to the imagination--such was the connotation of thispresence. (Fine as that portrait by Mr. Cortissoz. ) An Orientalscholar, all right, we thought. Mr. La Farge was in search of someabstruse art books. He did not care, he said, what language they werein, except German. He said he hated German. "Well, we have to go tothe German for many things, you know, " we said. "Yes, " said Mr. LaFarge, "we have to die, too, but I don't want to any sooner than I canhelp. "

But it is not famous authors only that are interesting. We wereapproached one day by a tall, exceedingly solemn individual who askedfor a copy of a book the name of which sounded to us like the title ofwhat "the trade" knows as "a juvenile. " "Who wrote it?" we inquired, puzzled. In a deep, hollow voice the unknown gentleman vibrated, "Idid. "

A very light-coloured new Norfolk suit, with a high hat; an exceedinglyneat black cutaway coat and handsome checked trowsers, a decidedly bigderby hat (flat on top), an English walking coat, with plaid trowsersto match, the whole about a dozen checks high. This? An inventory ofthe wardrobe of Dr. Henry van Dyke, as it has been displayed to ourappreciation. Has not the handsome wardrobe been a familiar feature inthe history of literature? And does anybody like Dr. Goldsmith theless for having loved a lovely coat?

A slight figure, very erect and alert. A dapper, dignified step. Movement precise. An effect of a good deal of nose glasses. Black, heavy rims. A wide, black tape. Head perpendicular, drawn backagainst the neck. Grave, scholarly face, chiselled with muchrefinement of technique; foil to the studious complexion, a dark, silken moustache. Holding our thumb-nail sketch up to the light, wesee it thus. 

We regret that our view of this figure so prominent in our literatureis perforce so entirely external. But for this Dr. Van Dyke has no oneto blame but himself, his fastidiousness in clerks. Ignoring, as hepasses, our offer of service, at the desk where he seats himself heremoves his hat--a large head, we note, for the figure, a good deal ofback as well as top head--and, preparing to write, to fill out theorder forms himself, fumbles a great deal with his glasses, taking offand putting on again. A friend discovering him here, he springs up andgreets him with much vivacity. His orders written out, he deliversthem into the hands of the manager of the shop with whom he chats abit. . . . 

Nature imitated art, indeed, when she designed William Gillette, remarkable fleshly incarnation of the literary figment, SherlockHolmes. In the soul of Mr. Gillette, as on a stage, we witnessed adramatic moral conflict. Two natures struggled before us within him. Which would prevail? Mr. Gillette was much interested in Rackhambooks. Bought a great many. In stock at this time was a veryelaborate set in several quarto volumes of "Alice in Wonderland, " mostornately bound, with Rackham designs inlaid in levant of variouscolours in the rich purple levant binding. The illustrations withinwere a unique, collected set of the celebrated drawings made by varioushands for this classic. The price, several hundred dollars. Mr. Gillette was torn with temptation here. And yet was it right for himto be so extravagant? Periodically he came in, impelled to inquire ifthe set had yet been sold. If somebody only would buy the set--why, then, of course--it would be all over. 

In our contemplation of the literari we have amused ourselves withphilosophic reflection. We recalled that old saw of Oscar Wilde's (asGeorge Moore says of something of Wordsworth's) about the artisttending always to reproduce his own type. And we thought what anexcellent model to the illustrator of his own "Married Life of theFrederic Carrolls" Jesse Lynch Williams would have been. No nameitself, it struck us, would be happier for Mr. Williams than FredericCarroll--if it were not Jesse Lynch Williams. A "colletch" chapalumnus. A typical, clever, exceedingly likable young Americanhusband, fairly well to do: it is thus we behold him. Slender, in anEnglish walking coat, smiling agreeably. One, we thought, you wouldthink of as a popular figure in a younger "set. "

It is irrelevant, certainly, but we must acknowledge our indebtednessto a lady customer who supposed that the "Married Life of the FredericCarrolls" was an historic work, dealing with the domestic existence ofthe author of "Alice. "

Thomas Nelson Page, autographing presentation copies of "A Coast ofBohemia, " remarks, "This is one of the rewards of poetry. " At thistask, or, rather, pleasure, Mr. Page spent a good part of severalsuccessive days in the store. A gentleman, with a flavour of "theSouth" in his speech, very like his well-known pictures; stocky; aneffect of not having, in length, much neck. Light, soft suit, or verybecoming Prince Albert, and high hat. "He will wear you out, " whispersa colleague to us; "he has no idea where any of his friends live. Idoubt if he knows where he lives himself. " The junior Mr. Weller, werecollect, when an inn "boots" referred to humankind in terms naturalto his calling. "There's a pair of Hessians in thirteen, " he said. Viewing Mr. Page with the eye of an attendant, we should remark that heis a Tartar. But a kindly, patient, courteous Tartar. 

City directories, telephone "books, " social registers, "Who's Whos, "all are necessary to enable him to tell the addresses of his friends. And these are inadequate. He wishes to send, as a token of his regard, a book, affectionately inscribed, to his friend, let us say, J. M. D----, Esq. We learn by the agency of the machinery to which we haverecourse that there reside in the City of New York four gentlemen ofthis identical name: one on Madison Avenue, one on Ninety-first Street, another in Brooklyn, the other somewhere else. Mr. Page is completelybewildered as to which is his friend. "Well, I don't know, " he says, "but this man married former Senator So-and-So's daughter. " Now, can'twe solve that, somehow? Historic Spirit! we cried that day, impracticality of literary men for petty, mundane details, here hastthou still thy habitat, a temple in Mr. Page!

Lor', how we do run on!

XIII

CAUN'T SPEAK THE LANGUAGE

Whenever we go to England we learn that we "caun't" speak the language. We are told very frankly that we can't. And we very quickly perceivethat, whatever it is that we speak, it certainly is not "the language. "

Let us consider this matter. A somewhat clever and an amusinglyill-natured English journalist, T. W. H. Crosland, not long ago wrote abook "knocking" us, in which he says "that having inherited, borrowedor stolen a beautiful language, they (that is, we Americans) wilfullyand of set purpose distort and misspell it. " Crosland's ignorance ofall things American, ingeniously revealed in this lively bit ofwriting, is interesting in a person of, presumably, ordinaryintelligence, and his credulity in the matter of what he has heardabout us is apparently boundless. 

However, he does not much concern us. Well-behaved Englishmen woulddoubtless consider as impolite his manner of expression regarding the"best thing imported in the Mayflower. " But however unamiably, he doesvoice a feeling very general, if not universal, in England. You neverget around--an Englishman would say "round"--the fact over there thatwe do not speak the English language. 

Well, to use an Americanism, they, --the English, --certainly do have thedrop on us in the matter of beauty. Mr. Chesterton somewhere says thata thing always to be borne in mind in considering England is that it isan island, that its people are insulated. An excellent thing toremember, too, in this connection, is that England is a flower garden. In ordinary times, after an Englishman is provided with a roof and fourmeals a day, the next thing he must have is a garden, even if it is buta flowerpot. They are continually talking about loveliness over there:it is a lovely day; it is lovely on the river now; it is a lovely spot. And so there are primroses in their speech. And then they haveinherited over there, or borrowed or stolen, a beautiful literarylanguage, worn soft in colour, like their black-streaked, grey-stonebuildings, by time; and, as Whistler's Greeks did their drinkingvessels, they use it because, perforce, they have no other. Thehumblest Londoner will innocently shame you by talking perpetually likea storybook. 

One day on an omnibus I asked the conductor where I should get off toreach a certain place. "Oh, that's the journey's end, sir, " hereplied. Now that is poetry. It sounds like Christina Rossetti. Whatwould an American car conductor have said? "Why, that's the end of theline. " "Could you spare me a trifle, sir?" asks the London beggar. Apretty manner of requesting alms. Little boys in England are very fondof cigarette pictures, little cards there reproducing "old Englishflowers. " I used to save them to give to children. Once I gave anumber to the ringleader of a group. I was about to tell him to dividethem up. "Oh, we'll share them, sir, " he said. At home such a boymight have said to the others: "G'wan, these're fer me. " Again, when Iinquired my way of a tiny, ragged mite, he directed me to "go asstraight as ever you can go, sir, across the cricket field; then takeyour first right; go straight through the copse, sir, " he called afterme. The copse? Perhaps I was thinking of the "cops" of New York. Then I understood that the urchin was speaking of a small wood. 

Of course he, this small boy, sang his sentences, with the rising andfalling inflection of the lower classes. "Top of the street, bottom ofthe road, over the way"--so it goes. And, by the way, how does anEnglishman know which is the top and which is the bottom of everystreet?

Naturally, the English caun't understand us. "When is it that you aregoing 'ome?" asked my friend, the policeman in King's Road. 

"Oh, some time in the fall, " I told him. 

"In the fall?" he inquired, puzzled. 

"Yes, September or October. "

"Oh!" he exclaimed, "in the autumn, yes, yes. At the fall of theleaves, " I heard him murmur meditatively. Meeting him later in thecompany of another policeman, "He, " he said to his friend, nodding atme, "is going back in the fall. " Deliciously humorous to him was myspeech. Now it may be mentioned as an interesting point that many ofthe words imported in the _Mayflower_, or in ships following it, havebeen quite forgotten in England. Fall, as in the fall of the year, Ithink, was among them. Quite so, quite so, as they say in England. 

Yes, in the King's Road. For, it is an odd thing, Charles Scribner'sSons are on Fifth Avenue, but Selfridge's is in Oxford Street. Here wemeet a man on the street; we kick him into it. And in England it is avery different thing, indeed, whether you meet a lady in the street oron the street. You, for instance, wouldn't meet a lady on the streetat all. In fact, in England, to our mind, things are so turned aroundthat it is as good as being in China. Just as traffic there keeps tothe left kerb, instead of to the right curb, so whereas here I call youup on the telephone, there you phone me down. It would be awkward, wouldn't it, for me to say to you that I called you down?

England is an island; and though the British government controls onefifth, or something like that, of the habitable globe, England is avery small place. Most of the things there are small. A freight caris a goods van, and it certainly is a goods van and not a freight car. So when you ask what little stream this is, you are told that that isthe river Lea, or the river Arun, as the case may be, although theylook, indeed, except that they are far more lovely, like what we call"cricks" in our country. And the Englishman is fond of speaking indiminutives. He calls for a "drop of ale, " to receive a pint tankard. He asks for a "bite of bread, " when he wants half a loaf. His "bit ofgreen" is a bowl of cabbage. He likes a "bit of cheese, " in the way ofa hearty slice, now and then. One overhearing him from another roommight think that his copious repast was a microscopic meal. About thispeculiarity in the homely use of the language there was a joke in_Punch_ not long ago. Said the village worthy in the picture: "Ah, Iused to be as fond of a drop o' beer as any one, but nowadays if I dotake two or dree gallons it do knock I over!"

Into the matter of the quaint features of the speech of the Englishcountryside, or the wonders of the Cockney dialect, the unlearnedforeigner hardly dare venture. It is sufficient for us to wonder why arailroad should be a railway. When it becomes a "rilewie" we areinclined, in our speculation, "to pass, " as we say over here. And ale, when it is "ile, " brings to mind a pleasant story. A humble Londoner, speaking of an oil painting of an island, referred to it as "a paintingin ile of an oil. "

An American friend of mine, resident in London, insists that wherethere is an English word for a thing other than the American word forit, the English word is in every case better because it is shorter. Hepoints to tram, for surface-car; and to lift, for elevator. Stillthough it may be a finer word, hoarding is not shorter than billboard;nor is "dailybreader" shorter than commuter. I think we break abouteven on that score. 

This, however, would seem to be true: where the same words are employedin a somewhat different way the English are usually closer to theoriginal meaning of the word. Saloon bar, for instance, is intended todesignate a rather aristocratic place, above the public bar; while thelowest "gin mill" in the United States would be called a "saloon. " Iknow an American youth who has thought all the while that PiccadillyCircus was a show, like Barnum and Bailey's. With every thing that isround in London called a circus, he must have imagined it a, ratherhilarious place. 

The English "go on" a good deal about our slang. They used to be fondof quoting in superior derision in their papers our, to them, utterlyunintelligible baseball news. Mr. Crosland, to drag him in again, toillustrate our abuse of "the language, " quotes from some tenth-rateAmerican author--which is a way they have had in England of judging ourliterature--with the comment that "that is not the way John Miltonwrote. " Not long ago Mr. Crosland became involved in a trial in thecourts in connection with Oscar Wilde, Lord Alfred Douglas and RobertRoss. He defended himself with much spirit and considerablecleverness. Among other things he said, as reported in the press:"What is this game? This gang are trying to do me down. Here I am apoor man up against two hundred quid (or some such amount) of counsel. "

Well, that wasn't the way John Milton talked, either. 

The English slang for money is a pleasant thing: thick'uns andthin'uns; two quid, five bob; tanners and coppers. And they have agood body of expressive and colourful speech. "On the rocks" is a neatand poetic way of saying "down and out. " It is really not necessary toadd the word "resources" to the expression "on his own. " A "tripper"is a well-defined character, and so is a "flapper, " a "nipper, " and a"bounder. " There had to be some word for the English "nut, " as noamount of the language of John Milton would describe him; and while theconnotation of this word as humour is different with us, theappellation of the English, when you have come to see it in theirlight, hits off the personage very crisply. To say that such a one"talks like a ha'penny book" is, as the English say, "a jolly goodjob. " And a hotel certainly is presented as full when it is pronounced"full up. " A "topper" would be only one kind of a hat. Very well, then it is quite possible, we see, to be "all fed up, " as they say inEngland, with English slang. 

Humorous Englishmen sometimes rather fancy our slang; and make naiveattempts at the use of it. In England, for instance, a man "gets thesack" when he is "bounced" from his job. So I heard a livelyEnglishman attracted by the word say that so and so should "get thebounce. "

In writing, the Englishman usually employs "the language. " He has hisyellow journals, indeed, which he calls "Americanised" newspapers. Butcrude and slovenly writing certainly is not a thing that sticks out onhim. What a gentlemanly book reviewer he is always! We have here inthe United States perhaps a half dozen gentlemen who review books. Isit not true that you would get tired counting up the young Englishnovelists who are as accomplished writers as our few men of letters?The Englishman has a basketful of excellent periodicals to every one ofours. And in passing it is interesting to note this. When we areliterary we become a little dull. See our high-brow journals! When wefrolic we are a little, well, rough. The Englishman can be funny, evenhilarious, and unconsciously, confoundedly well bred at the same time. But he does have a rotten lot of popular illustrated magazines overthere compared to ours. 

When you return from a sojourn of several months in the land of "thelanguage" you are immediately struck very forcibly by the vast numberof Americanisms, by the richness of our popular speech, by the "punch"it has, and by the place it holds in the printed page at home. In ajourney from New York I turned over in the smoking-car a number ofpapers I had not seen for some time, among them the New York _EveningPost_, _Collier's_, _Harper's_, _Puck_, and the Indianapolis _News_. Here, generally without quotation marks and frequently in the editorialpages, I came across these among innumerable racy phrases: nothingdoing, hot stuff, Right O!, strong-arm work, some celebration, has 'emall skinned, mad at him, this got him in bad, scared of, skiddoo, beatit, a peach of a place, get away with the job, been stung by the party, got by on his bluff, sore at that fact, and always on the job. Ilearned that the weather man had put over his first frost last night, that a town we passed had come across with a sixteen-year-old burglar, and that a discredited politician was attempting to get out from under. Perhaps it is not to be wondered at that the Englishman frequentlyfails to get us. 

You note a change in the whole atmosphere of language. A pronouncedinstance of this difference is found in public signs. You have beenseeing in English conveyances the placards in neat type posted aboutwhich kindly request the traveller not to expectorate upon the floor ofthis vehicle, as to do so may cause inconvenience to other passengersor spread disease, and so forth and so on. Over here:

 _Don't Spit_? _This means You_!

This is about the way our signs of this kind go. Now what about allthis? I used to think many person just returned from Englandridiculously affected in their speech. And many of them are--those whosay caun't when they can't do it unconsciously. That is, over here. In Britain, perhaps, it is just as well to make a stagger at speakingthe way the Britains do. When you accidently step on an Englishman'stoe, it is better to say "I'm sorry!" or simply "sorry, " than to beghis pardon or ask him to excuse you. This makes you less conspicuous, and so more comfortable. And when you stay any length of time you fallnaturally into English ways. Then when you come back you seem to us, to use one of the Englishman's most delightful words, to "swank"dreadfully. And in that is the whole story. 

Mr. James declares that in the work of two equally good writers youcould still tell by the writing which was that of the Englishman andwhich that of the American. The assumption of course is that wherethey differed the American would be the inferior writer. Mr. Jamesprefers the English atmosphere. And the Englishman is inclined toregard us in our deviation as a sort of imperfect reproduction ofhimself. What is his is ours, it is true; but what's ours is our own. That is, we have inherited a noble literature in common. But we writeless and less like an Englishman all the while. Our legacy of languagebrought over in the Mayflower has become adapted to our ownenvironment, been fused in the "melting-pot, " and quickened by our ownlife to-day. Whether for better or for worse--it may be either--theliterary touch is rapidly going by the board in modern Americanwriting. One of the newer English writers remarks: "A few carefullyselected American phrases can very swiftly kill a great deal of dignityand tradition. "

Why should we speak the very excellent language spoken in the tightlittle isle across the sea? In Surrey they speak of the "broad Sussex"of their neighbours in the adjoining county. Is it exactly that wecaun't? Or that we just don't? Because we have an article more to ourpurpose, made largely from English material, but made in the UnitedStates?

XIV

HUNTING LODGINGS

Some people say that it is the most awful trial. 

But it isn't so at all. 

One of the most entertaining things that can be done in the world, sofull of interesting things, is to go hunting lodgings. Also, it is oneof the most enlightening things that can be done, for, pursued withintelligence and energy, it gives one an excellent view of humankind;that is, of a particularly human kind of humankind. It is a confoundlyChristian thing to do--hunting lodgings--because it opens the heart tothe queer ways, and speech, and customs of the world. 

Now, I myself hunt lodgings as some men hunt wild game. 

Nothing is better when one is out of sorts, somewhat run down, andpeevish with the world generally than to go out one fine afternoon andhunt lodgings In some remote part of town. 

When in a foreign city, especially, the first thing I myself do, assoon as I am comfortably settled somewhere--and after, of course, having looked up the celebrated sights of the place, the Abbey, theLouvre, Grant's Tomb---is to put in a day or so hunting lodgings. 

Even to read in the papers of lodgings to let is refreshing andeducational. All lodgings are "sunny"--in the papers. They are letmainly by "refined" persons, and are wonderfully "quiet. " I rememberlast summer in London there was "a small sitting to let to a younglady. " Lodgings, by the way, are usually "apartments" in England, asyou know. Though, indeed, it is true that when a gentleman rents overthere what we call a "furnished room" he is commonly said to "go intolodgings. " A fine phrase, that; it is like to that fine old expression"commencing author. " And that reminds me: the most fascinatinglodgings to hunt, perhaps, anywhere, are called "chambers. " Thesewhich I mean are in the old Inns of Court in London. And the mostcharming of these remaining is Staple Inn, off Holborn. I usedfrequently to hunt chambers in "the fayrest Inne of Chancerie. " Thereare no "modern conveniences" there. You draw your own water at a pumpin the venerable quadrangle, and you "find" your own light. But toreturn:

There was also last summer an apartment to let to a "respectable man"or, the announcement said, it "might do for friends. " One of thereasons why many people are bored by hunting lodgings is that they arenot humble in spirit. They seek proud lodgings. 

As to apartment houses, which are a very different matter: thenewspapers publish at various seasons of the year copiousApartment-House Directories, with innumerable half-tone illustrationsof these more or less sumptious places. And these directories arecompetent commentaries on their subject. George Moore remarked, "Withbusiness I have nothing to do--my concern is with art. " Except that Ilive in one, with apartment houses I have nothing to do--my concern iswith lodgings. 

There is only one philosophical observation to be made upon apartmenthouses. And that is this: How can all these people afford to live inthem? When you go to look at apartments you are shown a place that youdon't like particularly. You don't think, Oh, how I'd just love tolive here if I could only afford it! But you ask the rental as amatter of form. And you learn that this apartment rents for a sumgreater (in all likelihood) than your entire salary. And yet, thereare miles and miles of apartment houses even better than that. Andgoodness knows how many thousand people live in them! People whosenames you never see in the newspapers as ones important in business, insociety, art, literature, or anything else. Obscure people! Veryordinary people! Now where do they get all that money? But aboutlodgings:

I one time went to look at lodgings in Patchin Place. I had heard thatPatchin Place was America's Latin Quarter. I thought it would be wellto examine it. Patchin Place is a cul-de-sac behind Jefferson Market. A bizarre female person admitted me to the house there. It was notunreasonable to suppose that she had a certain failing. She slip-slodbefore me along a remarkably dark, rough-floored and dusty hall, and upa rickety stair. The lodging which she had to let was interesting butnot attractive. The tenant, it seemed, who had just moved away hadmany faults trying to his landlady. He was very delinquent, for onething, in the payment of his rent. And he was somewhat addicted todrink. This unfortunate propensity led him to keep very late hours, and caused him habitually to fall upstairs. 

Well, I told her, by way of making talk, that I believed I was held tobe a reasonably honest person, and that I was frequently sober. 

"Oh, " she said, "I can see that you are a gentleman--in your way, " sheadded, in a murmur. 

So, you see, in hunting lodgings you not only see how others live, buthow you seem to others. 

It is certainly curious, the places in which to dwell which one isshown in hunting lodgings. Once I was given to view a room in whichwas a strange table-like affair constructed of metal. "You wouldn'tmind, I suppose, " said the lady of the lodging, "if this remained inthe room?"

"Oh, not at all, " I replied. "But what is it?"

"Why, it's an operating table, " she explained. "Of course, you know, "she added, "that I'm a physician. And, " she continued, "of course Ishould want to make use of it now and then, but not regularly, notevery day. "

To a lady with a patch over her eye with lodgings to let in BroomeStreet I one time stated, by way of being communicative, that I wasoften in my room a good deal doing some work there. Ah! With manyogles and grimaces, she whispered hoarsely, with an effort at a slyeffect, that "that was all right here. She understood, " she said. Perfectly "safe place for that, " it was. "The gentlemen who had theroom before were something of the same kind. "

As you know, "references" frequently are demanded of one huntinglodgings. To get into a really nice place one must really be a verynice person. "You know, I have a daughter, " sighs the really nicelandlady. 

To obtain lodgings in Kensington one must be very well-to-do, particularly if one would be on the "drawing room floor. " "I likethese rooms very much, " I said to a prim person there, and I hesitated. 

"But I suppose they are too dear for you, " she said. 

How careful one must be hunting lodgings in England about "extras. "Lodgings made in the U. S. A. Are all ready to live in, when you havepaid your rent. But over on the other side, you recall, the rent, soamazingly cheap, is merely an item. Light, "coals, " linen, and"attendance" are all "extra. "

I met an interesting person letting lodgings in Whitechapel. She wasnot attractive physically. Her chief drapery was an apron. This, indeed, was fairly adequate before. But--I think she was like theostrich who sticks his head in the sand. 

My sister-in-law, a highly intelligent woman------ There are, by theway, people who will think anything. Some may say that I am endingthis article rather abruptly. 

My sister-in-law, a highly intelligent woman, used to say, incompositions at school when stumped by material too much for her, thatshe had in her eye, so to say, things "too numerous to mention. "

Anybody who would chronicle his adventures in hunting lodgings isconfronted by incidents, humorous, wild, bizarre, queer, strange, peculiar, sentimental, touching, tragic, weird, and so on and so forth, "too numerous to mention. "

XV

MY FRIEND, THE POLICEMAN

To the best of my knowledge and belief (as a popular phrase has it), Iam the only person in the United States who corresponds with a Londonpoliceman. About all you know about the London policeman is that he isa trim and well-set-up figure and an efficient-looking officer. Whenyou have asked him your way he has replied somewhat thus: "Straight upthe road, sir, take your first turning to the right, sir, the secondleft, sir, and then at the top of the street you will find it directlybefore you, sir. " You have, perhaps, heard that the London policeforce offers something like an honourable career to a young man, that"Bobbies" are decently paid, that they are advanced systematically, mayretire early on a fair pension, and that frequently they come from thecountry, as their innocent English faces and fresh complexionsindicate. Sometimes also you have observed that in directing you theyfind it necessary to consult a pocket map of the town. Your generalimpression doubtless is that they are rather nice fellows. 

It was in Cheyne Walk that I met my policeman. I had got off the 'busat Battersea Bridge, and was seeking my way to Oakley Street, where Ihad been directed to lodgings described as excellent. He was a large, fat man, with a heavy black moustache; and he had a very pleasantmanner. When I came out that evening for a walk along the Embankment Icame across him on Albert Bridge, at the "bottom, " as they say overthere, of my street. 

"You're still here, sir, " he remarked cheerfully. I asked him how longMr. Whistler's Battersea Bridge had been gone, and he told me I forgethow many years. He had seen it and had been here all the while. Inthe course of time he directed me a good deal about in Chelsea, and soit was that I came to chat with him frequently in the evenings, for he"came on" at six and was "off" some time early in the morning. 

I was a source of some considerable interest to him with my odd foreignways. "When are you going 'ome?" he asked me one day when ourfriendship had ripened. 

"Oh, some time in the fall, " I replied. 

"In the fall?" he queried in a puzzled way. 

"Why, yes, " I said; "September or October. "

"Oh, " he remarked, "in the autumn. " And I heard him murmur musingly, "In the fall of the leaves. "

Sometimes I met him in the company of his colleague, the "big un, " or"baby, " as I learned he was familiarly called, a very tall man withenormous feet clad in boots that glistened like great mirrors, whorocked as he walked, like a ship. My friend had very bright eyes. They sparkled with merriment one day when he said to the big un, nodding toward me, "He's going 'ome in the fall. "

It was a warm evening along the side of old Father Thames. My friend, with much graceful delicacy, made it known to me that a drop of "ile"now and then did not go bad with one tried by the cares of a policeman. So we set out for the nearby "King's Head and Eight Bells. " When wecame to this public house I discovered that it was apparentlyabsolutely impossible for my friend to go in. He instructed me then inthis way: I was to go in alone and order for my friend outside a pintof "mull and bitter, in a tankard. " The potman, he informed me, wouldbring it out to him. The expense of this refreshment was not heavy; itcame to one penny ha'penny. The services of the obliging potman weregratuitous. I found my friend in the pathway outside with the tankardbetween his hearty face and the sky. When he had concluded hisdraught, he thanked me, smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with a largehandkerchief, and hurried away, as, he said, "the inspector" would bealong presently. Just why the inspector would regard "ile" in the openair in view of the whole world less an evil than a tankard of mull andbitter in a public house I cannot say. But it may be that as long asone is in the open one can still keep one eye on one's duty. 

I was hailed several days after this by my friend, who approachedrapidly. Well, I thought, he has been very useful to me, and threeha'pennies are not much. 

"I have something for you, " said my friend, somewhat heated by hishaste. 

"You have?" I said. "What is it?"

"It's a rose, " replied my friend. 

"A what?" I asked. 

"A flower, " said my friend, recognising that we did not speak exactlythe same language. "You know what that is?"

"Oh, yes. I know what a flower is, " I said. "Where have you got it?"

"I have secreted it in the churchyard, sir, " he replied. "I'll fetchit directly?" he added, and was off. 

When he returned through the gloaming he put the flower through mybuttonhole. "A lady dropped it out of her carriage, " he said; "and Ithought of you when I picked it up. " He stooped and smelled it. "Hasn't it, " he said, "a lovely scent?"

I had lived in New York a good while and I had somehow come to think ofpolicemen rather as men of action than as poets. But then in New Yorkwe do not dwell in a flower garden; we are not filled with a love ofhorses, dogs, and blossoms; and we do not all speak unconsciously aliterary language. 

My friend was very eager that I should let him "hear from" me upon myreturn to the States, and he particularly desired a postcard picturinga skyscraper. So he gave me his address, which was:

"W. C. Buckington, P. C. B. Deyersan, Chelsea Police Station, King'sRoad, Chelsea, S. W. "

In acknowledgment of my postcard I received a letter, which I thinkshould not remain in the obscurity of my coat pocket. I wish to submitit to public attention as a model of all that a letter from a goodfriend should be, and so seldom is! There is an engaging modesty in solarge a man's referring to himself continually with a little letter"i. " My correspondent tells me of himself, he gives me intimate newsof the place of my recent sojourn, he touches with taste and feelingupon the great subject of our time, he conveys to me patently sinceresentiments of his good will, and he leaves me with much appreciation ofhis excellent nature and honest heart. Occasional personalpeculiarities in his style, deviations in unessential things from thecommon form, give a close personal touch to his message. This is myfriend's letter:

"DEAR FRIEND--

"It is with Great pleasure for to answer your post Card that i receivedthis morning i was very pleased to receive it and to know that you arestill in the land of the Living i have often thought about you and as ihad not seen you i thought you had Gone home i have shown the Card toJenkens and the tall one and also a nother Policeman you know and theyall wish me to Remember them Verry kindly to you they was surprised tothink you had taken the trouble to write to me they said he is a Goodold sort not forgetting the little drops we had at the six bells andKings Head. 

"P. H. What do you think of this terrable war it is shocking i havejust Got the news that a cousin of mine is wounded and he is at Clactonon sea he is a Sergt in the 1th Coldstreams Gds got a wife and 4Children i have been on the sick list this Last 17 days suffering fromRumitism but i am better London is very quiet Especially at Night thePubs Close at 11 m. And half the Lights in the streets are out surchLights flashing all round 2 on hyde Park Corner 2 Lambert Bridge 2 Waroffice dear Friend i hope i shall have the Pleasure to receive a Letterfrom you before long Now i think that this is all i have to say atpresent so will close with my best respects to you your

 "Sincere friend "WILLIAM CHARLES BUCKINGTON. "

The letter which later I sent him was returned to me by the PostOffice. And that is all that I know of my friend, man of ardent natureand gentle feeling, lover of flowers, London policeman, gone, perhaps, to the wars. Cheyne Walk would not be Cheyne Walk again to me withouthim. 

XVI

HELP WANTED--MALE, FEMALE

The people who (because they think they don't need to) do not read the"Help Wanted" "ads" in the newspapers really ought to do this, anyway fora week or so in every year. They are the people, above all others, thatwould be most benefited by this department of journalism. 

Now, there is nobody who more than myself objects in his spirit to thevery common practice of this one's saying to that one that he, or she, "ought to" do this or that thing. Nobody knows all the circumstances inwhich another is placed. Some people insist upon saying "under thecircumstances. " But that is wrong. One is surrounded by circumstances;one is not under them, as though they were an umbrella. Nobody ought tosay "under the circumstances. " However, this is merely by the by. 

It's a queer thing, though, that Mr. Hilaire Belloc, who certainly writessome of the best English going, says that "under the" and so forth is allright. Certainly it is not. But, as I said before, this is not a pointabout which we are talking. 

One ought to read want "ads" for many reasons. For instance, you canthus become completely mixed up as to whether or not you are still young. "Young man wanted, " you will read, "about sixteen years of age, in anoffice. " Goodness gracious! It does seem that this is an age of young, very young, men. What chance does one of your years have now? On theother hand, you read: "Wanted, young man, about thirty-five. " So! Well, this is an age, too (you reflect) in which people remain young. Thereare no old folks any more; they are out of fashion. Witness, "Boywanted, strong, about eighteen. "

They (want "ads") ought, particularly, to be read at times when you havea very good job. It is then especially that the reading of them is bestfor you. They do (or they ought to) soften your arrogance. 

If--like Mr. Rockefeller, jr. --I were a teacher of a Sunday school class(which, as Mr. Dooley used to say, I am not). I would say: "The bestreligious teaching is to be found in the help-wanted advertisements inthe newspapers. We will take up this morning these columns in thismorning's papers. "

As a matter of fact, if you are out of a job I should strongly adviseagainst your reading advertisements for help wanted. In the first place, nobody ever got a job through one of these advertisements. I know this, as the phrase is, of my own knowledge. Then, the influence of suggestionis very powerful in these announcements. If you are without a position, it is depressingly plain to you that you are totally unqualified toobtain one again, of any account. If you have a berth paying a livingwage, you perceive that some mysterious good fortune attends you, and youare made humble by fear for yourself, and compassionate towards others. For who are you, in heaven's name, and what the devil do you know, thatyou should make a living in this world! In this world where there iswanted: "Highly educated man, having extensive business and socialconnection. Must be fluent correspondent in Arabic, Japanese, andSwedish, and an expert accountant. Knowledge of Russian and thebroadsword essential. Acquaintance with the subject of miningengineering expected. Experience in the diplomatic service desired. Gentleman of impressive presence required. Highest credentials demanded. Salary, to begin, seven dollars. " Knowledge, undoubtedly, is power!

Still, one seeking a position through want "ads" need not altogetherdespair. A little further down these very catholic columns you will findthat: "Any person of ordinary intelligence, common-school education notnecessary, can make $1000 a week writing for newspapers, by our system, taught by mail. Only ten minutes a day before going to bed required tolearn. "

One thing stands out above all others in advertisements for help wanted. This is the land of hustle. Tinker, tailor, candlestick-maker; lawyer, merchant, priest; if you are not a "live-wire" you are not "helpwanted"--"Cook wanted. On dairy farm, twelve miles from town. White, industrious. Must be a live-wire! One that can get results. Nostick-in-the-muds need apply!"

Uplifters and governments do not deal a more telling blow at the demonrum than do want "ads. " There is no longer any job for the drinker. "Bartender wanted. In a very low place. Must be strict teetotaler!"The student of the help-wanted columns will come to regard it as a verygreat mystery who floats all our "public-houses. "

Persons whose outlook on life is restricted to the dull round of oneoccupation and to one class of society will find a decidedly broadeninginfluence in the perusal of help-wanted "ads, " a liberal and a humaneeducation in the subject of the variety and picaresque quality ofhumanity's manifold activities. And such persons will be made aware oftheir dark ignorance of many matters. What, for instance (they will say)is a "bushelman"? A great many bushelmen are continually "wanted. " Itmight be well to be one so much in constant demand as a bushelman. Hasthis welcome character something to do with the delectable grocery trade?No, my dears (for though I never saw a bushelman, I'd rather see than beone), he engages in the tailoring business, in the sweatshop way (as wellas I can make out). 

There are people wanted in help-wanted "ads" (but not in real life) to donothing but travel in pleasant and historic places as companions towealthy, "refined" persons in delicate health. There are people wanted(in want "ads") to share attractive homes in fashionable country placeswhose duties will be to smoke excellent cigars and take naps in theafternoon. 

And there are as romantic things to be found among help-wanted "ads" asthere are in the most romantic romances. Now, lest it may be thoughtthat some of the help-wanted "ads" which I have written right out of myhead to illustrate the type of each are somewhat fanciful, I will copyout of yesterday's paper an advertisement which "Robinson Crusoe" hasn'tanything on, to put it thusly. Here you are. 

"WANTED--A man (or woman) to live alone on an island, eight miles fromshore; food, shelter, clothing furnished; no work, no compensation. Summer time, Box G, 532 Times, Downtown. "

I knew a man once who got several replies to advertisements for helpwanted. He bought ten New York papers one Sunday and a dollar's worth oftwo cent stamps. At ten o'clock in the evening he went out and stuffedthe ballot-box, I mean the letter box. He said in his own handwritingthat he was an excellent man to be manager of "the upper floors of anapartment house"; that he was uncommonly experienced in themoving-picture business and knew "the screen" from A to izzard; that hehad edited trade journals from the time he could talk; that he had anadmirable figure for a clothing model; that he was very successful ininterviewing bankers and brokers; that he was fond of children; that hewould like to add a side line of metal polisher to his list; and that hecertainly knew more about Bolivera than anybody else in the world, andwould be prepared to head an expedition there by half-past two thefollowing day. 

That man already had a job that he had got from a want "ad. " He had been"copying letters" at home, "light, genteel work for one of artistictastes. " But he found that one could not make any money out of it. Because, after one had bought the "outfit" necessary one discovered thatit was humanly impossible to copy the bloomin' letters in the somewhateccentric fashion required. 

He got several replies, as I said, to his replies to want "ads, " thisman. One was a postcard which read: "Call to-morrow morning about work, Room 954, Horseshoe Building, X. Y. Z. Co. " Considering himself agentleman, and being touchy about such things, he was annoyed at thismanner of addressing him on a postcard. However he went to the HorseshoeBuilding. Room 954 had a great many names on the door, names therestated to be those of "attorneys, " "syndicates, " and "corporations, limited. " Among these names was that of the X. Y. Z. Co. Within, oneside of Room 954 was partitioned off into many little alcoves. Anantique, though youthfully dressed, typist, by the railing near the door, showed our friend to the X. Y. Z. Co. , who was seated at a bleak-lookingdesk in one of the little alcoves. The alcove contained, besides the"Co. " (a little whiskered man, wearing his hat and overcoat) and thedesk, an empty waste basket, and one unoccupied chair. 

It was a "demonstrator" that was wanted, on a commission basis, for afluid to cleanse silver. This alcove, it developed, was merely one ofmany thousand branch offices of the "Co. " scattered across the country. The "Co's. " "factory, " he said, was over in New Jersey, a very largeaffair. 

Mr. Bivens, that is the name of the gentleman of whom I have just beenspeaking, was invited, too, this time in a letter politely beginning "MyDear Sir, " to call at the offices of a moving-picture "corporation. "Asking to see "M. T. Cummings, " who had signed the letter, he waspresented to an efficient-looking person, evidently an elderly, retiredshow-girl, who directly proved him wofully deficient in knowledge of "thescreen. "

His next experience was with a portly, prosperous-looking gentleman whohad elaborate offices in a very swell skyscraper. This man wrote anexcellent business-like letter; he unfolded to H. T. (I alwaysaffectionately call Bivens "H. T. ") admiration-compelling plans for largebusiness enterprises, which included a project of taking five hundredAmerican business men on a trip through Europe after the war at a cost toeach one of only four dollars and a half, the balance of the expenses ofeach to be paid for in local business co-operation. 

Bivens was taken right into this energetic and enterprising man'sconfidence. He did considerable outside work for his employer for tendays. On the eleventh day, reporting at the office, he found thepromoter's secretary and office boy awaiting him, in company with hisoffice furniture, outside the locked door. 

Bivens next answered an advertisement for a strike-breaker to lightstreet lamps, and for a person to distribute handbills at a pay ofseventy-five cents a day. But his luck had changed; he never got anotherreply to any answer to a help-wanted "ad. "

He thinks this is strange, because he believes (and I know this is true)that he writes a letter which would instantly mark him as a man of highmerit among the multitude. 

But I once knew a man who put a help-wanted "ad" in the paper. He ran ahotel, and he advertised for a clerk. I was stopping at his place at thetime, I and my three brothers. And the five of us, Mr. Snuvel (the hotelman), I, and my three brothers, used to bring up from the village everynight for a week (the place was in the country) the mail, which consistedof replies to this help-wanted advertisement. We used large sacks forthis purpose. 

XVI

HUMAN MUNICIPAL DOCUMENTS

A literary adventurer not long since found himself, by one of theexigencies incident to his precarious career, turning over in the processof cataloguing a kind of literature in which up to that time he had beenvery little read, a public collection of published municipal documents. This gentleman had had a notion for a good many years that municipaldocuments were entirely for very serious people engaged in some usefulundertakings. He had never conceived of them as works of humour andobjects of art. But his disinclination to this department of pureliterature was dissolved, as most prejudices may be, by acquaintance withthe subject. 

Municipal documents are human documents. They are the autobiographies ofcommunities. The personalities of Topeka, Kansas, of Limoges, France, and of Heidelberg, Germany, rise before the impressionable student ofmunicipal documents like the figures of personal autobiography, likeBenvenuto Cellini, Marie Bashkirtsev, Benjamin Franklin, Miss MaryMaclane, Mr. George Moore. 

A very touching quality in municipal documents is their naivete--thatunavoidable and unconscious self-revelation which is much of the greatcharm and value of all autobiographies. By the way, do statisticiansreally understand municipal documents, or do they think them valuablesimply because they are full of statements of fact?

Our literary gentleman, at all events, found his task very engaging, though as a cataloguer he was much perplexed by the extraordinaryinformality, in one respect, of formal public papers, a curiousprovinciality, as he could but take it to be, of municipalities. A verycommon neglect, he found, in such publications is to make any mentionanywhere of the relation to geography of the community chronicling itshistory. 

He would read, for instance, that the pamphlet in his hand was the"Auditor's Report of Receipts and Expenditures for the Financial YearEnding February 10, 1875, for the Town of Andover. " Where, he asked, with absolute certainty, was the town of Andover here referred to? Heexamined the printer's imprint, which was explicit--personally: "Printedby Warren F. Draper, 1875. " There was something very friendly aboutthis. Printers of public documents seem to be an amiable, neighbourlylot: "Printed at the Enterprise Office, " one mentions casually in alarge, warm-hearted fashion. Another imprint reads, "Auburn, Printed byCharles Ferris, _Daily Advertiser_ Office, 1848, " Mr. Ferris, in hislifetime, was evidently a very pleasant man, but a little careless ofwhat to him, no doubt, were inessential details. He was thoughtless ofthe dark ignorance in places remote from Auburn of the _DailyAdvertiser_. Another prominent Auburnian of the same craft, one W. S. Morse, it may be learned from some of the products of his press, flourished in 1886. But, the puzzled cataloguer inquires, was Mr. Morsesuccessor to Mr. Ferris, or was he official printer to the Government ofAuburn, Maine, far from the scene of Mr. Ferris's public services, possibly in Auburn, New York? To these picayune points the breezygentlemen make no reference. 

The worker with public documents turns from the title pages to search thedocuments themselves. Are these the "Proceedings of the Board of ChosenFreeholders" of the City of Albany, Missouri, or of Albany, NewHampshire? (A cataloguer has a faint impression that there is an Albany, too, somewhere in the State of New York. ) Is this a "Copy of Warrant forAnnual Town Meeting" of Lancaster, Massachusetts, or New Hampshire, orPennsylvania? Impossible, he thinks, that there should be no internalevidence. 

He reads on and on. He notes the intimate nature of an Article 19: "Tosee if the town will accept a gift from Hannah E. Bigelow, withconditions. " He peruses "Selectman's Accounts" of expenditures, howthere was "Paid on account of Grammar School" such or such an amount; helearns the cost of "Hay Scales, " the expenses of "Fire Dep't, Cemetery, Street Lamps. " He peers behind the official scenes at Decoration Day:monies paid out of the public treasury for "Brass Band, Address ($20. 00), flowers, flags, tuning piano. " He goes over appropriations for "Repairsat Almshouse. " He sits with the "Trustees of Memorial Hall, " and informshimself concerning conditions at the "Lunatic Hospital. " He follows withfeeling municipal accessions, "purchase of a Road-scraper, which we finda very useful machine, and probably money judiciously expended. " Butmore and more amazed at the circumstance as he continues he is lefttotally in the dark as to where he is all the while. 

Sometimes the mention, made necessary in connection with plans for somepublic improvement, of a well-known river, say, revealed the town'slocation. Occasionally the comparative antiquity of the civilisationsupplied inspiration for a good guess as to its situation--that it wasthe town of that name in New England rather than the one in Oklahoma. Multiplied clues of identity, again, built up a case: "Official Ballot"(ran the title) "for Precinct W. Attleburough, Tuesday. Nov. 3, 1896. "The name "Wm. M. Olin" was given as that of the "Secretary of theCommonwealth. " Of the first page that was all. In heaven's name!exclaimed the cataloguer, what commonwealth? A study of the list ofcandidates on this ballot, giving their places of residence, however, fortified one's natural supposition--"of Worcester, of Lynn, ofHaverhill, of Amherst, of Pittsfield" (ah!), "of Boston. " It is areasonable surmise that this Ballot pertains to the commonwealth ofMassachusetts. 

It is not here stated that the name of its native State is neverdiscovered in the whole of any American municipal document. Often, insome indirect allusion, somewhere in the text it may be found. Frequently, too, it is true, the State seal is printed upon the titlepage or cover of the volume. And in instances the name of the Statestands out clearly enough upon the page of title. But in case aftercase, in the occupation giving rise to this paper, the only expedient wasrecourse to a file of city directories, collating names of streets inthese with those mentioned in the documents. 

Another curious idiosyncrasy of one branch of public document--whichinforms the labour of cataloguing them with something of the alluringfascination of putting together jig-saw picture puzzles ("spoke, " in thewords of Artemas Ward, "sarcastic") is the extraordinary variety of namesthat can be found by municipalities to entitle the Mayor's annualeloquence. This versatile character may deliver himself of an AnnualAddress, Message, Communication, Statement, or of "Remarks. "

A cataloguer was surprised to discover, in "An Act to Incorporate andVest Certain Powers in the Freeholders and Inhabitants of the village ofBrooklyn, in the County of Kings, " the prophetic enlightenment of theInhabitants of that village in the year 1816. The voice of AndrewCarnegie, Colonel Roosevelt, and Prof. Brander Matthews speaks in thefollowing passage: "That the section of the town of Brooklyn, commonlyknown as 'The Fire District, ' and contained within the following bounds, viz. : Beginning at the public landing south of Pierpont's distillery, formerly the property of Philip Livingston, deceased, on the East River, thence running along the public road leading from said landing to itsintersection with Redhook lane, thence along Redhook lane to where itintersects Jamaica turnpike road, thence a North East course to the headof the Wallabaght mill-pond, thence thro the centre of said mill pond tothe East river, and thence down the East river to the place of beginning, shall continue to be known and distinguished by the Name of the Villageof Brooklyn. " "Thro" certainly is phonetic spelling. 

It was the sterling character of these villagers that then laid thefoundation for the better half of a mighty city to come. The "act"concludes: "And then and there proceed to elect Five discreetfreeholders, resident within said village, to be trustees thereof. " Sowitness is borne to this vernacular quality of discretion in the twilightof Brooklyn history. 

The aesthetic consideration of municipal documents has not received muchattention. The format of a municipal document, however, is in itself adelightful essay in unconscious self-characterisation. Those of theUnited States express a plain democratic people. They have, in fact, allthe commonness of the job printer. "Printed at the _Journal_ Office, "is, indeed, their physical character. 

The municipal documents of Great Britain are usually bound, in goodEnglish book-cloth, that peculiar fabric to which the connoisseur ofbooks is so sensitive, and which, for some inexplicable reason, it is, apparently, impossible to manufacture in this country; or in neat boards, with cloth backs. Or if in paper it is of an interesting colour andtexture. A noble heraldic device, the coat of arms of the city orborough, is stamped in gold above, or below, the title. This is repeatedupon the title-page, the typography of which is not without distinction. The paper has more refinement than that used in such Americanpublications. The effect, in fine, is of something aristocratic. The"Mayoral Minutes" of Kensington is rather a handsome quarto volume. 

An added touch of distinction is given these British volumes by thepresentation card, tipped in after the front cover. A really exquisitelittle thing is this one: it bears, placed with great nicety, its coat ofarms above, delicately reduced in size; across the middle, in beautifulsensitive type, it reads: "With the City Accountant's Compliments"; inthe lower left corner, in two lines, "Guildhall, Gloucester. "

The municipal documents of Germany are very German. Verwaltungsberichtis one of those extraordinary words which are so long that when you lookat one end of the word you cannot see the other end. These volumessometimes might possibly be mistaken, by a foreigner, for "gift books. "Often they are bound, in pronounced German taste, in several strongcolours in a striking combination. Buttressing the decorative Germanletters, on cover and title page, appears some one of variousconventionalisations of the German eagle, made very black, and wearing acrown and carrying a sceptre. In "Verwaltungsbericht des Magistrats derKoniglichen Haupt- und Residenzstadt Hanover, 1906-7, " the frontispiece, the armorial bearings, "Wappen der Koniglichen" and so forth is apowerfully coloured lithograph, a very ornate affair, of lions (ofegg-yolk yellow), armour, and leaves and castles. These Germanpublications are filled with excellent photographs of public places andbuildings, and extensive unfolding coloured maps and diagrams. Agentleman with a taste for art viewed with much admiration a handsomeplate of "des Dresdener Wassenwerks. " They contain, too, these volumes, multitudes of pictures of distinguished citizens, often photogravuresfrom official paintings; these gentlemen sometimes appear decorated withmassive orders, or again decorated simply with very German expressions ofcountenance. The "Chronik der Haupt- und Reisdenzstadt Stuttgart, 1902, "somewhat suggests bound volumes of "Jugend, " with its heavy pen and inkhead and tail pieces, of women marketing, of a bride and groom kneelingat the altar, and one, an excellent little drawing of a horse mountingwith a heavily laden wagon a rise of ground, the driver beside him, and astreet lamp behind protruding from below (remember this is a municipaldocument). 

A quaint little duodecimo is the "Jaarbockie voor de Stad Delft, " withlittle headpieces pictorially representing the seasons and a curiouslywood-cut astrologer introducing "den Almanak. " A rather square-toed kindof a little volume, neatly bound in grey boards, and very nicely printed, having altogether an effect of housewifely cleanliness, is the "Verslagvan den Toestand der Gemeente Haarlem over het jaar 1894. DoorBurgemeester en Wethouders Uitgebracht aan den Gemeenteraad; imprintGedrukt bij Gebr Nobels, te Haarlem. "

The language of Great Britain's municipal documents is lofty: "The RoyalBurrough of Kensington, Minute of His Worship the Mayor (Sir H. SeymourKing, K. C. I. E. , M. P. ) for the year ending November, 1901. " (Here isimprinted the design of a quartered shield containing a crown, a Papalhat, and two crosses, and, beneath, the motto: "Quid Nobis Ardui. ")"Printed" (continues the reading) "by order of the Council, 30th, October, 1901. Jas. Truscott and Son, Printer, Suffolk Lane, E. C. " Andin the following there is something of the rumble of the history ofEngland:

 "Addresses Presented from the Court of Common Council to the King. 

 On his Majesty's Accession to the Throne, And on various other Occasions, and his Answers, Resolutions of the Court, Granting the Freedom of the City to several Noble Personages; with their Answers, Instructions at different Times to the Representatives of the City in Parliament. Petitions to Parliament for different Purposes, Resolutions of the Court, On the Memorial of the Livery, to request the Lord Mayor to call a Common Hall; For returning Thanks to Lord Chatham, And his Answer; For erecting a Statue in Guildhall, to William Beckford, Esq. ; late Lord Mayor, Agreed to between the 23d October, 1760, and the 13th. October, 1770 Printed by Henry Fenwick, Printer to the Honorable City of London. "

Henry Fenwick, Esq. , takes himself with dignity. 

But to turn from the pomp of state, to peep for a moment at the intimatelife of the people of England a couple of centuries ago, few things couldbe better than "The Constable's Accounts of the Manor of Manchester, "from which a few items of "Disbursements" are cited;

 "Pd. Expences apprehending two Felons.... -/1/- "Pd. Expences maintaining them two Nights in the Dungeon ...................... -/2/- "To Ann Duncan very ill to take her over into Ireland ............................. -/4/- "To Straw for the Dungeon ............... -/4/- "To Belman sundry public Cries .......... -/7/6 "To three pair of Stockings and dying for the Beedle .............................. -/9/- "To Wine drinking Royal healths the Prince's birthday at his full age ............ 3/16/6 "To a distressed Sailor to Leverpoole ... -/1/- "Pd. Boonfire on King's Coronation Day .. -/6/6 "Gave Nancy Mackeen a Stroller .......... -/-/6 "Pd. Musicians at rejoicing for good news from Germany, and on birth of the Prince of Wales ............................ 2/7/- "Pd. For a Cat with nine Tails .......... -/3/- "To a lame Stranger ..................... -/1/- "Pd. Lighting Lamps last Dark ........... -/2/6 "Several Fortune Tellers Indicted, etc... -/12/- "Pd. Lawyer Nagave advising Roger Blomely's Case bringing Actions agt. The Constable for putting him in the Dungeon for being drunk on Sunday in time of divine Service .............................. L/l/-"

It is interesting to note in this connection that on August 16, 1762, was"Pd. " one "Barnard Shaw maintenance of Rioters and Evidence, 1-11-6. "

A circumstance of considerable human interest, too, and one possiblylittle known, is the great aversion to the sight of bears held by theinhabitants of the Isle of Wight, at least in the year 1891. A copy ofthe "Bye-Laws" of the "Administrative County of the Isle of Wight, "issued that year, contains, following articles relating to "Regulatingthe Sale of Coal" and "Spitting, " this:

"As to Bears. 

"1. No bear shall be taken along or allowed to be upon any highway, unless such bear shall be securely confined in a vehicle closed so as tocompletely hide such bear from view. 

"2. Any person who shall offend against this Bye-law shall be liable to afine not exceeding in any case five pounds. "

"Atti del Municipale! Atti del Consiglio Comunale di Siena. BollettinoDegli atti Pubblicati Dalla Giunta Municipale di Roma. " It is fittingthat quartos of such titles as these, containing addresses beginningSignori Consiglieri and Onorevoli Signori, should look something likeItalian opera, and be bound in vellum, title and date stamped in gold onbright red and purple labels, with sides of mottled purple boards, andimprints such as "Bologna. Regia Tipografia Fratelli Merlani, " and oftypography the best. And on genuine paper, far from the woodpulp ofAmerican municipal graft contracts. 

Once, indeed, municipal documents were august pages. Some of the earlyItalian and German are on paper that will last as long as the law. Andin these times the title pages of municipal documents were Piranesiesque:massive architectural scroll work framing stone tablets, hung withgarlands of fruit and grain, and decorated with carved lions, humanheads, and histrionic masks. And initial letters throughout tocorrespond. 

Now who but France would bind her municipal documents in heavily tooled, full levant morocco, with grained silk inside covers?

XVIII

AS TO PEOPLE

It is a very pleasant thing to go about in the world and see all thepeople. 

Among the finest people in the world to talk with are scrubwomen. Bartenders, particularly those in very low places, are not withoutconsiderable merit in this respect. Policemen and trolley-car conductorshave great social value. Rustic ferry-men are very attractiveintellectually. But for a feast of reason and a flow of soul I know ofno society at all comparable to that of scrubwomen. 

It is possible that you do not cultivate scrubwomen. That is yourmisfortune. Let me tell you about my scrubwoman. I know only this one, I regret to say, but she, I take it, is representative. 

Her name--ah, what does it matter, her name? The thing beyond price isher mind. There is stored, in opulence, all the ready-made language, thetag-ends of expression, coined by modern man. But she does not use thisrich dross as others do. She touches nothing that she does not adorn. She turns the familiar into the unexpected, which is precisely what greatwriters do. To employ her own expression, she's "a hot sketch, allright. "

She did not like the former occupant of my office. No; she told me thatshe "could not bear a hair of his head. " It seems that some altercationoccurred between them. And whatever it was she had to say, she declaresthat she "told it to him in black and white. " This gentleman, it seems, was "the very Old Boy. " Though my scrubwoman admits that she herself is"a sarcastic piece of goods. " By way of emphasis she invariably adds toher assertions, "Believe _me_!"

Her son--she has a son--has much trouble with his feet. His mother saysthat if he has gone to one "shoeopodist" he has gone to a dozen. Myscrubwoman tells me that she is "the only fair one" of her family. Herpeople, it appears, "are all olive. " My scrubwoman is a widow. She hastold me a number of times of the last days of her husband. It is atouching story. She realised that the end was near, and humoured him inhis idea of returning before it was too late to "the old country. " Oneday when he had asked her again if she had got the tickets, and thenturned his face to the wall to cough, she said to herself, "_Good_-night--shirt. "

But most of the discourse of my scrubwoman is cheerful. She is a valiantfigure, a brave being very fond of the society of her friends (of whom Ihold myself to be one), who works late at night, and talks continually. I know that if you would contrive to find favour with your scrubwoman youwould often be like that person told of by mine who "laughed until shethought his heart would break. "

The most brotherly car-conductors, naturally, are those with not overmuch business, those on lines in remote places. I remember the loss Isuffered not long ago on a suburban car, which results, I am sorry tosay, in your loss also. 

The bell signalling to stop rang, and a vivaciously got-up woman with anextremely broad-at-the-base, pear-shaped torse, arose and got herselfcarefully off the car. The conductor went forward to assist her. Whenhe returned aft he came inside the car and sat on the last seat with twoof us who were his passengers. The restlessness was in him which betraysthat a man will presently unbosom himself of something. This finallyculminated in his remarking, as if simply for something to say to befriendly, "You noticed that lady that just got off back there? Well, " hecontinued, leaning forward, having received a look intended to be notdiscouraging, "that's the mother of Cora Splitts, the littleactress;--that lady's the mother of Cora Splitts, the little actress. "

"Is that so!" exclaimed one who was his passenger, not wishing to denyhim the pleasure he expected of having excited astonishment. A carconductor leads a hard life, poor fellow, and one should not begrudge hima little pleasure like that. 

The conductor twisted away his face for an instant while he spattobacco-juice. Thus cleared for action, he returned to the subject ofhis thoughts. "That's the mother of Cora Splitts, " he repeated again. "She's at White Plains tonight, Cora is. Cora and me, " he said, as onethat says, "ah, me, what a world it is!"--"Cora and me was chums once. Yes, sir; we was chums and went to school together. " Some valuablereminiscences of the distinguished woman, dating back to days before theworld dreamed of what she would become, by one who played with her as achild, doubtless would have been told, but the conductor was interrupted;a great many people got off, some others got on the car just then, and hewent forward to collect fares from these, and the thread was broken. 

At my journey's end, I recollect, I went into a public-house. There wasa person there whose presence made a deep impression upon my memory. Afine stocky lad, with a great square jaw, heavy beery jowls, and ablue-black, bearded chin; in a blue striped collar. He put both handsfirmly on the bar-rail at a good distance apart; straightened his armstaut and his body at right angles with them, so that he resembled a hugecarpenter's square; then curled his back finely in, and said, with asignificant look at the man behind the bar, "Gimme one o' them shells. "A thin glass of beer was set before him; he relaxed, straightened up, anddrank off its contents. Then, apparently, feeling that he was observed, he looked very unconcernedly all about the room and appeared to be bored. He then examined very attentively a picture on the wall, and his neckseemed to be temporarily stiff. I can see him now, I am happy to say, asplain as print. 

One's mind is, indeed, a grand photograph album. How precious to one itwill be when one is old and may sit all day in a house by the sea and, soto say, turn the leaves. That is why one should be going about all thewhile in one's vigour with an alert and an open mind. 

Wives are picturesque characters, too. I mind me of my friend BillyHenderson's new wife. Billy Henderson's wife looks like a balloon. She's so fat that she has busted down the arches of her feet. In orderto "fight flesh" she walks a great deal. She walks a mile every day, andthen takes a car back home. Her father comes over from Philadelphia onceevery week to see her, because she is so homesick. For months after shewas married she just cried all the time, she was so homesick. She nevergoes to the movies. The movies make her cry. One time she saw at themovies a hospital scene. It horrified her for days. A friend of hers isabout to be married. But she has told her friend that she cannot go tothe wedding. Weddings always make her cry so. She just can't read thewar news; it is too terrible; it affects her so that she can't sleep abit. She hasn't read any of it at all, and, she says, she has no ideawho is winning the war. She takes some kind of capsules to reduce flesh, which cost six dollars for fifty. She has taken twenty-five. Theextension of the draft age being spoken of, she said to Billy:

"Dearie, I'll put you under the bed where they won't get you. " Shedoesn't want to vote, and she can't understand why any one should want togo to poles and vote and all that kind of thing. 

Billy Henderson's wife is handsome; she is rich; she is an excellentcook; she loves Billy Henderson. 

XIX

HUMOURS OP THE BOOK SHOP

The panorama before his view is the human mind. He panders to itsdivers follies, consults its varied wisdom. He stands umbrellaless inthe rain of all its idiosyncrasies. Why has he not lifted up hisvoice? He, the book clerk, that lives among countless volumes ofconfessions! Whose daily task is to wrestle hour by hour with a livingComedie Humaine! Has the constant spectacle of so many books beenastringent in its effect upon any latent creative impulse? Or has hebeen dumb in the colloquial sense, forsooth; a figure like Mr. Whistler's guard in the British Museum? Sundry "lettered booksellers"of England have, indeed, given us some reminiscences of bookselling andits humours. But they were the old boys. They belonged to an oldorder and reflected another day. "As physicians are called 'TheFaculty' and counsellors-at-law 'The Profession, '" writes Boswell, "thebooksellers of London are called 'The Trade. '" Let us look into thisTrade as it is to-day, we said. So for a space we played we were abook clerk. 

There are two, decidedly contradictory, popular conceptions of the manwhose business it is to sell books. One is the sentimental notion ofan old gentleman in a "stovepipe hat, " a dreamer and an idealist, whokeeps a second-hand stall. The most delightful pictures of him are inthe pages of Anatole France. He is a man of much erudition. And booksare his wife and family, food and drink. Then there is the other idea. "Why is it, " we report the remark of an important looking gentleman ina high hat, "that clerks in book stores never know anything aboutbooks?" (or anything else, was perhaps not far from his thought. ) Thisgentleman, it was readily perceived, had an idea that he had saidsomething rather good. But it was not new. This conception of thebook clerk is one of the world's seven jokes--brother to that of themother-in-law. The book clerk of this view is a familiar figure in thepages of humour, like the talkative barber or the comic Irishman of thevaudeville stage--a stock character. His illiteracy is classic; hisignorant sayings irresistable. He was sired by Charles Keene anddamned by Punch. Phil May was his godfather; and every industrioushumourist employs him periodically. These two ideas of the bookbusiness are perhaps reconciled by the popularly cherished sentimentthat book sellers are not what they were. Newspapers from time to timeprint feature articles about the days "When Book Sellers Knew Books. "If you ask a salesman in a modern book shop if he has "Praed, " you ofcourse expect him to reply, "I have, sir (or madam), but it doesn'tseem to do any good. "

Well, at the Zoo there is humour from the inside looking out, as wellas from the outside looking in. The book clerk is in the position toremark certain human phenomena patent to him beyond the view of anyother, most curious, perhaps, among them a pleasant hypocrisy. "Oh!"purls a sweet lady, pausing to glance for the space of a second at hersurroundings, "I think books are just fine!" "I love to be in a bookstore, " rattles a vivacious young woman. "Books have the greatestfascination for me, " says another. A young lady waiting for friendslooks out of the front door the entire time. Her friends expressregret at having kept her waiting. "Oh!" she exclaims, "I have been sohappy here"--glancing quickly around at the books--"I should just liketo be left here a couple of years. " There is a respectful pause by allfor an instant, each bringing into her face an expression of adorationfor the dear things of the mind. Then, chatting gaily, the partyhastens away. We turn to hear, "Oh, wouldn't you love to live in abook shop!"

What is it that all men say in a book shop? The great say it, even, and the far from great. Each in his turn looks solemnly at hiscompanion or at the salesman and says: "Of the making of books there isno end. " Then each in his turn lights into a smile. He has saidsomething pretty good. 

"There are persons esteemed on their reputation, " says the "Imitationof Christ, " "who by showing themselves destroy the opinion one had ofthem. " Though one might think it would be the other way, it isdifficult, indeed, to sell a book to a friend of the author. "Oh, Iknow the man who wrote that, " is the reply. "I wouldn't read a book ofhis. " You see, a great writer must be dead. A common error of bookbuyers is to confuse the words edition and copy. "Let me have a cleanedition of this, " is frequently asked. Once a lady asked for something"bound in gingham. " No one, it is our belief, ever sold a light bookto a Japanese. They are the book clerk's dread. Terribly intelligent, somewhat unintelligible in their handling of our language, they alwayswant something exceedingly difficult to find, something usually onmilitary or political science, harbour construction or the mostrecondite form of philosophy. 

Then there are the remarkable people who "keep up" with the flood offiction; who say, "Oh, I've read that, " in a tone which implies thatthey are not so far behind as that! "Have you no new novels?" theyinquire. Novels get "old, " one might suppose, like eggs, in a coupleof days. The quest of these seekers of books suggests the story of thelady at a public library who, upon being told that seven new novels hadcome in that morning, said, "Give me, please, the one that came inlast. " There are, too, those singular folks who appear regularly everyyear just before Christmas, buy a great quantity of books for presents, and disappear again until the next year just before the holiday season. What, we have wondered, do they do about books the rest of the time?Ministers are always very trying characters to book clerks. "Beware ofthe gallery, " says a fellow serf to us, "there's a minister browsingaround up there. " The official servants of the Lord fall, in the bookclerk's mind, into that class technically described by him as"stickers. " All gentlemen wearing high hats also belong to thisclassification. Deaf customers are embarrassing, for the reason thatone always addresses one's next customer as though he were deaf, too. Foreigners are invariably very polite to clerks. They bow when theyenter and take off their hats upon leaving. Very respectful people. "There, " said a fellow thrall, "come two old women in at the door. Now, if I were my ancestor, I'd dance around that table with a stoneclub and brain them. " As it is, they ask, "Have you Hopkinson Smith's'Gondola Days'?" He says, "I think so. " A lady, very rich andimportant looking, wants a book "without an unpleasant ending. " "Iwonder how this is" (looking at the last page). "No" (closing the bookwith a thump), "that won't do. " A gentleman orders two sets of thePrayer Book and Hymnal, to be marked upon the cover with his name, thewords Grace Church and his pew number. He informs us that every yearwhile he is away in the summer his set of these books is stolen. 

'Tis a merry life, the book clerk's, and a hard one. Customers: Twoyoungish women. "Can you wait on us?" They want to get something, donot know just what, for a present. "Oh, no!" they say, "we don't wantanything like so big a set as that. Something nicely bound. " A copyof "Cranford" is near by. "Oh, when I read it I didn't think it muchgood. " "Poetry?" "No, I don't think she is much interested in poetry. ""Do you suppose an art book?"------"No, she is not interested in art. ""Memoirs, then?" "No, she would not care for that. " "Why, I had noidea, " said one somewhat reprovingly to us, "that it would be as hardas this. "

A calling which requires the practitioner to turn easily from therecondite gentleman inquiring the author of "Religious Teachers ofAncient Greece" to consideration of the problem (no less recondite) ofa lady anxious to find something to entertain a child of five and ahalf inculcates some degree of mental agility. "I want, " said the veryfashionable lady, "to get a book for an old man--a" (with somepetulance) "very stupid old man. " "I want, " from a serious old lady, "to get a book for a young man studying for the ministry. " "I want, "exclaimed a very smart apparition, "a dashing book for a man!" "Whatis the best book on Russia?" "Do you know, now, if this is a goodstory?--there are so many poor books nowadays. " Says a large, uncommonly black lady, "I want 'Spears of Wheat, No. 3. '" (Discoveredto be a prayer book. ) "I want the latest book, please, on how to bringup a baby. " "I'd like to see what you have on 'physical research. '""Can you recommend a book for a young man with softening of the brain?Poor fellow, he's in Bloomingdale. " "Is there any discount toChristian workers?" "Do you know, " a demure person, an awful blanklook coming over her face, "what I want has gone quite out of my head. "There is an appealing look for help. "Something American, " in apatrician voice, "for the ladies to read going over on the boat. Thisis American, now, is it? New York society? Ah, very good! Have youanything about the Rocky Mountains, or that sort of thing?"

Now we see coming the man who has been directed in a letter from hiswife to get a certain book, about which he knows nothing, and the titleof which he can not decipher. Here is a person asking for "comfortbooks" for the sick. Here is Mrs. So-and-So, who tells us her husbandis very ill, unconscious; she has to sit up by him all night, and musthave something "very amusing" to divert her mind. Here is the angryman to whom by mistake was sent a book inscribed "to my good wife andtrue. " Heaven help the poor book clerk when the same good wife and truecomes in with her present of a naughty book with humorous remarkswritten in it!

Now, how do you like the job?

XX

THE DECEASED

I think it was William Hazlitt's brother who remarked that "no youngman thinks he will ever die. " Whoever it was he was a mysteriousperson who lives for us now in that one enduring observation. That ishis "literary remains, " his "complete works. " And many a man haswritten a good deal more and said a good deal less than that concerningthat "animal, man" (in Swift's phrase), who, as Sir Thomas Browneobserves, "begins to die when he begins to live. "

No young man, I should say, reads obituary notices. They are hardly"live news" to him. Most of us, I fancy, regard these "items" more orless as "dead matter" which papers for some reason or other are obligedto carry. But old people, I have noticed, those whose days arenumbered, whose autumnal friends are fast falling, as if leaf by leaffrom the creaking tree, those regularly turn to the obituary column, which, doubtless, is filled with what are "personals" for them. 

And yet, if all but knew it, there is not in the press any reading soimproving as the "obits" (to use the newspaper term), none of sosoftening and refining a nature, none so calculated to inspire one withthe Christian feelings of pity and charity, with the sentiment ofmalice toward none, to bring anon a smile of tender regard for one'sfellow mortals, to teach that man is an admirable creature, full ofcourage and faith withal, constantly striving for the light, interesting beyond measure, that his destiny is divinely inscrutable, that dust unto dust all men are brothers, and that he, man, is (in thewords of "Urn Burial") "a noble animal, splendid in ashes and pompousin the tomb. " I doubt very much indeed whether any one could readobituaries every day for a year and remain a bad man or woman. 

In many respects, the best obituaries are to be found in countrypapers. There, in country papers, none ever dies. It may be because, as it is said, the country is nearer to God than the town. But so itis that there, in country papers, in the fulness of time, or by thefell clutch of chance, one "enters into his final rest, " or "passesfrom his earth life, " or one "on Wed. Last peacefully accepted thesummons to Eternity, " or "on Thurs. " (it may be) "passed to his eternalreward. " "Died" is indeed a hard word. It has never found admittanceto hearts that love and esteem. Whitman (was it not?) when he heardthat Carlyle was dead went out in the night and looked up at the starsand said that he did not believe it. Even so, are not all who taketheir passing "highly esteemed" in country papers? In small places, doubtless, death wears for the community a more tragic mein than incities, where it is more frequent and where we knew not him that lieson his bier next door but one away. In the country places this man whois now no longer upright and quick was a neighbour to all. And theprovincial writer of obituaries follows a high authority, anotherrustic poet, deathless and known throughout the world, who sang of hisHoosier friend "he is not dead but just away. "

When one enters upon his last role in this world, which all fill intheir turn, he becomes in rural journals that personage knownthroughout the countryside as "the deceased. " It might be argued that, alas! the only thing you can do with one deceased is to bury him. Itmight be held that you cannot educate him. That he, the deceased, cannot enter upon the first steps of his career as a bookkeeper. Thathe cannot marry the daughter of the Governor of the State. Thatwhatever happened to him, whatever he accomplished, enjoyed, endured, in his pilgrimage through this world he experienced before he became, as it is said, deceased. That, in short, he is now dead. And that itshould be said of him, as we say in the Metropolitan press, as a youngman Mr. Doe did this and later that. But in places simpler, and somore eloquent, than the Metropolis the final fact of one's existencecolours all the former things of his career. In country obituaries allthat has been done was done by the deceased. In this association ofideas between the prime and the close of life is to be felt a sentimentwhich knits together each scene. This Mr. Some One did not merelyapprentice himself to a printer at fourteen (as city papers say it) andmarry at twenty-one. But he that is now deceased was once full of hopeand strength (at fourteen), and in the brave days of twenty-one did he, that is now struck down, plight his troth. So, doubtless, runs thethought in that intimate phrase so dear to country papers, "thedeceased. "

And there are no funerals in the country. That is a word, funeral, oftoo forbidding, ominous, a sound to be under the broad and open sky. There where the neighbours gather, all those who knew and loved thedeparted from a boy, the "last sad rites are read, " and the "mortuaryservices are performed. " Then from the fruitful valley where he dweltafter his fathers, and their fathers, he mounts again the old red hill, bird enchanted. 

He is not buried, though he rests in the warm clasp of the caressingearth. Buried has an inhuman sound, as though a man were a bone. Thedeceased is always "interred, " or he may be "laid to rest, " or his"interment takes place. "

Now, it is in these biographical annals of small places that one findsthe justest estimates of life. There folks are valued for what theyare as well as for what they do. Inner worth is held in regard equallywith the flash and glitter of what the great world calls success. Iwas reading just the other day of a late gentleman, "aged 61, " whoseprincipal concern appeared to be devotion to his family. His filialfeeling was indeed remarkable. It was told that "after the death ofhis parents, three years ago, he had resided with his sister. " Afterhis attachment to his own people, his chief interest, apparently, wasin the things of the mind, in literature. He had "never engaged inbusiness, " it was said, but he "was a great reader, " he could "talkintelligently on many topics which interested him, " and in the circleswhich he frequented he was admired, that is it was thought that he was"quite a bright man. " Who would not feel in this sympathetic record ofhis goodly span something of the charm of the modest nature of thisman? Again, there was the recent intelligence concerning WilliamJackson, "a coloured gentleman employed as a deck hand on a pleasurecraft in this harbour, " who "met his demise" in an untimely manner. Clothes do not make the man, nor doth occupation decree the bearing. This is a great and fundamental truth very clearly grasped by thecountry obituary, and much obscured elsewhere. 

On the other hand, positively nowhere else does the heart to dare andthe power to do find such generous recognition as in the obituaries ofcountry papers. The "prominence" of blacksmiths, general storekeepers, undertakers, notaries public, and other townspeople bright inlocal fame has been made a jest by urban persons of a humorousinclination, who take scorn of merit because it is not vast merit. Pleasing to contemplate in contrast to this waspish spirit is the noblenature of the country obituary, inspiration to humanism. Here was aman, to the seeing eye, of sterling stamp: "He attended public grammarschool where he profited by his opportunities in obtaining as good aneducation as possible, etc. " Later in life, be became "well andfavourably known for his conservative and sane business methods, " andwas esteemed by his associates, it is said, "fraternally andotherwise. " He was "mourned, " by those who "survived" him, as peopleare not mourned in cities, that is, frankly, in a manner undisguised. Country obituaries are not afraid to be themselves. In this is theirappeal to the human heart. 

They are the same in spirit, identical in turn of phrase, from Maine toCalifornia, from the Gulf to the Upper Provinces. That is one of theremarkable things about them. You might expect to come across, here orthere, a writer of country paper obituaries out of step, as it were, with his fellow mutes, so to put it, one raising his voice in aslightly off, or different key, a trace, in short, of the hand of somestudent of the modes of thought of the world beyond his bosky dell orrolling plain. But it is not so in any paper truly of the countryside. And, perhaps, that is well. 

A type of obituary which very likely is read rather generally in citiesis that of slow growth and released from the newspaper-office "morgue"as occasion calls. One such timely and capable biographical account iswaiting for each of us that is a Vice-President, King, lord of greatdominions, high commander of armed forces, intellectual immortal of anykind, recognised superman in this or that. Big Chief anywhere, orbeloved popular idol, nicely proportioned according to our space value. Of course, if we are a very great Mogul indeed we get a display head onthe first page upon the dramatic occasion of our exit. But, generallyspeaking, this type of matter would run somewhere between the seventhand the thirteenth or fifteenth page, according to the number of pagesof the issue of the paper coinciding with the date of the ending of ourday's work. There, if we are pretty important, we should lead thecolumn, and take a two-line head, with a pendant "comb. " This, altogether, would announce to the passing eye that we went out (as thepoet, Edwin Arlington Robinson, puts it) in such or such a year of ourage, that pneumonia, or what not, "took" us, that we were a member ofone of the city's oldest families, that a family breach was healed atthe death of our sister, or the general points of whatever it is thatmakes us interesting to the paper's circulation. We are likely to havea date line and a brief despatch from Rome, or Savannah, or wherever wehappen to be when we shuffle off, stating that we have done so. Thisto be followed by a "shirt-tail dash. " Then begins a beautifullydispassionate and highly dignified recital of the salient factsconnected with our career, which may run to a couple of sticks, or, even, did our activities command it, turn the column. 

Or, suppose for the sake of our discussion that your achievements havenot been quite of the first rank. You get a one-line head, a sub-head, and a couple of paragraphs. Somebody has exclaimed concerning how muchlife it takes to make a little art. Just so. How much life it takesto make a very little obituary in the great city! Early and late, dayin and day out, week in and week out, month in and month out, in thesun's hot eye of summer, through the winter's blizzard, year after yearfor thirty-six years you have been a busy practising physician. Youhave lived in the thick of births and life and death for thousands ofhours. What you know, and have lived and have seen would fill rows ofvolumes. You are a distinguished member of many learned societies, widely known as an educator. You are good for about a hundred andfifty words. 

Perhaps not. Perhaps you were a person of rather minor importance. You are, that is, you were, we will say, an astronomer, or you were amineralogist, or a former Alderman, or something like that. So youcall for a paragraph, with a head. Your virtues (and your vices) havebeen many. You were three times married. As Mr. Bennett says ofanother of like momentous history, the love of life was in you, threetimes you rose triumphant over death. Goodness! what a novel you wouldmake. You call for a paragraph, with a head. All your clubs are given. 

You are doing pretty well. Many of us, just somebodies but nobodies inespecial particular, do not have a separate head at all but go in agroup into the feature "Obituary Notes. " Our names are set in "caps, "and we have a brisk paragraph apiece, admirable pieces of composition, pellucid, compact, nervous. Our stories are contained in thesedry-point-like portraits stript of all that was occasional, accidental, ephemeral, leaving alone the essential facts, such as, for instance, that we were, say, a civil engineer. I think it would be well for eachof us occasionally to visualise his obituary "note. " This should havethe effect of clarifying our outlook. Amid the welter of existencewhat is it that we are above all to do? To thine own self be true. You are a husband, a father, and a civil engineer. That is all thatmatters in the end. 

But after all, all obituaries in a great city are for the elect. Thegreat majority of us have none at all, in print. What we were is, indeed, graven on the hearts that knew us, and told in the places wherewe have been. But in the written word we go into the feature headed"Died, " a department similar in design to that on the literary pageheaded "Books Received. " We are arranged alphabetically according tothe first letter of our surnames. We are set in small type with linesfollowing the name line indented. It is difficult for me to tell withcertainty from the printed page but I think we are set without leads. Here again, frequently, the reader comes upon the breath of affection, the hand of some one near to the one that is gone: "Beloved husband of------. " And he is touched by the realisation that even in the rushingcity, somewhere unseen amid the hard glitter and the gay scene, to-daywarm hearts are torn, and that simple grief throbs in and makesperennially poignant a bromidian phrase. 

As this column lengthens the paragraphs shorten, until is reached whatseems to me the most moving obituary of all, that most eloquent of thedestiny of men. "ROE. ------ Richard. 1272 West 96th St. , Dec. 30, aged 54. " It is like to the most moving line, perhaps, in modernliterature. For nowhere else, I think, is there one of such simplicityand grandeur as this from "The Old Wives' Tale": "He had once beenyoung, and he had grown old, and was now dead. "

XXI

A TOWN CONSTITUTIONAL

There is certainly no more grotesque fallacy than that humorouslybigoted notion so generally entertained, particularly by our friends ofother nations (at any rate, before the war), that the only thing in theworld for which we as a people care is success as measured by money. Awalk about any day will give this ridiculous idea a black eye. Any onewith ears to his head will perceive that we scorn things which are tobe had for money. Money! What is that? Phew! Everybody has it. Itis mine, it is yours, it is nothing--trash. Any one with a brain-panunder his hat will recognise inside of half an hour that we areanything but a nation of shopkeepers spiritually. It is as plain as apike-staff that we are a nation of perfectly rabid idealists. It issounded on every side that the things which we most fervently prize, inordinately covet, envy possession of, and hold most proudly, areprecisely those things which the wealth of the Indies would notprocure. To wit:

Jimmy was a waiter, humble, but celebrated--as a waiter--among acircle. An admirer of Jimmy's, a journalist continually on the lookoutfor copy, wrote him up for the paper at space rates. Thence till theday Broadway suffered his loss by untimely death did Jimmy fold andunfold his worn clipping to exhibit with a full heart this tribute tohim which was of a kind (as he never failed to say) which "money couldnot buy. " It is reported upon reasonably reliable authority thatJimmy's last words, in a faint whisper, were: "Money could not havebought------" And then he went on his way. 

So it was, too, with a tobacconist whom I knew--who had an articleframed which referred to his shop. "In such a paper, too!" heexclaimed a hundred times a day, "money could not have bought it. "

Your aunt has a lot of old spavined furniture which would bring abouttu'pence at public sale. Some of it was your great-aunt's. All of ithas been in the family from time immemorial; and its peculiar andconsiderable value, your aunt and her neighbours are agreed, resides inthe esoteric fact that it is the kind of thing which "money couldn'tbuy. "

Health is a great blessing, and, we are repeatedly told, we shouldprize it beyond measure, --as it is a thing that money will not buy. 

His money, it is commonly said of a rich man in bereavement, will notbring his son back to life. The impotency of money in the life of thespirit is notorious among us. Of a deceased miser we declare withsatisfaction: "Well, he can't take his money with him. " And money--therighteous well know--will get none into heaven. 

What is the moving theme that holds the multitude at the movie theatrebound in a spell? What is it that answers deep unto deep between theliterature vended at drug stores and the people?--Concern for moneyoverthrown by idealism! The triumph of ethereal love over the basetemptation of lucre! Is it not so: the rich wooer in the top hat andthe elegant Easter-parade coat is turned away, and the poor lover withhis flannel shirt open at the collar and a dinner-pail hung upon hisarm is chosen for bluebird happiness--and the heart of the malignedmasses is satisfied. 

Money (the conviction has passed into an industrious bromideum) willnot buy happiness. 

I knew a man who had a wife; and he was told by sage counsellors thatif he would treat her right she would give him "what money could notbuy. "

But what need is there to multiply examples? Take a turn around theblock and return with the wisdom that money can not buy. Come; getyour stick and let us go. 

A beneficent Providence, sir, has caused it to be that the finest showsin this world are free of all men. Nature charges no admission fee. The dawn and the evening are gratis. In the matter of art, theperformances of the little men of the passing hour are to be seen inBond Street, on the Avenue, and at the academies and societies, for aprice; but those treasure houses of the enduring masterpieces, thegreat museums of the world, demand naught from him that hath nothing. A collector of customs sitteth at the golden door of the movies; butthe far more delightful and far more human shows shown in the showwindows are quite free for all to see. And to those blessed ones whoseeyes have not lost their innocence and whose hearts remain sweet andsimple the costly spectacles of the world are but tawdry vanity ascompared with the feasts of entertainment enacted daily in show windows. 

One of the very best theatres in this country for entertainments ofthis nature is lower Sixth Avenue, though the Bowery is not to beoverlooked, and the passionate lover of pleasure should not neglect anybusiness thoroughfare which presents a particularly shabby appearance. The actors and actresses in these fascinating histrionic presentationsare not called comedians and tragedians, comediennes andtragediennes--but "demonstrators. " The effect of their performancesthus is twofold: they gratify the spectator's sense of the humorous orthe curious, and they demonstrate to his intelligence the value ofsomething with whose merits possibly he is not acquainted. 

There are not many things in life, I think, which you find pleasanterthan this: You are slightly obstructed in your perambulations on a fineafternoon by a small knot of loiterers pausing before a shop window inwhich an active young man of admirably mobile countenance is holdingforth in dumb show. Your progress is slackened as you edge about thethrong with the intention of proceeding on your way. As it were, youpoise on the wing. Then, like a warming liquor stealing through theveins, the awakening of your interest in the artful antics of thisyoung man makes fainter and fainter your will to proceed on yourcourse, until it dies softly away. What is this ridiculous thing he isdoing? By its magnetism it has, at any rate, become for you thesupreme interest, for the moment, of the universe. 

With a horrible grimace the young man yanks fiercely at his cravat. Itdoes not budge, or at least only very slightly. With still furtherdisplay of energetic effort, accompanied by a ferocious expression ofpained and enraged exasperation, he yanks again. No, the cravat isstuck fast behind within the collar. With a gesture of hopelessdespair and a face of pitiful woe the young man abandons his strugglewith the ordinary kind of cravat which loops around the neck, andwhich, foolishly enough, is so universally worn. You see, so hiseloquent flinging out of the hands saith, it is of no use. He shakeshis fist. Then, registering the extremity of disgust, he rips theloathesome, cravat-clogged collar from his neck and flings it from him. 

What will he do now? is the thought that holds his audience bound in aspell. Ah! His face breaks into light. He snatches up his collar andindustriously adjusts it without a cravat. He picks up a small objectwhich he holds aloft between thumb and forefinger, turning it this wayand that. It is the ready-made bow of a bow tie, the bow and nothingmore. Yes, there are patent prongs to it, which he deftly slipsbeneath the wings of his collar. So! No trouble whatever. Instantaneous. A smile of luxurious blandness spreads over the face ofthe young man. Thus he stands for a moment. Then stoops and places ina corner of the window a large card inscribed "Ten Cents. " With apleasing sense of curiosity satisfied, the current of your own life asdistinct from show-window shows flows back again into yourconsciousness. You turn, and the great movement of the city takes you, although some souls of spacious leisure and of apparently insatiablecuriosity linger on to drink in the happiness of witnessing arepetition of the fascinating exhibition. 

Of such shows is the freedom of the kingdom of heaven. There is theother young man in a show window a bit further on who all day longgashes blocks of wood with a magic razor, only to sharpen it to greaterkeenness, so that before you he continually cuts with it the finesthairs. There is the young woman garbed as a nurse who treats the cornson a gigantic plaster foot. In show windows cooks are cookingappetising dishes; damsels are combing magnificent, patent-medicinegrown tresses; and in show windows are spectacles of infinite varietyand without number. All for the delight without cost of a penny ofthose whose hearts are as a little child. There is the trim maid whofolds and unfolds a Davenport couch. I had a friend one time of aroving disposition (alas! he is now in jail) who once got the amazinglyenviable job of doing nothing but smoke an endless succession of cigarsin a show window. 

Brother (as Lavengro used to say), there is nothing high about the costof pleasure. But hold! would you, without a thought, pass by here?Though this, yon show, is without its rapt throng to do it reverence, it is, to an ardent mind, the most enticing, and the most instructive, of all the classic exhibitions to be seen from the pavement, the onefullest of all of (in the words of one Quinney) "meat and gravy. "Always tarry, fellow man, before the cheap photographer's. 

Any one who has ever been enough interested in human matters to examinethe sidewalk exhibitions of the cheap photographer does not need to betold that the fine old star character there, a character somewhatanalogous in popular appeal and his permanency as an institution to theheavy villain of melodrama, a character old as the hills, yet fresh asthe morning, is the naked baby. Nobody ever saw a cheap photographer'sdisplay without its naked baby. Just why he should be naked is notclear. However, there is undoubtedly inherent in the mind of the racethis instinct, --that you should begin your photographic life naked. Perhaps this is in response to a sentiment for symbol: naked came yeinto the world. Perhaps it is because your face at the time of yourinitial photograph is as yet so uncarved by time that it is deemed moreinteresting to display the whole of you, clothed, as it were, ininnocence. The art of painting, of course, from the earliest renderingof the Child of the Virgin down to Mary Cassatt, has been fond ofportraying infants nude, --the photographer may be said only to continuea very old tradition. But painting has always observed the baby withceremonious respect; painting stripped him to admire him and softlycaress him. The broad humanity of the cheap photographer "jokes" him, as you may say. 

The most popular way of presenting the baby at the cheapphotographer's, --seated, standing, on his back, or on his belly; starknaked, or (as sometimes he is found) girded about the loins, or (as, again, he is seen) less naked and wearing an abbreviated shirt, and invarious other stages of habilimentation, --is on a whitish hairy rug. No background but the hairy rug. It is background (very largely), onesuspects, that gives one the sense of a baby's value. The idea occursto a thoughtful observer of his photograph that it is to a considerabledegree from background, surrounding atmosphere, local colour, that thebaby derives personal identity. Twenty cabinet-sized naked babies, each on a hairy rug:--one conceives how an unscrupulous photographer(as may very likely commonly be the case) might save money onnegatives, after he had a stock of a little variety, by snapping babieswith an unloaded camera and printing from old plates, without anybody'sbeing the wiser. (Here, indeed, would be a utilitarian motive behindthe baby's being naked of articles of identification. ) It is, alas!undermining to the pride of race to reflect that that photograph ofone's cousin's fine new baby Edward, which reminded every one so muchof the infant's mother, may not impossibly have been the originallikeness of some baby now long extinct. 

History, so called, deals exclusively with persons of distinction;fiction, though more catholic, sees man in a glamour, with the variousprejudices this way and that of a mortal eye. The development of thediscovery announced by Daguerre in 1839, and first applied to portraitsby one Draper, --this is the great historian. The photograph business, sir, alone sees life steadily and sees it whole. Photography is thesupreme sociologist, master psychologist. In the sidewalk display ofthe cheap photographer is the poor, naked, human story, --poignantlytouching, chastening of pride, opening the heart of the responsivebeholder to deeper knowledge of the inherent kinship of all humankind. 

How does the consummate realism of the cheap photographer show itsbabies of yester-year, clothed now in the raiment of mature years andsimple honours?

That appealing spectacle, the girl who has performed somewhere incuriously home-made-looking "tights, " and, laughing roguishly at thecamera, been photographed afterward (from this sight what roue wouldnot turn away his sinful eyes in shame and pity?). The highlysatisfied young man in the very rented-appearing evening clothes(photographed, it is apparent, in the day time). The blank-lookingperson who for some cryptic reason is enamoured of the studious, literary pose, and appears, in effect like a frontispiece portrait, glancing up from a writing table (an obviously artificial cigar betweenthe fingers of one hand, apparently made of carbon, and, presumably, the property of the photographer). The aspiring amateur boxer, inposition, with his sparing trunks on and an American flag around hiswaist (or sometimes, in default of trunks, he is seen in his netherundergarment). The jolly girl in boy's clothes (who has not seenher?). The little child in costume performing a cute dance. Thecoloured beau, a heavy swell, in spats and a van Bibber overcoat. Thegay banqueters of the So-and-So Association, around their festive board(one man, devilish fellow! holding aloft a beer bottle). The younggirl in confirmation attire, standing awkwardly by a table (her slip ofa mind, as she stands there, very probably less upon her God than uponher common, foolish dress). The team of amateur comedians (sadspectacle!). The bride and groom (perennial as the naked baby)standing, curiously enough, upon our old friend, the hairy rug. Thefamily group (all the figures of which have a curious wax-work effect, reminiscent of the late Eden Musee). The policeman, in uniform(sitting in a chair of cathedral architecture). The fireman (a hero, perhaps, --though no man is a hero, merely amazingly human, to the cheapphotographer's camera). The youthful swains posed beside thatindestructible stage property of the popular photographer, theartificial tree stump. The immortal woman vain of that part of herwhich Mr. Mantalini referred to as "outline, " and careful to keep hernear arm from obstructing the spectator's view (sometimes she isclothed; sometimes simply wound in a sheet; sometimes, in either case, she is like the Dowager whose outline Mr. Mantalini described as"dem'd"). All these--and many others--are the traditions of the cheapphotography. 

Nobody, apparently, is so unattractive, nobody so poor, nobody wearssuch queer clothes, nobody is so old, or faded, or fat, or "skinny, " orshort, or tall, or black, or bow-legged, or so anything at all, that heor she won't pose for a photograph. So that it may reasonably be said, that to have lost the instinct to have one's "picture taken" is to havelost the love of life. Nobody, no doubt, but is interesting tosomebody. And, as Stevenson has said, can any one be regarded asuseless so long as he has a friend?

And when--brother--at length, one has withdrawn forevermore from thetawdry stage of the cheap photographer's, a last view is taken of one, as it were, in the grave. Side by side at the cheap photographer'swith the naked baby and with the bride and groom--is the "floralemblem. "

XXII

READING AFTER THIRTY

Somewhere in the mass of that splendid, highly personal journalism ofhis, William Hazlitt declares that he was never able to read a bookthrough after thirty. That penetrating man, Samuel Butler, reflectingin his "Note-Books" on "What Audience to Write For, " says: "Peoplebetween the ages of twenty and thirty read a good deal, after thirtytheir reading drops off and by forty is confined to each person'sspecial subject, newspapers and magazines. " Thirty again, you see. 

We all have friends who have been omniverous readers, persons who, toour admiration and despair, seem to have read everything in"literature. " It may have struck us, however, as a curious thing that, except possibly in rare instances, such persons appear not to read muchnow, beyond newspapers and magazines. The upshot of what they are ableto say, when you ask them why this is true, is that one simply reachesa time of life when one "quits reading, " as one ceases to dance, orcools in interest toward the latest fashions in overcoats. 

But, undoubtedly there are persons who continue to read, apparentlywith unabated industry and zest, no matter how old they may become. Dr. Johnson, of course, was a constant reader all his life, and wouldcheerfully read anything whether it was readable or not. Though didnot he somewhere confess to himself that he did not read thingsthrough? Mr. Huneker, who is well on the richer side of thirty, wouldseem to read everything printed about five minutes after it has leftthe press, and before anybody else has had a chance to see it. Thereare so many capital letters on the pages of his own books that it makesone dizzy to look at them. Whether or not he reads through all thebooks he mentions is of course (as he is a reviewer) a question. And, then, both Mr. Huneker and the Doctor belong to the trade, so to say. Another startlingly prodigious reader is Theodore Roosevelt, hilariously past thirty, and not exclusively identified with literary"shop. " He is continually discovering and vigorously recommending newpoets and short-story writers whom professional critics have not yethad time to get around to. It does not appear that a fundamental ororganic change in the composition of the human brain which inhibitsreading occurs more or less suddenly at thirty. 

Why then do so many reading animals cease at about that time to read?Butler does not say. Arnold Bennett (was it not?) has asked what's theuse of his reading more, he knows enough. Hazlitt, in his own case, surmised that the keener interest of writing rather asphyxiated theimpulse to read. And, doubtless, that generally is about the size ofit. As in the cure of the drink habit, a new and more intense interestwill drive out the old. The reader, of course, is a spectator, not anactive participant in the world's doings. After thirty, desirablecitizens of ordinary energy have little opportunity for the role ofnoncombatant, and the taste of action and of success, like the taste ofwar, makes them impatient with quieter things. Failures read more thansuccessful men. Bachelors no doubt read much more than husbands. Andfathers seldom are great readers. This last fact may explain theobservation that even college professors do not read fanatically. Whenthey are "off" awhile they "play with" their children (children aregreat enemies everywhere to reading), who are much more real to themthan study. 

In one of his later books George Moore chronicles his resolve tocultivate the habit of reading, to learn to read again. And he sucksmuch naive pleasure from the contemplation of this prospectiveenterprise; but he finds it very difficult to persevere in it, anddrifts away instead into reveries of what he has read. There is athought here, however, to be hearkened to: the idea of learning to readagain. 

What is it that happens to one in consequence of his ceasing to read?He suffers a hardening of the intellectual arteries. There are quaintold codgers one knows here and there who declare that in fiction therehas "been nothing since Dickens. " They are delightful, of course; butone would rather see than be one. We all know many persons whoseintellectual clock stopped some time ago, and there are people whoseminds apparently froze at about the time when they should have begun toripen, and which are like blocks of ice with a fish (or a volume ofHuxley) inside. Nothing now can get in. 

At those times of earnest introspection, when one would "swear off"this or that, would reduce one's smoking, would adopt the principle of"do it now, " and so on--at those times an excellent New Year'sresolution, or birthday resolution, or first day of the monthresolution, would be to re-learn to read, to keep, as Dr. Johnson saidof his friendships, one's reading continually "in good repair. "

EPILOGUE

ON WEARING A HAT

There is a good deal to be said about wearing a hat. And yet thishumorous custom, this rich topic, of wearing a hat has been sadlyneglected, as far as I can make out, by scholars, scientists, poets, composers, and other "smart" people. 

Man has been variously defined, as the religious animal, and so on; butalso, to the best of my knowledge and belief, he is the only animalthat wears a hat. He has become so accustomed to the habit of wearinghis hat that he does not feel that he is himself out of doors withoutit. Mr. Howells (I think it was) has told us in one of his novels of ayoung man who had determined upon suicide. With this intent he made amad dash for the sea. But on his way there a sudden gust of wind blewoff his hat; instinctively he turned to recover it, and this actionbroke the current of his ideas. With his hat he recovered his reason, and went home as alive as usual. His hat has come to mean for man muchmore than a protection for his head. It is for him a symbol of hismanhood. You cannot more greatly insult a man than by knocking off hishat. As a sign of his reverence, his esteem, his respect, a man bareshis head. Though, indeed, the contentious Mr. Chesterton somewhereargues that there is no more reason for a man's removing his hat in thepresence of ladies than for his taking off his coat and waistcoat. 

In the more complex social organisms of Europe the custom of liftingthe hat to other men whom one thus acknowledges as superiors is muchmore prevalent than in our democratic country. Though in America weremove our hats in elevators upon the entrance of ladies, a practicewhich is not followed in England. It was Mrs. Nickleby who indicatedthe extreme politeness of the noble gentlemen who showed her to hercarriage by the celebrated remark that they took their hats "completelyoff. " We express great joy by casting our hats into the air. If Iwish to show my contempt for you I will wear my hat in your house; if Iwish you to clear out of my house I say: "Here's your hat"; if I ammoved to admiration for you I say: "I take off my hat to you. " Igreatly enjoy seeing you run after your hat in the street, because youare thereby made excessively ridiculous. The comic Irishman of thevaudeville stage makes his character unmistakable to all by carryinghis clay pipe in his hat band. The English painter, ThomasGainsborough, gave his name to a hat. The seasoned newspaper mandisplays his cynical nature and complete disillusionment by wearing hishat at his desk. A hat worn tilted well back on the head indicates anopen nature and a hail-fellow-well-met disposition; while a hatdecidedly tilted over one eye is the sign of a hard character, and onenot to be trifled with. In the literature of alcoholism it is writtenthat a common hallucination of the inebriate is that a voice criesafter him: "Where did you get that white hat?" Upon assuming officethe cardinal is said to "take the hat. " When a man is conspicuouslyactive in American political life "his hat is in the ring. " Whistlertopped off his press-agent eccentricity with a funny hat. The mostidiosyncratic hat at present in America is that which decorates thepeak of Mr. Bliss Carman. The hat-stands in our swagger hotels make agreat deal of money; I know a gentleman who affirmed that a hat whichhad originally cost him three dollars had cost him eighteen dollars tobe got back from hat-checking stands. Cheap people evade the hat-boy. 

When the present enthusiast for the splendid subject of hats was asmall boy it was the ambition of every small boy of his acquaintance tobe regarded as of sufficient age to possess what we termed a "dicehat, " what is commonly called a "derby, " what in England they call a"darby, " what Dickens aptly referred to as a "pot-hat, " what, in onehighly diverting form, is sometimes referred to on the other side as a"billycock. " That singular structure for the human head, the derbyhat, one time well-nigh universally worn, has now gone somewhat out offashion and been superseded by the soft hat of smart design, thoughthere are indications, I fear, that the derby is coming in again. Whenwe were young the soft hat was most commonly worn by veterans of theCivil War, in a pattern called a "slouch hat" or "Grand Army hat. "Though, indeed, such romantic beings as cowboys in popular ten centliterature and the late Buffalo Bill wore sombreros, and thepicturesque Mexican a high peaked affair. 

Our grandfathers wore "stove-pipe hats"; and the hats of politicianswere one time frequently called "plug hats. " This male head-dress evenmore extraordinary than the derby, books of etiquette sometimes say youshould not call a "silk hat" but a "high hat. " In London but a fewyears ago no man ever went into the City with other than a top-hat, or"topper" as they say there. It is said that the going out of generalfavour of the silk hat has been occasioned in a considerable degree bythe popularity of raincoats in preference to umbrellas. If you observeany great crowd in England to-day you will find in it few hats of anykind; it is in the main a sea of caps. The American "dude" and theanti-bellum British "knut" always wore silk hats. Gentlemen at theBritish race courses and fine old clubmen of Pall Mall affect a whiteor grey top hat, of the sort which was so becoming an ornament to thelate King Edward. The opera hat is said to have startled many personswho had not seen it before. Intoxicated gentlemen in funny pictureshave always smashed their silk hats. Some men have worn a silk hatonly on the occasion of their marriage. High hats are worn by smallboys in England. The most useful occupation to-day is that whichenvolves the wearing of a "tin hat. "

The day in the autumn fixed by popular mandate when the straw hat is tobe discarded for the season is hilariously celebrated in Wall Street bythe destruction by the affronted populace of the straw hats of thosewho have had the temerity or the thoughtlessness to wear them. Coloured men in livery stables, however, sometimes wear straw hats theyear round. To the habit generally of wearing a hat baldness isattributed by some. And the luxuriant hair of Indians and of thecave-man is pointed to as illustrating the beneficent result of notwearing a hat. And now and then somebody turns up with the idea in hishead that he doesn't need a hat on it. There is a white garbedgentleman of Grecian mould who parades Broadway every day without a hat. 

It is indisputable that the hats women wear to-day are more beautifulthan they have been for generations, perhaps centuries. Yet this facthas met with little expression of appreciation. This presentexcellence is because women's hats now are the product of intellectualdesign. In the '80's the idea was entertained that decoration of awoman's hat was increased by attaching to it something in the way ofbeads or feathers wherever there was a space free. A fashionablewoman's hat to-day may be as simple and, in its way, as effective asart as a Whistler symphony; a single splotch of colour, it may be, acting as a foil against a rich mass. Or the hat is a replica, as itwere, of the celebrated design of a period in history. But the eruditesubject of women's hats should not be touched upon without a salute tothat racy model which crowns the far-famed 'Arriet, whose Bank-holidayattire was so delightedly caressed by the pencil of the late Phil May. None could forget his tenderly human drawing of the lady with thebedraggled feather over one eye who has just been ejected by thebar-man, and who turns to him to say: "Well, the next time I goes intoa public house, I goes where I'm _respected_!"

A hat is distinguished from a cap or bonnet by the possession of abrim. The modern hat can be traced back to the _petasus_ worn by theancient Romans when on a journey; and hats were also thus used by theearlier Greeks. Not until after the Norman conquest did the use ofhats begin in England. A "hatte of biever" was worn by one of the"nobels of the lande, mett at Clarendom" about the middle of the 12thcentury; and Froissart describes hats that were worn at Edward's courtin 1340, when the Garter order was instituted. The use of the scarlethat which distinguishes cardinals was sanctioned in the 13th century byPope Innocent IV. The merchant in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales had

 "On his head a Flaundrish bever hat";

and from this period onwards frequent mention is made of "felt hattes, ""beever hattes, " and other like names. Throughout mediaeval times thewearing of a hat was regarded as a mark of rank and distinction. During the reign of Elizabeth the caprices of fashion in hats were manyand various. 

The Puritans affected a steeple crown and broad brimmed hat, while theCavaliers adopted a lower crown and a broader brim ornamented withfeathers. In the time of Charles II. Still greater breadth of brim anda profusion of feathers were fashionable features of hats, and thegradual expansion of brim led to the device of looping or tying up thatportion. Hence arose various fashionable "cocks" in hats; andultimately, by the looping up equally of three sides of the low-crownedhat, the cocked hat which prevailed throughout the 18th century waselaborated. The Quaker hat, plain, low in crown, and broad in brim, originated with the sect in the middle of the 17th century. The silkhat is an article of recent introduction. Though it was known inFlorence about a century ago, its manufacture was not introduced intoFrance till about 1825, and its development has taken place entirelysince that period. In all kinds of hat-making the French excel; in theUnited Kingdom the felt hat trade is principally centred in theneighbourhood of Manchester; and in the United States the States of NewYork and New Jersey enjoy the greater part of the industry. 

So much for hats.