THE DELICIOUS VICE

Pipe Dreams and Fond Adventures of an Habitual Novel-Reader Among SomeGreat Books and Their People

By Young E. Allison

_Second Edition_

(Revised and containing new material)

CHICAGO THE PRAIRIELAND PUBLISHING CO. 1918 Printed originally in theLouisville Courier-Journal. Reprinted by courtesy. 

First edition, Cleveland, Burrows Bros. , 1907. 

Copyright 1907-1918

I. 

A RHAPSODY ON THE NOBLE PROFESSION OF NOVEL READING

It must have been at about the good-bye age of forty that Thomas Moore, that choleric and pompous yet genial little Irish gentleman, turned asigh into good marketable "copy" for Grub Street and with shrewd economygot two full pecuniary bites out of one melancholy apple of reflection:

 "Kind friends around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, "

 --he sang of his own dead heart in the stilly night. 

 "Thus kindly I scatter thy leaves on the bed Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead. "

--he sang to the dying rose. In the red month of October the rose isforty years old, as roses go. How small the world has grown to a man offorty, if he has put his eyes, his ears and his brain to the uses forwhich they are adapted. And as for time--why, it is no longer than akite string. At about the age of forty everything that can happen to aman, death excepted, has happened; happiness has gone to the devil or isa mere habit; the blessing of poverty has been permanently secured oryou are exhausted with the cares of wealth; you can see around thecorner or you do not care to see around it; in a word--that is, considering mental existence--the bell has rung on you and you are upagainst a steady grind for the remainder of your life. It is then therecomes to the habitual novel reader the inevitable day when, in anguishof heart, looking back over his life, he--wishes he hadn't; then he askshimself the bitter question if there are not things he has done that hewishes he hadn't. Melancholy marks him for its own. He sits in his roomsome winter evening, the lamp swarming shadowy seductions, the grateglowing with siren invitation, the cigar box within easy reach for thatmoment when the pending sacrifice between his teeth shall be burned out;his feet upon the familiar corner of the mantel at that automaticallycalculated altitude which permits the weight of the upper part of thebody to fall exactly upon the second joint from the lower end of thevertebral column as it rests in the comfortable depression created bycontinuous wear in the cushion of that particular chair to which everyhonest man who has acquired the library vice sooner or later getsattached with a love no misfortune can destroy. As he sits thus, havingclosed the lids of, say, some old favorite of his youth, he willinevitably ask himself if it would not have been better for him if hehadn't. And the question once asked must be answered; and it will be anhonest answer, too. For no scoundrel was ever addicted to the deliciousvice of novel-reading. It is too tame for him. "There is no money init. "

 * * * * *

And every habitual novel-reader will answer that question he has askedhimself, after a sigh. A sigh that will echo from the tropic desertedisland of Juan Fernandez to that utmost ice-bound point of Siberia whereby chance or destiny the seven nails in the sole of a certain mysteriousperson's shoe, in the month of October, 1831, formed a cross--thus:

 * * * * * * *

while on the American promontory opposite, "a young and handsome womanreplied to the man's despairing gesture by silently pointing to heaven. "The Wandering Jew may be gone, but the theater of that appallingprologue still exists unchanged. That sigh will penetrate the gloomycell of the Abbe Faria, the frightful dungeons of the Inquisition, thegilded halls of Vanity Fair, the deep forests of Brahmin and fakir, thejousting list, the audience halls and the petits cabinets of kings ofFrance, sound over the trackless and storm-beaten ocean--will echo, inshort, wherever warm blood has jumped in the veins of honest men andwherever vice has sooner or later been stretched groveling in the dustat the feet of triumphant virtue. 

And so, sighing to the uttermost ends of the earth, the old novel-readerwill confess that he wishes he hadn't. Had not read all those novelsthat troop through his memory. Because, if he hadn't--and it is theimpossibility of the alternative that chills his soul with the despairof cruel realization--if he hadn't, you see, he could begin at the veryfirst, right then and there, and read the whole blessed business throughfor the first time. For the FIRST TIME, mark you! Is there anywhere inthis great round world a novel reader of true genius who would not dothat with the joy of a child and the thankfulness of a sage?

Such a dream would be the foundation of the story of a really noble Dr. Faustus. How contemptible is the man who, having staked his life freelyupon a career, whines at the close and begs for another chance; justone more--and a different career! It is no more than Mr. Jack Hamlin, afriend from Calaveras County, California, would call "the baby act, "or his compeer, Mr. John Oakhurst, would denominate "a squeal. " Howglorious, on the other hand, is the man who has spent his life in hisown way, and, at its eventide, waves his hand to the sinking sun andcries out: "Goodbye; but if I could do so, I should be glad to go overit all again with you--just as it was!" If honesty is rated in heavenas we have been taught to believe, depend upon it the novel-readerwho sighs to eat the apple he has just devoured, will have no troublehereafter. 

What a great flutter was created a few years ago when a blindmulti-millionaire of New York offered to pay a million dollars in cashto any scientist, savant or surgeon in the world who would restore hissight. Of course he would! It was no price at all to offer for theservice--considering the millions remaining. It was no more to him thanit would be to me to offer ten dollars for a peep at Paradise. Poor as Iam I will give any man in the world one hundred dollars in cash who willenable me to remove every trace of memory of M. Alexandre Dumas' "ThreeGuardsmen, " so that I may open that glorious book with the virgincapacity of youth to enjoy its full delight. More; I will duplicate thesame offer for any one or all of the following:

"Les Miserables, " of M. Hugo. 

"Don Quixote, " of Senor Cervantes. 

"Vanity Fair, " of Mr. Thackeray. 

"David Copperfield, " of Mr. Dickens. 

"The Cloister and the Hearth, " of Mr. Reade. 

And if my good friend, Isaac of York, is lending money at the oldstand and will take pianos, pictures, furniture, dress suits and plainhousehold plate as collateral, upon even moderate valuation, I will gofifty dollars each upon the following:

"The Count of Monte Cristo, " of M. Dumas. 

"The Wandering Jew, " of M. Sue. 

"The Memoirs of Barry Lyndon, Esq. , " of Mr. Thackeray. 

"Treasure Island, " of Mr. Robbie Stevenson. 

"The Vicar of Wakefield, " of Mr. Goldsmith. 

"Pere Goriot, " of M. De Balzac. 

"Ivanhoe, " of Baronet Scott. 

(Any one previously unnamed of the whole layout of M. Dumas, exceptingonly a paretic volume entitled "The Conspirators. ")

Now, the man who can do the trick for one novel can do it for all--andthere's a thousand dollars waiting to be earned, and a blessing also. It's a bald "bluff, " of course, because it can't be done as we all know. I might offer a million with safety. If it ever could have been done thenoble intellectual aristocracy of novel-readers would have been reducedto a condition of penury and distress centuries ago. 

For, who can put fetters upon even the smallest second of eternity? Whocan repeat a joy or duplicate a sweet sorrow? Who has ever had more thanone first sweetheart, or more than one first kiss under the honeysuckle?Or has ever seen his name in print for the first time, ever again? Is itany wonder that all these inexplicable longings, these hopeless hopes, were summed up in the heart-cry of Faust--

"Stay, yet awhile, O moment of beauty. "

 * * * * *

Yet, I maintain, Dr. Faustus was a weak creature. He begged to be givenanother and wholly different chance to linger with beauty. How muchnobler the magnificent courage of the veteran novel-reader, who in theold age of his service, asks only that he may be permitted to do againall that he has done, blindly, humbly, loyally, as before. 

Don't I know? Have I not been there? It is no child's play, the life ofa man who--paraphrasing the language of Spartacus, the much neglectedhero of the ages--has met upon the printed page every shape of perilousadventure and dangerous character that the broad empire of fiction couldfurnish, and never yet lowered his arm. Believe me it is no carpet dutyto have served on the British privateers in Guiana, under CommodoreKingsley, alongside of Salvation Yeo; to have been a loyal member ofThuggee and cast the scarf for Bowanee; to have watched the tortures ofBeatrice Cenci (pronounced as written in honest English, and I spit uponthe weaklings of the service who imagine that any freak of woman calledBee-ah-treech-y Chon-chy could have endured the agonies related of thatsainted lady)--to have watched those tortures, I say, without breakingdown; to have fought under the walls of Acre with Richard Coeur de Lion;to have crawled, amid rats and noxious vapors, with Jean Valjean throughthe sewers of Paris; to have dragged weary miles through the snow withUncas, Chief of the Mohicans; to have lived among wild beasts with Morokthe lion tamer; to have charged with the impis of Umslopogaas; to havesailed before the mast with Vanderdecken, spent fourteen gloomy yearsin the next cell to Edmund Dantes, ferreted out the murders in the RueMorgue, advised Monsieur Le Cocq and given years of life's prime intedious professional assistance to that anointed idiot and pestiferousscoundrel, Tittlebat Titmouse! Equally, of course, it has not been allhorror and despair. Life averages up fairly, as any novel-readerwill admit, and there has been much of delight--even luxury andidleness--between the carnage hours of battle. Is it not so? Ask thatboyish-hearted old scamp whom you have seen scuttling away from thecirculating library with M. St. Pierre's memoirs of young Paul and hisbeloved Virginia under his arm; or stepping briskly out of the bookstore hugging to his left side a carefully wrapped biography of LadyDiana Vernon, Mlle. De la Valliere, or Madame Margaret Woffington; orin fact any of a thousand charming ladies whom it is certain he had metbefore. Ladies too, who, born whensoever, are not one day older sincehe last saw them. Nearly a hundred years of Parisian residence have notserved to induce the Princess Haydee of Yanina to forego her picturesqueGreek gowns and coiffures, or to alter the somewhat embarrassing statusof her relations with her striking but gloomy protector, the Count ofMonte Cristo. 

The old memories are crowded with pleasures. Those delicious mornings inthe allee of the park, where you were permitted to see Cosette with herold grandfather, M. Fauchelevent; those hours of sweet pain when it wasimpossible to determine whether it was Rebecca or Rowena who seemed togive most light to the day; the flirtations with Blanche Amory, and thenotes placed in the hollow tree; the idyllic devotion of Little Emily, dating from the morning when you saw her dress fluttering on the beam asshe ran along it, lightly, above the flowing tide--(devotion that is yettender, for, God forgive you Steerforth as I do, you could not smirchthat pure heart;) the melancholy, yet sweet sorrow, with which you sawthe loved and lost Little Eva borne to her grave over which themocking-bird now sings his liquid requiem. Has it not been sweet goodfortune to love Maggie Tulliver, Margot of Savoy, Dora Spenlow(undeclared because she was an honest wife--even though of a mostconceited and commonplace jackass, totally undeserving of her); AgnesWicklow (a passion quickly cured when she took Dora's pitiful leavings), and poor ill-fated Marie Antoinette? You can name dozens if you havebeen brought up in good literary society. 

 * * * * *

These love affairs may be owned freely, as being perfectly honorable, even if hopeless. And, of course, there have been gallantries--mereaffaires du jour--such as every man occasionally engages in. Sometimesthey seemed serious, but only for a moment. There was Beatrix Esmond, for whom I could certainly have challenged His Grace of Hamilton, hadnot Lord Mohun done the work for me. Wandering down the street in Londonone night, in a moment of weak admiration for her unrivalled nerveand aplomb, I was hesitating--whether to call on Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, knowing that her thick-headed husband was in hoc for debt--when the doorof her house crashed open and that old scoundrel, Lord Steyne, camewildly down the steps, his livid face blood-streaked, his topcoat onhis arm and a dreadful look in his eye. The world knows the rest as Ilearned it half an hour later at the greengrocer's, where the Crawleysowed an inexcusably large bill. Then the Duchess de Langeais--but allthis is really private. 

After all, a man never truly loves but once. And somewhere in Scotlandthere is a mound above the gentle, tender and heroic Helen Mar, wherelies buried the first love of my soul. That mound, O lovely and loyalHelen, was watered by the first blinding and unselfish tears thatever sprang from my eyes. You were my first love; others may come andinevitably they go, but you are still here, under the pencil pocket ofmy waistcoat. 

Who can write in such a state? It is only fair to take a rest and braceup. [Blank Page]

II

NOVEL-READERS

AS DISTINGUISHED FROM WOMEN AND NIBBLERS AND AMATEURS

There is, of course, but one sort of novel-reader who is of anyimportance He is the man who began under the age of fourteen andis still sticking to it--at whatever age he may be--and full ofa terrifying anxiety lest he may be called away in the midst ofpreliminary announcements of some pet author's "next forthcoming. " Formy own part I cannot conceive dying with resignation knowing that thepublishers were binding up at the time anything of Henryk Sienckiewicz'sor Thomas Hardy's. So it is important that a man begin early, because hewill have to quit all too soon. 

There are no women novel-readers. There are women who read novels, ofcourse; but it is a far cry from reading novels to being a novel-reader. It is not in the nature of a woman. The crown of woman's character isher devotion, which incarnate delicacy and tenderness exalt into perfectbeauty of sacrifice. Those qualities could no more live amid theclashings of indiscriminate human passions than a butterfly wing couldgo between the mill rollers untorn. Women utterly refuse to go on with abook if the subject goes against their settled opinions. They despise anovel--howsoever fine and stirring it may be--if there is any taint ofunhappiness to the favorite at the close. But the most flagrant of alltheir incapacities in respect to fiction is the inability to appreciatethe admirable achievements of heroes, unless the achievements are solelyin behalf of women. And even in that event they complacently considerthem to be a matter of course, and attach no particular importance tothe perils or the hardships undergone. "Why shouldn't he?" they argue, with triumphant trust in ideals; "surely he loved her!"

There are many women who nibble at novels as they nibble atluncheon--there are also some hearty eaters; but 98 per cent of themdetest Thackeray and refuse resolutely to open a second book of RobertLouis Stevenson. They scent an enemy of the sex in Thackeray, who neverseems to be in earnest, and whose indignant sarcasm and melancholytruthfulness they shrink from. "It's only a story, anyhow, " they argueagain; "he might, at least write a pleasant one, instead of bringing inall sorts of disagreeable people--some of them positively disreputable. "As for Stevenson, whom men read with the thrill of boyhood rising newin their veins, I believe in my soul women would tear leaves out of hisnovels to tie over the tops of preserve jars, and never dream of thesacrilege. 

Now I hold Thackeray and Stevenson to be the absolute test of capacityfor earnest novel-reading. Neither cares a snap of his fingers foranybody's prejudices, but goes the way of stern truth by the light ofgenius that shines within him. 

If you could ever pin a woman down to tell you what she thought, insteadof telling you what she thinks it is proper to tell you, or what shethinks will please you, you would find she has a religious convictionthat Dot Perrybingle in "The Cricket of the Hearth, " and Ouida's LordChandos were actually a materializable an and a reasonable gentleman, either of whom might be met with anywhere in their proper circles, Iwould be willing to stand trial for perjury on the statement that I'veknown admirable women--far above the average, really showing signs ofmoral discrimination--who have sniveled pitifully over Nancy Sykes andsniffed scornfully at Mrs. Tess Durbeyfield Clare. It is due to theirconstitution and social heredity. Women do not strive and yearn andstalk abroad for the glorious pot of intellectual gold at the end of therainbow; they pick and choose and, having chosen, sit down straightwayand become content. And a state of contentment is an abomination in thesight of man. Contentment is to be sought for by great masculine mindsonly with the purpose of being sure never quite to find it. 

 * * * * *

For all practical purposes, therefore--except perhaps as object lessonsof "the incorrect method" in reading novels--women, as novel-readers, must be considered as not existing. And, of course, no offense isintended. But if there be any weak-kneed readers who prefer thegilt-wash of pretty politeness to the solid gold of truth, let themunderstand that I am not to be frightened away from plain facts by anycharge of bad manners. 

On the contrary, now that this disagreeable interruption has been forcedupon me--certainly not through any seeking of mine--it may be better tospeak out and settle the matter. Men who have the happiness of being inthe married state know that nothing is to be gained by failing to settleinstantly with women who contradict and oppose them. Who was that mellowphilosopher in one of Trollope's tiresomely clever novels who said: "Myword for it, John, a husband ought not to take a cane to his wifetoo soon. He should fairly wait till they are half-way home from thechurch--but not longer, not longer. " Of course every man with a sparkof intelligence and gallantry wishes that women COULD rise to realnovel-reading Think what courtship would be! Every true man wishes toheaven there was nothing more to be said against women than that theyare not novel-readers. But can mere forgetting remove the canker? Do notall of us know that the abstract good of the very existence of woman isitself open to grave doubt--with no immediate hope of clearing up? Womanhas certainly been thrust upon us. Is there any scrap of record to showthat Adam asked for her? He was doing very well, was happy, prosperousand healthy. There was no certainty that her creation was one of thatunquestionably wonderful series that occupied the six great days. We cannot conceal that her creation caused a great pain in Adam'sside--undoubtedly the left side, in the region of the heart. Shehas been described by young and dauntless poets as "God's bestafterthought;" but, now, really--and I advance the suggestion withno intention to be brutal but solely as a conscientious duty to theascertainment of truth--why is it, that--. But let me try to present thematter in the most unobjectionable manner possible. 

In reading over that marvelous account of creation I find frequentexplicit declaration that God pronounced everything good after he hadcreated it--except heaven and woman. I have maintained sometimes tostern, elderly ladies that this might have been an error of omission byearly copyists, perpetuated and so become fixed in our translations. Toother ladies, of other age and condition, to whom such propositionsof scholarship might appear to be dull pedantry, I have ventured thegentlemanlike explanation that, as woman was the only living thingcreated that was good beyond doubt, perhaps God had paid her the specialcompliment of leaving the approval unspoken, as being in a sensesupererogatory. At best, either of these dispositions of the matter is, of course, far-fetched, maybe even frivolous. The fact still remains bythe record. And it is beyond doubt awkward and embarrassing, becauseill-natured men can refer to it in moments of hatefulness--momentsunfortunately too frequent. 

Is it possible that this last creation was a mistake of Infinite Charityand Eternal Truth? That Charity forbore to acknowledge that it was amistake and that Truth, in the very nature of its eternal essence, couldnot say it was good? It is so grave a matter that one wonders Helvetiusdid not betray it, as he did that other secret about which thephilosophers had agreed to keep mum, so that Herr Schopenhauer couldwrite about it as he did about that other. Herr Schopenhauer certainlyhad the courage to speak with philosophical asperity of the gentlesex. It may be because he was never married. And then his mother wrotenovels! I have been surprised that he was not accused of prejudice. 

But if all these everyday obstacles were absent there would yet remaininsurmountable reasons why women can never be novel-readers in the sensethat men are. Your wife, for instance, or the impenetrable mystery ofwomanhood that you contemplate making your wife some day--can you, honestly, now, as a self-respecting husband of either de facto or infuturo, quite agree to the spectacle of that adored lady sitting overacross the hearth from you in the snug room, evening after evening, withher feet--however small and well-shaped--cocked up on the other end ofthe mantel and one of your own big colorado maduros between her teeth!We men, and particularly novel-readers, are liberal even generous, inour views; but it is not in human nature to stand that!

Now, if a woman can not put her feet up and smoke, how in the nameof heaven, can she seriously read novels? Certainly not sitting boltupright, in order to prevent the back of her new gown from rubbing thechair; certainly not reclining upon a couch or in a hammock. A boy, yettoo young to smoke may properly lie on his stomach on the floor and readnovels, but the mature veteran will fight for his end of the mantel asfor his wife and children. It is physiological necessity, inasmuch asthe blood that would naturally go to the lower extremities, is thusmeasurably lessened in quantity and goes instead to the head, where astate of gentle congestion ensues, exciting the brain cells, settingfree the imagination to roam hand in hand with intelligence under thespell of the wizard. There may be novel-readers who do not smoke at thegame, but surely they cannot be quite earnest or honest--you had betterput in writing all business agreements with this sort. 

 * * * * *

No boy can ever hope to become a really great or celebrated novel-readerwho does not begin his apprenticeship under the age of fourteen, and, asI said before, stick to it as long as he lives. He must learn to scornthose frivolous, vacillating and purposeless ones who, after beginningproperly, turn aside and whiling away their time on mere history, orscience, or philosophy. In a sense these departments of literature areuseful enough. They enable you often to perceive the most cunning andprofoundly interesting touches in fiction. Then I have no doubt that, merely as mental exercise, they do some good in keeping the mind intraining for the serious work of novel-reading. I have always beengrateful to Carlyle's "French Revolution, " if for nothing more than thatits criss-cross, confusing and impressive dullness enabled me to findmore pleasure in "A Tale of Two Cities" than was to be extracted fromany merit or interest in that unreal novel. 

This much however, may be said of history, that it is looking up inthese days as a result of studying the spirit of the novel. It wasnot many years ago that the ponderous gentlemen who write criticisms(chiefly because it has been forgotten how to stop that ancient wasteof paper and ink) could find nothing more biting to say of Macaulay's"England" than that it was "a splendid work of imagination, " of Froude's"Caesar" that it was "magnificent political fiction, " and of Taine's"France" that "it was so fine it should have been history instead offiction. " And ever since then the world has read only these threewriters upon these three epochs--and many other men have been writinghistory upon the same model. No good novel-reader need be ashamed toread them, in fact. They are so like the real thing we find in thegreatest novels, instead of being the usual pompous official lies ofold-time history, that there are flesh, blood and warmth in them. 

In 1877, after the railway riots, legislative halls heard the FrenchRevolution rehearsed from all points of view. In one capital, where Iwas reporting the debate, Old Oracle, with every fact at hand from "Inthe beginning" to the exact popular vote in 1876, talked two hours ofaccurate historical data from all the French histories, after which ayoung lawyer replied in fifteen minutes with a vivid picture of thepopular conditions, the revolt and the result. Will it be allowable, inthe interest of conveying exact impression, to say that Old Oracle was"swiped" off the earth? No other word will relieve my conscience. After it was all over I asked the young lawyer where he got his Frenchhistory. 

"From Dumas, " he answered, "and from critical reviews of his novels. He's short on dates and documents, but he's long on the general facts. "

Why not? Are not novels history?

Book for book, is not a novel by a competent conscientious novelistjust as truthful a record of typical men, manners and motives as formalhistory is of official men, events and motives?

There are persons created out of the dreams of genius so real, soactual, so burnt into the heart and mind of the world that they havebecome historical. Do they not show you, in the old Ursuline Convent atNew Orleans, the cell where poor Manon Lescaut sat alone in tears? Anddo they not show you her very grave on the banks of the lake? Have I notstood by the simple grave at Richmond, Virginia, where never lay thebody of Pocahontas and listened to the story of her burial there? Oneof the loveliest women I ever knew admits that every time she visitsrelatives at Salem she goes out to look at the mound over the brokenheart of Hester Prynne, that dream daughter of genius who never actuallylived or died, but who was and is and ever will be. Her grave can beeasily pointed out, but where is that of Alexander, of Themistocles, ofAristotle, even of the first figure of history--Adam? Mark Twain foundit for a joke. Dr. Hale was finally forced to write a preface to "TheMan Without a Country" to declare that his hero was pure fiction andthat the pathetic punishment so marvelously described was not onlyimaginary, but legally and actually impossible. It was because PhilipNolan had passed into history. I myself have met old men who knew seacaptains that had met this melancholy prisoner at sea and looked uponhim, had even spoken to him upon subjects not prohibited. And these oldmen did not hesitate to declare that Dr. Hale had lied in his denial andhad repudiated the facts through cowardice or under compulsion from theWar Department. 

 * * * * *

Indeed, so flexible, adaptable and penetrable is the style, and soadmirably has the use and proper direction of the imagination beendeveloped by the school of fiction, that every branch of literature hasgained from it power, beauty and clearness. Nothing has aided more inthe spread of liberal Christianity than the remarkable series of "Livesof Christ, " from Straus to Farrar, not omitting particular mention ofthe singularly beautiful treatment of the subject by Renan. In all ofthese conscientious imagination has been used, as it is used in thehighest works of fiction, to give to known facts the atmosphere andvividness of truth in order that the spirit and personality of thesurroundings of the Savior of Mankind might be newly understood by andmade fresh to modern perception. 

Of all books it is to be said--of novels as well--that none is greatthat is not true, and that cannot be true which does not carry inherenceof truth. Now every book is true to some reader. The "Arabian Nights"tales do not seem impossible to a little child, the only delight him. The novels of "The Duchess" seem true to a certain class of readers, ifonly because they treat of a society to which those readers are entirelyunaccustomed. "Robinson Crusoe" is a gospel to the world, and yet it isthe most palpably and innocently impossible of books. It is so plausiblebecause the author has ingeniously or accidentally set aside the usualearmarks of plausibility. When an author plainly and easily knows whatthe reader does not know and enough more to continue the chain ofseeming reality of truth a little further, he convinces the reader ofhis truth and ability. Those men, therefore, who have been endowed withthe genius almost unconsciously to absorb, classify, combine, arrangeand dispense vast knowledge in a bold, striking or noble manner, are therecognized greatest men of genius for the simple reason that the readersof the world who know most recognize all they know in these writers, together with that spirit of sublime imagination that suggests stillgreater realms of truth and beauty. What Shakesepare was to theintellectual leaders of his day, "The Duchess" was to countless immatureyoung folks of her day who were looking for "something to read. "

All truth is history, but all history is not truth. Written history isnotoriously no well-cleaner. 

III. 

READING THE FIRST NOVEL

BEING MOSTLY REMINISCENCES OF EARLY CRIMES AND JOYS

Once more and for all, the career of a novel reader should be enteredupon, if at all, under the age of fourteen. As much earlier as possible. The life of the intellect, as of its shadowy twin, imagination, beginsearly and develops miraculously. The inbred strains of nature lieexposed to influence as a mirror to reflections, and as open toimpression as sensitized paper, upon which pictures may be printedand from which they may also fade out. The greater the variety ofimpressions that fall upon the young mind the more certain it is thatthe greatest strength of natural tendency will be touched and revealed. Good or bad, whichever it may be, let it come out as quickly aspossible. How many men have never developed their fatal weaknesses untilsuccess was within reach and the edifice fell upon other innocent ones. Believe me, no innate scoundrel or brute will be much helped or hinderedby stories. These have no turn or leisure for dreaming. They are eagerfor the actual touch of life. What would a dull-eyed glutton, famishing, not with hunger but with the cravings of digestive ferocity, find inThackeray's "Memorials of Gormandizing" or "Barmecidal Feasts?" Suchbanquets are spread for the frugal, not one of whom would swap thatimmortal cook-book review for a dinner with Lucullus. Rascals will notread. Men of action do not read. They look upon it as the gambler doesupon the game where "no money passes. " It may almost be said that thecapacity for novel-reading is the patent of just and noble minds. Younever heard of a great novel-reader who was notorious as a criminal. There have been literary criminals, I grant you--Eugene Aram Dr. Dodd, Prof. Webster, who murdered Parkmaan, and others. But they were writers, not readers And they did not write novels. Mr. Aram wrote scientific andschool books, as did Prof. Webster, and Dr. Wainwright wrote beautifulsermons. We never do sufficiently consider the evil that lies behindwriting sermons. The nearest you can come to a writer of fiction whohas been steeped in crime is in Benvenuto Cellini, whose marvelousautobiographical memoir certainly contains some fiction, though it isclassed under the suspect department of History. 

How many men actually have been saved from a criminal career by themiraculous influence of novels? Let who will deny, but at the age of sixI myself was absolutely committed to the abandoned purpose of ridingbarebacked horses in a circus. Secretly, of course, because there weresome vague speculations in the family concerning what seemed to bespecial adaptability to the work of preaching. Shortly after I gave thatup to enlist in the Continental Army, under Gen. Francis Marion, and noother soldier slew more Britons. After discharge I at once volunteeredin an Indiana regiment quartered in my native town in Kentucky, and beatthe snare drum at the head of that fine body of men for a long time. Butthe tendency was downward. For three months I was chief of a of robbersthat ravaged the backyards of the vicinity. Successively I became a spyfor Washington, an Indian fighter, a tragic actor. 

With character seared, abandoned and dissolute in habit through andby the hearing and seeing and reading of history, there was but onedesperate step left So I entered upon the career of a pirate in my ninthyear. The Spanish Main, as no doubt you remember, was at that time uponan open common across the street from our house, and it was a hundredfeet long, half as wide and would average two feet in depth. I haveoften since thanked Heaven that they filled up that pathless ocean inorder to build an iron foundry upon the spot. Suppose they had excavatedfor a cellar! Why during the time that Capt. Kidd, Lafitte and Iinfested the coast thereabout, sailing three "low, black-hulledschooners with long rakish masts, " I forced hundreds of merchant seamento walk the plank--even helpless women and children. Unless the sharksdevoured them, their bones are yet about three feet under the floor ofthat iron foundry. Under the lee of the Northernmost promontory, neara rock marked with peculiar crosses made by the point of the stilettowhich I constantly carried in my red silk sash, I buried tons of plate, and doubloons, pieces of eight, pistoles, Louis d'ors, and galleons bythe chest. At that time galleons somehow meant to me money pieces inuse, though since then the name has been given to a species of boat. Therich brocades, Damascus and Indian stuffs, laces, mantles, shawls andfinery were piled in riotous profusion in our cave where--let the wholetruth be told if it must--I lived with a bold, black-eyed and coquettishSpanish girl, who loved me with ungovernable jealousy that occasionallyled to bitter and terrible scenes of rage and despair. At last when Ibrought home a white and red English girl whose life I spared becauseshe had begged me her knees by the memory of my sainted mother to spareher for her old father, who was waiting her coming, Joquita passed allbounds. I killed her--with a single knife thrust I remember. She wasburied right on the spot where the Tilden and Hendricks flag poleafterwards stood in the campaign of 1876. It was with bitter melancholythat I fancied the red stripes on the flag had their color from theblood of the poor, foolish jealous girl below. 

 * * * * *

Ah, well--

Let us all own up--we men of above forty who aspire to respectabilityand do actually live orderly lives and achieve even the odor ofsanctity--have we not been stained with murder?--aye worse! What man hasnot his Bluebeard closet, full of early crimes and villainies? A certainboy in whom I take a particular interest, who goes to Sunday-school andwhose life is outwardly proper--is he not now on week days a robber ofgreat renown? A week ago, masked and armed, he held up his own father ina secluded corner of the library and relieved the old man of swag ofa value beyond the dreams--not of avarice, but--of successful, respectable, modern speculation. He purposes to be a pirate wheneverthere is a convenient sheet of water near the house. God speed him. Better a pirate at six than at sixty. 

Give them work to do and good novels to read and they will get over it. History breeds queer ideas in children. They read of military heroes, kings and statesmen who commit awful deeds and are yet monuments ofpublic honor. What a sweet hero is Raleigh, who was a farmer of piracy;what a grand Admiral was Drake; what demi-gods the fighting Americanswho murdered Indians for the crime of wanting their own! History hathcharms to move an infant breast to savagery. Good strong novels are thebest pabulum to nourish difference between virtue and vice. 

Don't I know? I have felt the miracle and learned the difference so wellthat even now at an advanced age I can tell the difference and indulgein either. It was not a week after the killing of Joquita that I readthe first novel of my life. It was "Scottish Chiefs. " The dead bodies often thousand novels lie between me and that first one. I have not readit since. Ten Incas of Peru with ten rooms full of solid gold couldnot tempt me to read it again. Have I not a clear cinch on a deliciousmemory, compared with which gold is only Robinson Crusoe's "drug?" Aftera lapse of all these years the content of that one tremendous, noblechapter of heroic climax is as deeply burned into my memory as if it hadbeen read yesterday. 

A sister, old enough to receive "beaux" and addicted to the piano-forteaccomplishment, was at that time practicing across the hall aninstrumental composition, entitled, "La Rève. " Under the title, printedin very small letters, was the English translation; but I never thoughtto look at it. An elocutionist had shortly before recited Poe's Raven ata church entertainment, and that gloomy bird flapped its wings in myyoung emotional vicinity when the firelight threw vague "shadows on thefloor. " When the piece of music was spoken as "La Rève, " its sadcadences, suffering, of course, under practice, were instantly wedded inmy mind to Mr. Poe's wonderful bird and for years it meant the "Raven"to me. How curious are childish impressions. Years afterward when I sawa copy of the music and read the translation, "The Dream" under thetitle, I felt a distinct shock of resentment as if the French languagehad been treacherous to my sacred ideas. Then there was the romanticname of "Ellerslie, " which, notwithstanding considerable precocity inreading and spelling I carried off as "Elleressie" Yeas afterward whenthe actual syllables confronted me in a historical sketch of Wallace, the truth entered like a stab and I closed the book. O sacred firstillusions of childhood, you are sweeter than a thousand year of fame! Itis God's providence that hardens us to endure the throwing of them downto our eyes and strengthens us to keep their memory sweet in our hearts. 

 * * * * *

It would be an affront then, not to assume that every reputable novelreader has read "Scottish Chiefs. " If there is any descendant or anypersonal friend of that admirable lady, Miss Jane Porter, who may now bein pecuniary distress, let that descendant call upon me privately withperfect confidence. There are obligations that a glacial evolutionaryperiod can not lessen. I make no conditions but the simple proof ofproper identity. I am not rich but I am grateful. 

It was a Saturday evening when I became aware, as by prescience, thatthere hung over Sir William Wallice and Helen Mar some terrible shadowof fate. And the piano-forte across the hall played "La Rève. " My heartfailed me and I closed the book. If you can't do that, my friend, thenyou waste your time trying to be a novel reader. You have not the truetouch of genius for it. It is the miracle of eating your cake and havingit, too. It must have been the unconscious moving of novel readinggenius in me. For I forgot, as clearly as if it were not a possibility, that the next day was Sunday. And so hurried off, before time, to bed, to be alone with the burden on my heart. 

 "Backward, turn backward, O Time in your flight-- Make me a child again just for tonight. "

There are two or three novels I should love to take to bed as ofyore--not to read, but to suffer over and to contemplate and to seekcalmness and courage with which to face the inevitable. Could there bemen base enough to do to death the noble Wallace? Or to break the heartof Helen Mar with grief? No argument could remove the presentiment, butfacing the matter gave courage. "Let tomorrow answer, " I thought, as thepiano-forte in the next room played "La Rève. " Then fell asleep. 

And when I awoke next morning to the full knowledge that it was Sunday, I could have murdered the calendar. For Sunday was Dies Irae. AfterSunday-school, at least. There is a certain amount of fun to be toextracted from Sunday-school. The remainder of those early Sundays wasconfined to reading the Bible or storybooks from the Sunday-schoollibrary--books, by the Lord Harry, that seem to be contrived especiallyto make out of healthy children life-long enemies of the church, and tobind hypocrites to the altar with hooks of steel. There was no whistlingat all permitted; singing of hymns was encouraged; no "playing"--playingon Sunday was a distinct source of displeasure to Heaven! Are free-bornmen nine years of age to endure such tyranny with resignation? Ask thekids of today--and with one voice, as true men and free, they willanswer you, "Nit!" In the dark days of my youth liberty was in chains, and so Sunday was passed in dreadful suspense as to what was doing inScotland. 

 * * * * *

Monday night after supper I rejoined Sir William in his captivity andsoon saw that my worst fears were to be realized. My father sat on theopposite side of the table reading politics; my mother was effecting therestoration of socks; my brother was engaged in unraveling mathematicaltangles, and in the parlor across the hall my sister sat alone withher piano patiently debating "La Rève. " Under these circumstances Iencountered the first great miracle of intellectual emotion in thechapter describing the execution of William Wallace on Tower Hill. Noother incident of life has left upon me such a profound impression. It was as if I had sprung at one bound into the arena of heroism. Iremember it all. How Wallace delivered himself of theological andChristian precepts to Helen Mar after which they both knelt before theofficiating priest. That she thought or said, "My life will expire withyours!" It was the keynote of death and life devotion. It was worthy tousher Wallace up the scaffold steps where he stood with his hands bound, "his noble head uncovered. " There was much Christian edification, butthe presence of such a hero as he with "noble Head uncovered" wouldenable any man nine years old with a spark of honor and sympathy in himto endure agonizing amounts of edification. Then suddenly there was afrightful shudder in my heart. The hangman approached with the rope, andHelen Mar, with a shriek, threw herself upon Wallace's breast. Then thegreat moment. If I live a thousand years these lines will always bewith me: "Wallace, with a mighty strength, burst the bonds asunder thatconfined his arms and clasped her to his heart!"

 * * * * *

In reading some critical or pretended text books on construction sincethat time I came across this sentence used to illustrate tautology. Itwas pointed out that the bonds couldn't be "burst" without necessarilybeing asunder. The confoundedest outrages in this world are the capersthat precisionists cut upon the bodies of the noble dead. And withimpunity too. Think of a village surveyor measuring the forest of Ardento discover the exact acreage! Or a horse-doctor elevating his eye-browwith a contemptuous smile and turning away, as from an innocent, whenyou speak of the wings of that fine horse, Pegasus! Any idiot knowsthat bonds couldn't be burst without being burst asunder. But, let theimpregnable Jackass think--what would become of the noble rhythm and themajestic roll of sound? Shakespeare was an ignorant dunce also when hecharacterized the ingratitude that involves the principle of publichonor as "the unkindest cut of all. " Every school child knows that it isungrammatical; but only those who have any sense learn after awhile theesoteric secret that it sometimes requires a tragedy of language toprovide fitting sacrifice to the manes of despair. There never was yeta man of genius who wrote grammatically and under the scourge ofrhetorical rules. Anthony Trollope is a most perfect example of theexact correctness that sterilizes in its own immaculate chastity. Thackeray would knock a qualifying adverb across the street, or thrustit under your nose to make room for the vivid force of an idea. Trollopewould give the idea a decent funeral for the sake of having his adverbappear at the grave above reproach from grammatical gossip. Whenever Ihave risen from the splendid psychological perspective of old Job, thesolemn introspective howls of Ecclesiasticus and the generous livingphilosophy of Shakespeare it has always been with the desire--of courseit is undignified, but it is human--to go and get an English grammarfor the pleasure of spitting upon it. Let us be honest. I understandeverything about grammar except what it means; but if you will give methe living substance and the proper spirit any gentleman who desires thegrammatical rules may have them, and be hanged to him! And, while itmay appear presumptuous, I can conscientiously say that it will not beagreeable to me to settle down in heaven with a class of persons whodemand the rules of grammar for the intellectual reason that correspondsto the call for crutches by one-legged men. 

 * * * * *

If the foregoing appear ill-tempered pray forget it. Remember ratherthat I have sought to leave my friend Sir William Wallace, holding HelenMar on his breast as long as possible. And yet, I also loved her! Canhuman nature go farther than that?

"Helen, " he said to her, "life's cord is cut by God's own hand. " Hestooped, he fell, and the fall shook the scaffold. Helen--that glorifiedheroine--raised his head to her lap. The noble Earl of Gloucesterstepped forward, took the head in his hands. 

"There, " he cried in a burst of grief, letting it fall again upon theinsensible bosom of Helen, "there broke the noblest heart that ever beatin the breast of man!"

That page or two of description I read with difficulty and agony throughblinding tears, and when Gloucester spoke his splendid eulogy my headfell on the table and I broke into such wild sobbing that the littlefamily sprang up in astonishment. I could not explain until my mother, having led me to my room, succeeded in soothing me into calmness andI told her the cause of it. And she saw me to bed with sympatheticcaresses and, after she left, it all broke out afresh and I cried myselfto sleep in utter desolation and wretchedness. Of course the mattergot out and my father began the book. He was sixty years old, not anindiscriminate reader, but a man of kind and boyish heart. I felt a sortof fascinated curiosity to watch him when he reached the chapter thathad broken me. And, as if it were yesterday, I can see him under thelamplight compressing his lips, or puffing like a smoker through them, taking off his spectacles, and blowing his nose with great ceremony andcarelessly allowing the handkerchief to reach his eyes. Then anotherparagraph and he would complain of the glasses and wipe them carefully, also his eyes, and replace the spectacles. But he never looked at me, and when he suddenly banged the lids together and, turning away, satstaring into the fire with his head bent forward, making unconcealed useof the handkerchief, I felt a sudden sympathy for him and sneaked out. He would have made a great novel reader if he had had the heart. But hecouldn't stand sorrow and pain. The novel reader must have a heartfor every fate. For a week or more I read that great chapter and itsapproaches over and over, weeping less and less, until I had worn outthat first grief, and could look with dry eyes upon my dead. And neversince have I dared to return to it. Let who will speak freely in othertones of "Scottish Chiefs"--opinions are sacred liberties--but as forme I know it changed my career from one of ruthless piracy to betterpurposes, and certain boys of my private acquaintance are introduced toMiss Jane Porter as soon as they show similar bent. 

IV. 

THE FIRST NOVEL TO READ

CONTAINING SOME SCANDALOUS REMARKS ABOUT "ROBINSON CRUSOE"

The very best First-Novel-To-Read in all fiction is "Robinson Crusoe. "There is no dogmatism in the declaration; it is the announcement of afact as well ascertained as the accuracy of the multiplication table. Itis one of the delights of novel reading that you may have any opinionyou please and fire it off with confidence, without gainsay. Those whodiffer with you merely have another opinion, which is not sacred andcannot be proved any more than yours. All of the elements of supremetest of imaginative interest are in "Robinson Crusoe. " Love is absent, but that is not a test; love appeals to persons who cannot read orwrite--it is universal, as hunger and thirst. 

The book-reading boy is easily discovered; you always catch him readingbooks. But the novel-reading boy has a system of his own, a sort ofinstinctive way of getting the greatest excitement out of the story, thevery best run for his money. This sort of boy soon learns to sit withhis feet drawn up on the upper rung of a chair, so that from the kneesto the thighs there is a gentle declivity of about thirty degrees;the knees are nicely separated that the book may lie on them withoutholding. That involves one of the most cunning of psychological secrets;because, if the boy is not a novel reader, he does not want the book tolie open, since every time it closes he gains just that much reliefin finding the place again. The novel-reading boy knows the trick ofimmortal wisdom; he can go through the old book cases and pick thetreasures of novels by the way they lie open; if he gets hold of a newor especially fine edition of his father's he need not be told to wrenchit open in the middle and break the back of the binding--he does itinstinctively. 

There are other symptoms of the born novel reader to be observed in him. If he reads at night he is careful to so place his chair that the lightwill fall on the page from a direction that will ultimately ruin theeyes--but it does not interfere with the light. He humps himself overthe open volume and begins to display that unerring curvalinearity ofthe spine that compels his mother to study braces and to fear that hewill develop consumption. Yet you can study the world's health recordsand never find a line to prove that any man with "occupation orprofession--novel reading" is recorded as dying of consumption. Thehumped-over attitude promotes compression of the lungs, telescoping ofthe diaphragm, atrophy of the abdominal abracadabra and otherthings (see Physiological Slush, p. 179, et seq. ); but--it--never--hurts--the--boy!

To a novel reading boy the position is one of instinct, like that ofthe bicycle racer. His eyes are strained, his nerves and muscles attension--everything ready for excitement--and the book, lying open, leaves his hands perfectly free to drum on the sides of the chair, slaphis legs and knees, fumble in his pockets or even scratch his head asemotion or interest demand. Does anybody deny that the highest proof ofspecial genius is the possession of the instinct to adapt itself to thematter in hand? Nothing more need be said. 

 * * * * *

Now, if you will observe carefully such a boy when he comes to a certainpoint in "Robinson Crusoe" you may recognize the stroke of fate in hisdestiny. If he's the right sort, he will read gayly along; he drums, heslaps himself, he beats his breast, he scratches his head. Suddenlythere will come the shock. He is reading rapidly and gloriously. He finds his knife in his pocket, as usual, and puts it back; thetop-string is there; he drums the devil's tattoo, he wets his fingerand smears the margin of the page as he whirls it over and then--hefinds--"The--Print--of--a--Man's--Naked--Foot--on--the--Shore!!!"

Oh, Crackey! At this tremendous moment the novel reader who has geniusdrums no more. His hands have seized the upper edges of the muslin lids, he presses the lower edges against his stomach, his back takes anadded intensity of hump, his eyes bulge, his heart thumps--he islanded--landed!

Terror, surprise, sympathy, hope, skepticism, doubt--come all yetrooping emotions to threaten or console; but an end has come to fairystories and wonder tales--Master Studious is in the awful presence ofHuman Nature. 

 * * * * *

For many years I have believed that that Print--of--a--Man's--Naked--Foot was set in italic type in all editions of "Robinson Crusoe. " But apatient search of many editions has convinced me that I must have beenmistaken. 

The passage comes sneaking along in the midst of a paragraph in commonRoman letters and by the living jingo! you discover it just as Mr. Crusoe discovered the footprint itself!

No story ever written exhibits so profoundly either the perfectdesign of supreme genius or the curious accidental result of slovenlycarelessness in a hack-writer. This is not said in any critical spirit, because, Robinson Crusoe, in one sense, is above criticism, and inanother it permits the freest analysis without suffering in theestimation of any reader. 

But for Robinson Crusoe, De Foe would never have ranked above the levelof his time. It is customary for critics to speak in awe of the "Journalof the Plague" and it is gravely recited that that book deceived thegreat Dr. Meade. Dr. Meade must have been a poor doctor if De Foe'saccuracy of description of the symptoms and effects of disease is notvastly superior to the detail he supplies as a sailor and solitaire upona desert island. I have never been able to finish the "Journal. "The only books in which his descriptions smack of reality are "MollFlanders" and "Roxana, " which will barely stand reading these days. 

In what may be called its literary manner, Robinson Crusoe is entirelylike the others. It convinces you by its own conviction of sincerity. It is simple, wandering yet direct; there is no making of "points" ormoving to climaxes. De Foe did unquestionably possess the capacity toput into his story the appearance of sincerity that persuades belief ata glance. In that much he had the spark of genius; yet that same casehas not availed to make the "Journal" of the Plague anything more thana curious and laborious conceit, while Robinson Crusoe stands amongthe first books of the world--a marvelous gleam of living interest, inextinguishably fresh and heartening to the imagination of every readerwho has sensibility two removes above a toad. 

The question arises, then, is "Robinson Crusoe" the calculated triumphof deliberate genius, or the accidental stroke of a hack who fell upon agolden suggestion in the account of Alexander Selkirk and increasedits value ten thousand fold by an unintentional but rather perfectmarshaling of incidents in order, and by a slovenly ignorance ofcharacter treatment that enhanced the interest to perfect intensity?This question may be discussed without undervaluing the book, theextraordinary merit of which is shown in the fact that, while its ideahas been paraphrased, it has never been equalled. The "Swiss FamilyRobinson, " the "Schonberg-Cotta Family" for children are full of meritand far better and more carefully written, but there are only the desertisland and the ingenious shifts introduced. Charles Reade in "HardCash, " Mr. Mallock in his "Nineteenth Century Romance, " Clark Russel in"Marooned, " and Mayne Reid, besides others, have used the same theater. But only in that one great book is the theater used to display thesimple, yearning, natural, resolute, yet doubting, soul and heart of manin profound solitude, awaiting in armed terror, but not without purpose, the unknown and masked intentions of nature and savagery. It seemsto me--and I have been tied to Crusoe's chariot wheels for a dozenreadings, I suppose--that it is the pressing in upon your emotions ofthe immensity of the great castaway's solitude, in which he appears likesome tremendous Job of abandonment, fighting an unseen world, which isthe innate note of its power. 

 * * * * *

The very moment Friday becomes a loyal subject, the suspense relaxesinto pleased interest, and after Friday's funny father and the Spaniardand others appear it becomes a common book. As for the second part ofthe adventures I do not believe any matured man ever read it a secondtime unless for curious or literary purposes. If he did he must be oneof that curious but simple family that have read the second part of"Faust, " "Paradise Regained, " and the "Odyssey, " and who now peruse"Clarissa Harlowe" and go carefully over the catalogue of ships inthe "Iliad" as a preparation for enjoying the excitements of the citydirectory. 

Every particle of greatness in "Robinson Crusoe" is compressed withintwo hundred pages, the other four hundred being about as mediocre trashas you could purchase anywhere between cloth lids. 

 * * * * *

It is interesting to apply subjective analysis to Robinson Crusoe. Thebook in its very greatness has turned more critical swans into geesethan almost any other. They have praised the marvelous ingenuity withwhich De Foe described how the castaway overcame single-handed, thedeprivations of all civilized conveniences; they have marveled at thesimple method in which all his labors are marshaled so as to render hisconversion of the island into a home the type of industrial and even ofsocial progress and theory; they have rhapsodized over the perfectionof De Foe's style as a model of literary strength and artisticverisemblance. Only a short time ago a mighty critic of a greatLondon paper said seriously that "Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver appealinfinitely more to the literary reader than to the boy, who doesnot want a classic but a book written by a contemporary. " What anextraordinary boy that must be! It is probable that few boys care forGulliver beyond his adventures in Lilliput and Brobdignag, but theydevour that much, together with Robinson Crusoe, with just as muchavidity now as they did a century ago. Your clear-headed, healthy boy isthe first best critic of what constitutes the very liver and lights ofa novel. Nothing but the primitive problems of courage meeting peril, virtue meeting vice, love, hatred, ambition for power and glory, willgo down with him. The grown man is more capable of dealing with socialsubtleties and the problems of conscience, but those sorts of books donot last unless they have also "action--action--action. "

Will the New Zealander, sitting amidst the prophetic ruins of St. Paul's, invite his soul reading Robert Elsmere? Of course you can't saywhat a New Zealander of that period might actually do; but what wouldyou think of him if you caught him at it? The greatest stories of theworld are the Bible stories, and I never saw a boy--intractable ofacquiring the Sunday-school habit though he may have been--who wouldn'tlay his savage head on his paws and quietly listen to the good old talesof wonder out of that book of treasures. 

 * * * * *

So let us look into the interior of our faithful old friend, RobinsonCrusoe, and examine his composition as a literary whole. From the momentthat Crusoe is washed ashore on the island until after the release ofFriday's father and the Spaniard from the hands of the cannibals, thereis no book in print, perhaps, that can surpass it in interest and thestrained impression it makes upon the unsophisticated mind. It is allcomprised in about 200 pages, but to a boy to whom the world is atheater of crowded action, to whom everything seems to have comeready-made, to whom the necessity of obedience and accommodation toothers has been conveyed by constant friction--here he finds himselffor the first time face to face with the problem of solitude. He canappreciate the danger from wild animals, genii, ghosts, battles, siegesand sudden death, but in no other book before, did he ever come upon ahuman being left solitary, with all these possible dangers to face. 

The voyages on the raft, the house-building, contriving, fearing, praying, arguing--all these are full of plaintive pathos and yet ofencouragement. He witnesses despair turned into comfortable resignationas the result of industry. It has required about twelve years. Virtue isapparently fattening upon its own reward, when--Smash! Bang!--our youngreader runs upon "the--print--of--a--man's--naked--foot!" and securityand happiness, like startled birds, are flown forever. For twelve moreyears this new unseen terror hangs over the poor solitary. Then we haveFriday, the funny cannibals later and it is all over. But the vastsolitude of that poor castaway has entered the imagination of the youthand dominates it. 

These two hundred pages are crowded with suggestions that set a boy'smind on fire, yet every page contains evidence of obvious slovenliness, indolence and ignorance of human nature and common things, half of whichfaults seem directly to contribute to the result, while the other halfare never noticed by the reader. 

How many of you, who sniff at this, know Crusoe's real name? Yet itstares right out of the very first paragraphs in the book--a clean, perhaps accidental, proof of good scholarship, which De Foe possessed. Crusoe tells us his father was a German from Bremen, who married anEnglishwoman, from whose family name of Robinson came the son's namewhich was properly Robinson Kreutznaer. This latter name, he explains, became corrupted in the common English speech into Crusoe. That is anexcellent touch. The German pronunciation of Kreutznaer would sound likeKrites-nare, and a mere dry scholar would have evolved Crysoe out of thename. But the English-speaking people everywhere, until within the pasttwenty years or so, have given the German "eu" the sound of "oo" or "u. "Robinson's father therefore was called Crootsner until it was shavedinto Crootsno and thence smoothed to Crusoe. 

But what was the Christian name of the elder Kreutznaer? Or of the boy'smother? Or of his brothers or sisters? Or of the first ship captainunder whom he sailed; or any of them; or even of the ship he commanded, and in which he was wrecked; or of the dog that he carried to theisland; or of the two cats; or of the first and all the other tamegoats; or of the inlet; or of Friday's father; or of the Spaniard hesaved; or of the ship captain; or of the ship that finally saved him?Who knows? The book is a desert as far as nomenclature goes--the onlyblossoms being his own name; that of Wells, a Brazilian neighbor; Xury, the Moorish boy; Friday, Poll, the parrot; and Will Atkins. 

 * * * * *

You may retort that all this doesn't matter. That is very true--and behanged to you!--but those facts prove by every canon of literary artthat Robinson Crusoe is either a coldly calculated flight of consummategenius or an accidental freak of hack literature. When De Foe wrote, itwas only a century after Drake and his companions in authorizedpiracy had made the British privateer the scourge of the seas and haddemonstrated that naval supremacy meant the control of the world. Theseafaring life was one of peril, but it carried with it honor, glory andenvy. Forty years later Nelson was born to crown British navalry withdeathless Glory. Even the commonest sailor spoke his ship's name--if itwere a fine vessel--with the same affection that he spoke his wife'sand cursed a bad ship by its name as if to tag its vileness withproverbiality. 

When De Foe wrote Alexander Selkirk, able seaman, was alive end had toldhis story of shipwreck to Sir Richard Steele, editor of the EnglishGentleman and of the Tattler, who wrote it up well--but not half as wellas any one of ten thousand newspaper men of today could do under similarcircumstances. 

Now who that has read of Selkirk and Dampierre and Stradling does notremember the two famous ships, the "Cinque Ports" and the "St. George?"In every actvial book of the times, ship's names were sprinkled over thepage as if they had been shaken out of the pepper box. But you inquirein vain the name of the slaver that wrecked "poor Robinson Crusoe"--a name that would have been printed on his memory beyond forgettingbecause of the very misfortune itself. Now the book is the autobiographyof a man whose only years of active life between eighteen and twenty-sixwere passed as a sailor. It was written apparently after he wasseventy-two years old, at the period when every trifling incident andname of youth would survive most brightly; yet he names no ships, nosailor mates, carefully avoids all knowledge of or advantage attachingto any parts of ships. It is out of character as a sailor's tale, showing that the author either did not understand the value of or wastoo indolent to acquire the ship knowledge that would give to his workthe natural smell of salt water and the bilge. It is a landlubber's seayarn. 

Is it in character as a revelation of human nature? No man like untoRobinson Crusoe ever did live, does live, or ever will live, unless as afreak deprived of human emotions. The Robinson Crusoe of Despair Islandwas not a castaway, but the mature politician. Daniel Defoe of NewgatePrison. The castaway would have melted into loving recollections; theimprisoned lampoonist would have busied himself with schemes, ideas, arguments and combinations for getting out, and getting on. This poorRobin on the island weeps over nothing but his own sorrows, and, while pretending to bewail his solitude, turns aside coldly fromcompanionships next only in affection to those of men. He has a dog, twoship's cats (of whose "eminent history" he promises something that isnever related), tame goats and parrots. He gives none of them a name, he does not occupy his yearning for companionship and love by preparingcomforts for them or by teaching them tricks of intelligence oramusement; and when he does make a stagger at teaching Poll to talk itis for the sole purpose of hearing her repeat "Poor Robin Crusoe!" Thedog is dragged in to work for him, but not to be rewarded. He dieswithout notice, as do the cats, and not even a billet of wood markstheir graves. 

Could any being, with a drop of human blood in his veins, do that? Hethinks of his father with tears in his eyes--because he did not escapethe present solitude by taking the old man's advice! Does he recall hismother or any of the childish things that lie so long and deep inthe heart of every natural man? Does he ever wonder what his oldschool-fellows, Bob Freckles and Pete Baker, are doing these solitaryevenings when he sits under the tropics and hopes--could he not atleast hope it?--that they are, thank God, alive and happy at York? Hediscourses like a parson of the utterly impossible affection thatFriday had for his cannibal sire and tells you how noble, Christian andbeautiful it was--as if, by Jove! a little of that virtue wouldn't haveornamented his own cold, emotionless, fishy heart!

He had no sentimental side. Think of those dreary, egotistic, awfulevenings, when, for more than twenty years this infernal hypocrite kepthimself company and tried patiently to deceive God by flattering Himabout religion! It is impossible. Why thought turns as certainly torevery and recollection as grass turns to seed. He married. What was hiswife's name? We know how much property she had. What were the names ofthe honest Portuguese Captain and the London woman who kept his money?The cold selfishness and gloomy egotism of this creature mark him as amonster and not as a man. 

 * * * * *

So the book is not in character as an autobiography, nor does it containa single softening emotion to create sympathy. Let us see whether itbe scholarly in its ease. The one line that strikes like a bolt oflightning is the height of absurdity. We have all laughed, afterwardof course, at that--single--naked--foot--print. It could not have beenthere without others, unless Friday were a one legged man, or wasplaying the good old Scots game of "hop-scotch!"

But the foot-print is not a circumstance to the cannibals. All the stageburlesques of Robinson Crusoe combined could not produce such funnycannibals as he discovered. Crusoe's cannibals ate no flesh but thatof men! He had no great trouble contriving how to induce Friday to eatgoat's flesh! They took all the trouble to come to his island to indulgein picnics, during which they ate up folks, danced and then went homebefore night. When the big party of 31 arrived, they had with them oneother cannibal of Friday's tribe, a Spaniard, and Friday's father. Itappears they always carefully unbound a victim before despatching him. They brought Friday pere for lunch, although he was old, decrepit andthin--a condition that always unfits a man among all known cannibalsfor serving as food. They reject them as we do stringy old roosters forspring chickens in the best society. Then Friday, born a cannibal andconverted to Crusoe's peculiar religion, shows that in three years hehas acquired all the emotions of filial affection prevalent at that timeamong Yorkshire folk who attended dissenting chapels. More wonderfulstill! old Friday pere, immersed in age and cannibalism, has thecorresponding paternal feeling. Crusoe never says exactly where thesecannibals came from, but my own belief is that they came from thatlittle Swiss town whence the little wooden animals for toy Noah's Arksalso came. 

A German savant--one of the patient sort that spend half a life writinga monograph on the variation of spots on the butterfly's wings--couldget a philosophical dissertation on Doubt out of Crusoe's troubles withpens, ink and paper; also clothes. In the volume I am using, on page 86, third paragraph, he says: "I should lose my reckoning of time for wantof books, and pen and ink. " So he kept it by notches in wood, he tellsin the fourth paragraph. In paragraph 5, same page, he says: "We are toobserve that among the many things I brought out of the ship, I gotseveral of less value, etc. , which I omitted setting down as inparticular pens, ink and paper!" Same paragraph, lower down: "I shallshow that while my ink lasted I kept things very exact, but after thatwas gone I could not make any ink by any means that I could devise. "Page 87, second paragraph: "I wanted many things, notwithstanding allthe many things that I had amassed together, and of these ink was one!"Page 88, first paragraph: "I drew up my affairs in writing!" Now, byGeorge! did you ever hear of more appearing and disappearing pens, inkand paper?

The adventures of his clothes were as remarkable as his own. On his veryfirst trip to the wreck, after landing, he went "rummaging for clothes, of which I found enough, " but took no more than he wanted for presentuse. On the second trip he "took all the men's clothes" (and there werefifteen souls on board when she sailed). Yet in his famous debit andcredit calculations between good and evil he sets these down, page 88:

 EVIL | GOOD -------------------------------------------------- I have no clothes to | But I am in a hot climate, cover me. | where, if I had | clothes (!) I could hardly | wear them. 

On page 147, bewailing his lack of a sieve, he says: "Linen, I had nonebut what was mere rags. "

Page 158 (one year later): "My clothes, too, began to decay; as tolinen, I had had none a good while, except some checkered shirts, whichI carefully preserved, because many times I could bear no other clotheson. I had almost three dozen of shirts, several thick watch coats, toohot to wear. "

So he tried to make jackets out of the watch coats. Then this ingeniousgentleman, who had nothing to wear and was glad of it on account of theheat, which kept him from wearing anything but a shirt, and renderedwatch coats unendurable, actually made himself a coat, waistcoat, breeches, cap and umbrella of skins with the hair on and wore them ingreat comfort! Page 175 he goes hunting, wearing this suit, belted bytwo heavy skin belts, carrying hatchet, saw, powder, shot, his heavyfowling piece and the goatskin umbrella--total weight of baggage andclothes about ninety pounds. It must have been a cold day!

Yet the first thing he does for the naked Friday thirteen years lateris to give him a pair--of--LINEN--trousers! Poor Robin Crusoe--what acolossal liar was wasted on a desert island!

 * * * * *

Of course, no boy sees the blemishes in "Robinson Crusoe;" those areleft to the Infallible Critic. The book is as ludicrous as "Hamlet" fromone aspect and as profound as "Don Quixote" from another. In its pagesthe wonder tales and wonder facts meet and resolve; realism and idealismare joined--above all, there is a mystery no critic may solve. It isuseless to criticize genius or a miracle, except to increase its wonder. Who remembers anything in "Crusoe" but the touch of the wizard's hand?Who associates the Duke of Athens, Hermia and Helena, with Bottom andSnug, Titania, Oberon and Puck? Any literary master mechanic might realoff ten thousand yards of the Greek folks or of "Pericles, " but when youwant something that runs thus:

 "I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows! Where oxlip and the nodding violet grows--. "

why, then, my masters, you must put up the price and employ a genius towork the miracle. 

Take all miracles without question. Whether work of genius or miracle ofaccident, "Robinson Crusoe" gives you a generous run for your money. 

THE DELICIOUS VICE

V

THE OPEN POLAR SEA OF NOVELS

WITH HIGHLY INCENDIARY ADVICE TO BOYS AND SOME MORE ANCIENT HISTORY

After the first novel has been read, somewhere under the seasoned ageof fourteen years, the beginner equipped with inherent genius for novelreading is afloat upon an open sea of literature, a master mariner ofhis own craft, having ports to make, to leave, to take, so splendidof variety and wonder as to make the voyages of Sinbad sing small bycomparison. It may be proper and even a duty here to suggest to theyoung novel reader that the Ten Commandments and all governmentalstatutes authorize the instant killing, without pity or remorse, of anyheavy-headed and intrusive person who presumes to map out for him asymmetrical and well-digested course of novel reading. The murder ofsuch folks is universally excused as self-defense and secretly applaudedas a public service. The born novel reader needs no guide, counselloror friend. He is his own "master. " He can with perfect safety andindescribable delight shut his eyes, reach out his hand, pull down anyplum of a book and never make a mistake. Novel reading is the onlyone of the splendid occupations of life calling for no instruction oradvice. All that is necessary is to bite the apple with the largestfreedom possible to the intellectual and imaginative jaws, and let thetaste of it squander itself all the way down from the front teeth untilit is lost in the digestive joys of memory. There is no miserable quaillimit to novels--you can read thirty novels in thirty days or 365 novelsin 365 days for thirty years, and the last one will always have thedelicious taste of the pies of childhood. 

If any honest-minded boy chances to read these lines, let him charge hismind with full contempt for any misguided elders who have designs of"choosing only the best accepted novels" for his reading. There are no"best" novels except by the grace of the poor ones, and, if you don'tread the poor ones, the "best" will be as tasteless as unsalted rice. I say to boys that are worth growing up: don't let anybody give youpatronizing advice about novels. If your pastors and masters tryoppression, there is the orchard, the creek bank, the attic room, theroof of the woodshed (under the peach tree), and a thousand other placeswhere you may hide and maintain your natural independence. Don't letelderly and officious persons explain novels to you. They can nothonestly do so; so don't waste time. Every boy of fourteen, with thegenius to read 'em, is just as good a judge of novels and can understandthem quite as well as any gentleman of brains of any old age. Becausenovels mean entirely different things to every blessed reader. 

 * * * * *

The main thing at the beginning is to be in the neighborhood of a good"novel orchard" and to nibble and eat, and even "gormandize, " as yourfancy leads you. Only--as you value your soul and your honor as agentleman--bear in mind that what you read in every novel that pleasesyou is sacred truth. There are busy-bodies, pretenders to "culture, " andsticklers for the multiplication table and Euclid's pestiferous theorem, who will tell you that novel reading is merely for entertainment andlight accomplishment, and that the histories of fiction are purelyimaginary and not to be taken seriously. That is pure falsehood. Thetruth of all humanity, as well as all its untruth, flows in a noblestream through the pages of fiction. Do not allow the elders to persuadeyou that pirate stories, battles, sieges, murders and sudden deaths, theroad to transgression and the face of dishonesty are not good for you. They are 90 per cent. Pure nutriment to a healthy boy's mind, and anyother sort of boy ought particularly to read them and so learn theshortest cut to the penitentiary for the good of the world. Whenever youget hold of a novel that preaches and preaches and preaches, and can'tgive a poor ticket-of-leave man or the decentest sort of a villaincredit for one good trait--Gee, Whizz! how tiresome they are--lose it, you young scamp, at once, if you respect yourself. If you are pushed youcan say that Bill Jones took it away from you and threw it in the creek. The great Victor Hugo and the authors of that noble drama "The TwoOrphans, " are my authorities for the statement that some fibs--not allfibs, but some proper fibs--are entered in heaven on both debit andcredit sides of the book of fate. 

There is one book, the Book of Books, swelling rich and full with thewisdom and beauty and joy and sorrow of humanity--a book that sethumility like a diamond in the forehead of virtue; that found mercy andcharity outcasts among the minds of men and left them radiant queens inthe world's heart; that stickled not to describe the gorgeous esotery ofcorroding passion and shamed it with the purity of Mary Magdelen; thatdragged from the despair of old Job the uttermost poison-drop of doubtand answered it with the noble problem of organized existence; thatteems with murder and mistake and glows with all goodness and honestaspiration--that is the Book of Books. There hasn't been one writtensince that has crossed the boundary of its scope. What would thatbook be after some goody-goody had expurgated it of evil and left itsterilized in butter and sugar? Let no ignorant paternal Czar, rulingover cottage or mansion, presume to keep from the mind and heart ofyouth the vigorous knowledge and observation of evil and good, crime andvirtue together. No chaff, no wheat; no dross, no gold; no human faultsand weaknesses, no heavenly hope. And if any gentleman does not likethe sentiment, he can find me at my usual place of residence, unless heintends violence--and be hanged, also, to him!

 * * * * *

A novel is a novel, and there are no bad ones in the world, except thoseyou do not happen to like. Suppose a boy started with Robinson Crusoeand was scientifically and criminally steered by the hand of misguided"culture" to Scott and Dickens and Cooper and Hawthorne--all theclassics, in fact, so that he would escape the vulgar thousands? Answera straight question, ye old rooters between a thousand miles of muslinlids--would you have been willing to miss "The Gunmaker of Moscow" backyonder in the green days of say forty years ago? What do you think ofProf. William Henry Peck's "Cryptogram?" Were not Sylvanus Cobb, Jr. , and Emerson Bennett authors of renown--honor to their dust, wherever itlies! Didn't you read Mrs. Southworth's "Capitola" or the "Hidden Hand"long before "Vashti" was dreamed of? Don't you remember that No. 52of Beadle's Dime Library (light yellowish red paper covers) was"Silverheels, the Delaware, " and that No. 77 was "Schinderhannes, the Outlaw of the Black Forest?" I yield to no man in affection andreverence for M. Dumas, Mr. Thackeray and others of the higher circles, but what's the matter with Ned Buntline, honest, breezy, vigorous, swinging old Ned? Put the "Three Guardsmen" where you will, but there isalso room for "Buffalo Bill, the Scout. " When I first saw Col. Cody, anornament to the theatre and a painful trial to the drama, and realizedthat he was Buffalo Bill in the flesh--why, I was glad I had also read"Buffalo Bill's Last Shot"--(may he never shoot it). The day has passedforever, probably, when Buffalo Bill shall shout to his other scouts, "You set fire to the girl while I take care of the house!" or viceversa, and so saying, bear the fainting heroine triumphantly off fromthe treacherous redskins. But the story has lived. 

 * * * * *

It was a happy and honored custom in the old days for subscribers to theNew York Ledger and the New York Weekly to unite in requests for theserial republication of favorite stories in those great firesideluminaries. They were the old-fashioned, broadside sheets and, ofcourse, there were insuperable difficulties against preserving thenumbers. After a year or two, therefore, there would awaken a generalhunger among the loyal hosts to "read the story over, " and when thedemand was sufficiently strong the publishers would repeat it, cuts, divisions, and all, just as at first. How many times the "Gunmakerof Moscow" was repeated in the Ledger, heaven knows. I remember Ipetitioned repeatedly for "Buffalo Bill" in the Weekly, and we gotit, too, and waded through it again. By wading, I don't mean pushinglaboriously and tediously through, but, by George! half immersion in thejoy. It was a week between numbers, and a studious and appreciative boymade no bones of reading the current weekly chapters half a dozen timesover while waiting for the next. 

It must have been ten years later that I felt a thrill at the coming ofBuffalo Bill himself in his first play. I had risen to the dignity ofdramatic critic upon a journal of limited civilization and boundlesspolitics, and was privileged to go behind the scenes at the theatre andactually speak to the actors. (I interviewed Mary Anderson during herfirst season, in the parlor of the local hotel, where honest GeorgeBristow--who kept the cigar stand and could not keep a healthyappetite--always gave a Thanksgiving order for "two-whole-roast turkeysand a piece of breast, " and they were served, too, the whole ones goingto some near-by hospital, and the piece of breast to George's honeststomach--good, kind soul that he was. And Miss Anderson chewed gumduring the whole period of the interview to the intense amusement ofmy elder and brother dramatic critic, who has since become the honoredgovernor of his adopted state, and toward whom I beg to look withaffectionate memory of those days. ) Now, when a man has known novelsintimately, has been dramatic critic, and has traveled with a circus, itseems to me in all reason he can not fairly have any other earthlyjoys to desire. At fifteen I was walking on tip-toe about the houseon Sundays, and going off to the end of the garden to softly whistle"weekday" tunes, and at twenty I stood off the wings L. U. E. , and hadtwenty "Black Crook" coryphees in silk tights and tarletan squeezepast in line, and nod and say, "Is it going all right in front?"They--knew--I--was--the--Critic! When you can do that you can laugh atByron, roosting around upon inaccessible mountain crags and formulatingsolitude and indigestion into poetry!

I waited for Buffalo Bill's coming with feelings that can not bedescribed. It was impossible to expect to meet Sir William Wallacein the flesh, or Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe, or Capt. D'Artagnan, orUmslopogaas, or any one of a thousand great fighting heroes; but herewas Buffalo Bill, just as great and glorious and dashing and handsomeas any of them, and my right hand tingled to be grasped in that of theBayard of the Prairies. And that hand's desire was attained. In hisdressing-room between acts I sat nervously on a chair while the splendidApollo of frontiersmen, in buckskin and beads, sat on his trunk, withhis long, shapely legs sprawled gracefully out, his head thrown back sothat the mane of brown hair should hang behind. It was glistening withoil and redolent of barber's perfume. And we talked there as one manto another, each apparently without fear. I was certainly nervous andtimid, but he did not notice it, and I am frank to say he did not appearto feel the slightest personal fear of me. Thus, face to face, I saw theman with whom I had trod Ned Buntline's boundless plains and had seenand encountered a thousand perils and redskins. When the act call came, and I rose to go, a man stopped at the door and said to him:

"What shall it be to-night, Colonel?"

"A big beef-steak and a bottle of Bass!" answered Buffalo Bill heartily, "and tell 'ern to have it hot and ready at 11:15. "

The beef-steak and Bass' ale were the watchwords of true heroism. Thereal hero requires substantial filling. He must have a head and aheart--but no less a good, healthy and impatient stomach. 

In the daily paper the morning I write this I see the announcement ofBuffalo Bill's "Wild West Show" coming two week's hence. Good luck tohim! He can't charge prices too steep for me, and there are six seatsnecessary--the best in the amphitheater. And I wish I could be sure thevigorous spirit of Ned Buntline would be looking down from the blue skyoverhead to see his hero charge the hill of San Juan at the head of theRough Riders. 

 * * * * *

This digression may be wide of the subject of novel reading, but thereal novel reader is at home anywhere. He has thoughts, dreams, reveries, fancies. All the world is his novel and all actions arestories and all the actors are characters. When Lucile Western, theexcellent American actress, was at the height of her powers, not longbefore her last appearances, she had as her leading man a big, slouchyand careless person, who was advertised as "the talented young Englishactor, William Whally. " In the intimacies of private association he wasknown as Bill Whally, and his descent was straight down from "MountSinai's awful height. " He was a Hebrew and no better or more uneven andreckless actor ever played melodramatic "heavies. " He had a love forShakespeare, but could not play him; he had a love of drink and couldgratify it. His vigorous talents purchased for him much forbearance. I've seen Mr. Whally play the fastidious and elegant "Sir ArchibaldLevison" in shiny black doe-skin trousers and old-fashioned clothgaiters, because his condition rendered the problem of dressing somewhatdoubtful, though it could not obscure his acting. He was the onlywalking embodiment of "Bill Sykes" I ever saw, and I contracted thehabit of going to see him kill Miss Western as "Nancy" because hebutchered that young woman with a broken chair more satisfactorily thananybody else I ever saw. There was a murderer for you--Bill Sykes! Badas he was in most things, let us not forget that--he--killed--Nancy--and--killed--her--well and--thoroughly. If that young woman didn'tsnivel herself under a just sentence of death, I'm no fit householder toserve on a jury. Every time Miss Western came around it was my custom toread up fresh on "Oliver Twist" and hurry around and enjoy Bill Whally'shappy application of retribution with the aid of the old property chair. There were six other persons whom I succeeded in persuading to applaudthe scene with me every time it was acted. 

But there's a separate chapter for villains. 

 * * * * *

Let us return to the old novels. What curious pranks time plays withtastes and vogues. Forty years ago N. P. Willis was just faded. Yet hewas long a great comet of literary glitter and obscured many men of muchgreater ability. Everybody read him; the annuals hung upon his name; theladies regarded him as a finer and more dashing Byron than Byron. The place he filled was much like that of Congreve, before whomShakespeare's great nose was out of joint for a long time; Congreve, whowas the margarita aluminata major of English poesy and drama and publiclife, and is now found in junk stores and in the back line on bookshelves and whom nobody reads now. Willis had his languid affectations, his superficial cynicism and added to them ostentatious sentimentality. 

Does anybody read William Gilmore Simm's elaborate rhetoric disguised asnovels? He must have written two dozen of them, the Richardson of theUnited States. Lovers of delicious wit and intellectual humor stillread Dr. Holmes' essays, but it would probably take a physician'sprescription to make them swallow the novels. In what dark corners ofthe library are Bayard Taylor's novels and travels hidden? Will you comeinto the garden, Maud, and read Chancellor Walworth's mighty tragediesand Miss Mulock's Swiss-toy historical novels, or will you beg off, likethe honest girl you are, and take a nap? Your sleepiness, dear MissMaud, does you credit. By the way, what the deuce is the name of anyoneof these novels? I can recall "Elsie Vernier, " by Dr. Holmes and thenthere is a blank. 

But what classics they were--then! In the thick of them had appeared anewspaper story that struggled through and was printed in book form. Oldfriends have told me how they waited at the country post-offices toget a copy, delayed for weeks. It was a scandal to read it in somelocalities. It was fiercely attacked as an outrageous exaggerationproduced by temporary excitement and hostile feeling, or praised as anew gospel. It has been translated into every tongue having a printingpress, and has sold by millions of copies. It was "Uncle Tom's Cabin. "It was not a classic, but what a vigorous immortal mongrel of humansentiment it was! What a row was kicked up over Miss Braddon's"Octoroon, " and what an impossible yellowback it was! The toughest pieceof fiction I met with as a boy was "Sanford and Merton, " and I've beenaching to say so for four pages. If this world were full of Sanfordsand Mertons, then give me Jupiter or some other comfortable planet at asecure sanitary distance removed. 

I can't even remember the writers who were grammatically andrhetorically perfect forty years ago, and also very dull with it all. Is there a bookshelf that holds "Leni Leoti, or The Flower of thePrairies?" There are "Jane Eyre, " "Lady Audley's Secret, " and "JohnHalifax, Gentleman, " which will go with many and are all well worth thereading, too. Are Mrs. Eliza A. Dupuy, Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz and Augusta J. Evans dead? Their novels stilllive--look at the book stores. "Linda, or the Young Pilot of the BelleCreole, " "India, the Pearl of Pearl River, " "The Planter's NorthernBride, " "St. Elmo"--they were fiction for you! A boy old enough to havea first sweetheart could swallow them by the mile. 

You remember, when we were boys, the circus acrobats always--always, remember--rubbed young children with snake-oil and walloped them with arawhide to educate them in tumbling and contortion? Well, if I could getthe snake-oil for the joints and a curly young wig, I'd like to get backat five hundred of those books and devour them again--"as of yore!"

VI

RASCALS

BEING A DISCOURSE UPON GOOD, HONEST SCOUNDRELISM AND VILLAINS. 

The people that inhabit novels are like other peoples of the earth--ifthey are peaceful, they have no history. So that, therefore, in novels, as in nations, it is the great restless heights of society that are tobe approached with greatest awe and that engage admiration and regard. Everybody is interested in Nero, but not one person in ten thousand cantell you anything definite about Constantine or even Marcus Aurelius. Ifyou should speak off-handedly about Amelia Sedley in the presence of athousand average readers you would probably miss 85 per cent. Of effect;if you said Becky Sharp the whole thousand would understand. 

There is this to be said of disreputable folk, that they are clever andpicturesque and interesting, at least. 

An elderly jeweler in New York City was arrested several years agoupon the charge of receiving stolen gold and silver plate, watches andjewelry from well-known thieves. For forty years he had been a respectedmerchant, a church officer, a husband, father, and citizen, ofirreproachable reputation, with enduring friendships. He was charitable, liberal and kindly. For decade after decade he was the experienced, wiseand fatherly "fence" of professional burglars and thieves. Why, it wouldbe an education in itself to know that man, to shake his honest hand, fresh from charity or concealment, and smoke a pipe with him andhear him talk about things frankly. When he gave to the missionarycollection, rest assured he gave sincerely; when he "covered swag, "into the melting pot for an industrious burglar, he did so only in theregular course of business. 

Strange as it may seem, even criminals have human feelings in commonwith all of us. The old Thug who stepped aside into the bushes andprayed earnestly while his son was throwing his first strangling clotharound the throat of the English traveler--prayed for that son'shonorable, successful beginning in his life devotion--was a good father. And when he was told that the son had acted with unusual skill, whocan doubt that his tears of joy were sincere and humble tears ofthankfulness? At least Bowanee knew. Can you not imagine a kind-heartedChinese matron saying to her neighbor over the bamboo fence, "Yes, we sent the baby down to the beach (or the river bank or the forest)yesterday. We couldn't afford to keep it. I hope the gods have taken itslittle soul. At any rate it is sure of salvation hereafter. "

 * * * * *

Some twenty years ago I took the night train from Pineville toBarbourville, in the Kentucky mountains, reaching the latter placeabout 11 o'clock of a cold, rainy, dark November night. Only one otherpassenger alighted. There was an express wagon to take us to the town, a mile or so distant, and the wagon was already heavy with freightpackages. The road was through a narrow lane, hub-deep with mud, andwhat, with stalling and resting, we were more than half an hour gettingto the hotel. My fellow passenger was about my age, and was ashrewd, well-informed native of the vicinity. He knew the mineral, timber and agricultural resources, was evidently an enterprisingbusiness man and an intelligent but not voluble talker. He accepted acigar, and advised me to see the house in Barbourville where the lateJustice Samuel Miller was born. At the hotel he registered first, and, as he was going to leave next day and I was to remain several days, hetold the clerk to give me the better of the two rooms vacant. It was avery pleasant act of thoughtfulness. The name on the register was "A. Johnson. " The next day I asked the clerk about Mr. Johnson. My fellowpassenger was Andy Johnson, whose fame as a feud-fighter and slayer ofmen has never been exceeded in the history of mountain feuds. He thenhad three or four men to his credit, definitely, and several doubtfulascriptions. He added a few more, I believe, before he met theinevitable. 

Now, while Mr. Johnson, in all matters where killing seemed to him to beappropriate, was a most prompt and accurate man in accomplishing it, yethe was not the murderer that ignorant and isolated folks conceive suchpersons to be. The cigar I had given him was a very bad, cheap cigar, and, if he had merely wanted murder, he had every reason to kill me forgiving it to him, and he had a perfect night for the deed. But he smokedit to the stub without a complaint or remark and saw that I got the bestroom in the hotel. Johnson was a cautious and considerate fellow-man, whose murders were doubtless private hobbies and exercises growing outof his environment and heredity. 

One of the houses I most delight to enter in a certain town is one whereI am always sure to see a devoted and happy wife and beautiful, playfulchildren clustering around the armchair in which sits a man whocommitted one of the most cold-blooded assassinations you can imagine. He is an honored, esteemed and model citizen. His acquittal was amiracle in a million chances. He has justified it. It is beautiful tosee those happy children clinging to the hand that--

Well, dear friends, the dentist is not a cruel man in his socialcapacity, and you can get delicious viands instead of nauseous medicinesat the doctor's private table. 

That is why beginning novel readers should take no advice. Strike outalone through the highways and lanes of story, character and experience. The best novelist is the one who fears not to tell you the truth, whichis more wonderful than fiction. It is always the best hearts that bendto mistakes. Absolute virtue is as sterile as granite rock; absolutevice is as poisonous as a stagnant pond. No healthy interest orspeculation can linger about either. Enter into the struggle and knowhuman nature; don't stay outside and try to appear superior. 

For, which of us has not his crimes of thought to account for? Thinknot, because Andy Johnson or William Sykes or Dr. Webster actuallykilled his man, that you are guiltless, because you haven't. Have younever wanted to? Answer that, in your conscience and in solitude--not tome. Speak up to yourself and then say whether the difference between youand the recorded criminal is not merely the difference between the overtact and the faltering wish. It is a matter of courage or of custom. Speaking for one gentleman, who knows himself and is not afraid toconfess, I can say that, while he could not kill a mouse with his ownhand, he has often murdered men in his heart. It may have been in fieryyouth over the wrong name on a dancing card, or, later, when a rivalgot the better of him in discussion, or, when the dreary bore came andwouldn't go, or, when misdirected goodness insisted on thrusting uponhim intended kindness that was wormwood and poison to the soul. Arewe not covetous (not confessedly, of course, but actually)? Is notcovetousness the thwarted desire of theft without courage? How manyof us, now--speaking man to man--can open up our veiled thoughts anddesires and then look the Ten Commandments in the eye without blushing?

 * * * * *

The bravest, noblest, gentlest gentleman I have ever known was the Countde la Fere, whom we at the Hotel de Troisville, in old Paris, called"Athos. " He was not merely sans peur et sans reproche as Bayard, but waspositive in his virtues. He fought for his friends without even askingthe cause of the fray. Yet, what a prig he seemed to be at first, withhis eternal gentle melancholy, his irreproachable courtesy, unvaryingkindness and complete unselfishness. You cannot--quite--warm--to--a--man--who --is--so--perfectly--right--that--he--embarrasses--everybody--but--the--angels. 

But, when he ordered the gloomy and awful death of the treacherousMiladi, woman though she was, and thus as a perfect gentleman took onhuman frailty also, ah! how attractively noble and strong he became I Inthat respect he was the antithetical corollary of William Sykes, who wasa purposeless, useless and uninterestingly regular scoundrel, thief andbrute, until he redeemed himself by becoming the instrument of socialjustice and pounding that unendurable lady, Miss Nancy, of his name, into absence from the world. Perhaps I have remarked before--and even ifI have it is pleasant to repeat it--that Bill Sykes had his faults, asalso have most of us, but it was given to him to earn forgiveness by theaid of a cheap chair and the providential propinquity of Miss Nancy. Inever think of it without regretting that poor Bill Whally is dead. Hedid it--so--much--to--my--taste!

Who shall we say is the most loved and respected criminal in fiction?Not Monsignor Rodin, of "The Wandering Jew;" not Thenardier in "LesMiserables. " These are really not criminals; they are allegoricalfigures of perfect crime. They are solar centers, so far off and fixedthat one may regard them only with awe, reverence and fear. They aretypes of fate, desire, temptation and chastisement. Let us turn to ourown flesh and blood and speak gratefully of them. 

 * * * * *

Who says Count Fosco? Now there is a criminal worthy of affection andconfidence. What an expansive nature, with kindness presented on everyside. Even the dogs fawned upon him and the birds came at his call. Anaccomplished gentleman, considerately mannered--queer, as becomes aforeigner, yet possessing the touchstone of universal sympathy. Anotherman with crime to commit almost certainly would have dispatched it withruthless coldness; but how kindly and gently Count Fosco administeredthe cord of necessity. With what delicacy he concealed the bowstringand spoke of the Bosphorus only as a place for moonlight excursions. Hecould have presented prussic acid and sherry to a lady in such a manneras to render the results a grateful sacrifice to his courtesy. It wasall due to his corpulence; a "lean and hungry" villain lacks repose, patience and the tact of good humor. In almost every small social andindividual attitude Count Fosco was human. He was exceedingly attentiveto his wife in society and bullied her only in private and whennecessary. He struck no dramatic attitudes. "The world is mine oyster!"is not said by real men bent on terrible deeds. Count Fosco is theperfect villain, and also the perfect criminal, inasmuch as he not onlyacts naturally, but deliberately determines the action instead of beingdrawn into it or having it forced upon him. 

He was a highly cultivated type of Andy Johnson, inasmuch as crimewith him was not a life purpose, but what is called in business a"side-line. " All of us have our hobbies; the closely confined clerk goeshome and roots up his yard to plant flower bulbs or cabbage plants;another fancies fowls; another man collects pewter pots and old brassand the millionaire takes to priceless horses; others of us turn fromuseful statistics and go broke on novels or poetry or music. Count Foscowas an educated gentleman and the pleasure of life was his purpose;crime and intrigue were his recreations. Andy Johnson was a goodbusiness man and wealth producer; murder was the direction in whichhis private understanding of personal disagreements was exercised andvented. Some men turn to poker playing, which is as wasteful as murderand not half as dignified. Count Fosco is the villain par excellence ofnovels. I do not remember what he did, because "The Woman in White" isthe best novel in the world to read gluttonously at a sitting and thenforget absolutely. It is nearly always a new book if you use it thatway. When the world is dark, the fates bilious, the appetite dead andthe infernal twinges of pain or sickness seem beyond reach of thedoctor, "The Woman in White" is a friend indeed. 

 * * * * *

But the man of men for villains, not necessarily criminals; but theordinary, every-day, picturesque worthies of good, honest scoundrelismand disreputableness is Sir Robert Louis Stevenson. You can affordconscientiously to stuff ballot boxes in order that his election may besecured as Poet Laureate of Rascals. Leaving out John Silver and BillyBones and Alan Breck, whom every privately shriven rascal of us simplymust honor and revere as giants of courage, cunning and controlled, conscience, Stevenson turned from singles and pairs, and in "The EbbTide, " drove, by turns, tandem and abreast, a four-in-hand of scoundrelsso buoyant, natural, strong, and yet each so totally unlike the others, that every honest novel reader may well be excused for shedding tearswhen he reflects that the marvelous hand and heart that created them aregone forever from the haunts of the interestingly wicked. No novelistever exposed the human nature of rascals as Stevenson did. 

Now, lago was not a villain; he was a venomous toad, a scorpion, amad-dog, a poisonous plant in a fair meadow. There was nobody lagoloved, no weakness he concealed, no point of contact with any humanbeing. His sister was Pandora, his brother made the shirt of Nessus, himself dealt in Black Plagues and the Leprosy. The old Serpent waspermitted to rise from his belly and walk upright on the tip of his tailwhen he met Iago, as a demonstration of moral superiority. But thinkof those three Babes-in-the-Wood villains, skipper Davis, the Yankeeswashbuckler and ship scuttler; Herrick, the dreamy poet, ruined bycommerce and early love, with his days of remorse and his days ofcompensatary liquor; and Huish, the great-hearted Scotch ruffian, whochafed at the conventional concealments of trade among pals and nevercould--as a true Scotchman--understand why you should wait to use aknife upon a victim when promptness lay in the club right at hand--thinkof them sailing out of Honolulu harbor on the Farallone. 

Let who will prefer to have sailed with Jason or Aeneas or Sinbad; butthe Farallone and its precious freight of rascality gets my money everytime. Think of the three incomparable reprobates afloat, with one caseof smallpox and a cargo of champagne, daring to make no port, with overa hundred million square miles of ocean around them, every ten lookoutknots of it containing a possible peril! It was simply grand--notpirates, shipwrecks or mutinies could beat that problem. And the pathosof the sixth day, when, with every man Jack of them looking deliriumtremens in the face and suspecting each the other, Mr. Huish opened anew case of champagne and--found clear spring water under the Frenchlabel! The honest scoundrels had been laid by the heels by a common winemerchant in the regular way of business! Oh, gentlemen, there should behonor in business; so that gallant villains can be free of betrayal. 

The keynote of these gentlemen is struck in the second chapter, whereall three of them writing lies home--Davis and Herrick, sentimentalequivocations, Huish the strongest of brag with nobody to send it to. In a burst of weakness Davis tells Herrick what a villain he has been, through rum, and how he can not let his daughter, "little Adar, " knowit. "Yes, there was a woman on board, " he said, describing the ship hehad scuttled. "Guess I sent her to hell, if there's such a place. Inever dared go home again, and I don't know, " he added, bitterly, "what's come to them. "

"Thank you, Captain, " said Herrick, "I never liked you better!"

Is it not in human nature to cuddle to a great sheepish murderer likethat, who groans in secret for his little girl--if even the girl wastruth? I think she turned out a myth, but he had the sentiment. 

Was there ever a more melancholy, remorse-stricken wretch than Cap'nDavis? Or a gentler and seedier poet than Herrick? Or a more finelysodden and soaked old rum sport than Huish (not--Whish!) But it was notuntil they fell in with Attwater that their weakness as scoundrels wasexposed. Attwater was so splendidly religious! He was determined to havethings right if he had to have them so by bloodshed; he saved souls bybullets. Things were right when they were as he thought they shouldbe. And believing so, with Torquemada, Alexander Sixtus and other mostreligious brethren, he was ready to set up the stake and fagot andcauterize sin with fire. One thing you can say about the religious folksthat are big with cocksureness and a mission--they may make mistakes, but the mistake doesn't talk and criticise. 

 * * * * *

The only rascal worthy to travel in company with Stevenson's rascals isthe Chevalier Balibari, of Castle Barry, in Ireland, whose admirablememoirs have been so well told by Mr. Thackeray. The Baron de la Mottein "Denis Duval, " was advantageously born to ornament the purple andfine linen of picturesque unrighteousness--but his was a brief star thatfell unfinished from its place amidst the Pleiades. Thackeray's geniusran more to disreputable men than to actual villains. But he drew twoscoundrels that will serve as beacon lights to any clean-souled youthwith the instinct to take warning. One was Lord Steyne, the other, Dr. George Brand Firmin; one the aristocratic, class-bred, cynical brute, the other the cold, tuft-hunting trained hypocrite. What encouragementof self-respect Judas Iscariot might have received if he had met Dr. Firmin!

Dr. Chadband, Mr. Pecksniff, Bill Sykes, Fagin, Mr. Murdstone, ofDickens' family--they are all strong in impression, but wholly unreal;mere stage villains and caricatures. A villain who has no good traits, no hobbies of kindness and affection, is never born into the world; heis always created by grotesque novel writers. 

The villains of Dumas, Hugo, Balzac, Daudet are French. There may havebeen, or may be now such prototypes alive in France--because the Dreyfuscase occurred in France, and no doubt much can happen in that fine, fertile country which translators cannot fully convey over thefrontiers; but they have always seemed to me first cousins to myfriends, the ogres, the evil magicians and the werewolves, and, in thatmuch, not quite natural. 

For heroes of the genuine cavalleria type, plumed, doubleted, pumpt andmagnificent, give me Dumas; for good folks and true, the great AmericanFenimore Cooper; but for the blessed company of blooming, breathingrascals, Stevenson and Thackeray all the time. 

VII

HEROES

THE NATURE AND THE FLOWER OF THEM--THE GALLANT D'ARTAGNAN OR THEGLORIOUS BUSSY. 

Let us agree at the start that no perfect hero can be entirely mortal. The nearer the element of mortality in him corresponds to the heelmeasure of Achilles, the better his chance as hero. The Egyptian andGreek heroes were invariably demi-gods on the paternal or maternal side. Few actual historic heroes have escaped popular scandal concerning theirorigin, because the savage logic in us demands lions from a lion; thatTheseus shall trace to Mars; that courage shall spring from courage. 

Another most excellent thing about the ideal hero is that the immortalquality enables him to go about the business of his heroism withoutbothering his head with the rights or wrongs of it, except as theprevailing sentiment of social honor (as distinguished from the inbornsentiment of honesty) requires at the time. Of course, there is a lowergrade of measly, "moral heroes, " who (thank heaven and the innate senseof human justice!) are usually well peppered with sorrow and punishment. The hero of romance is a different stripe; Hyperion to a Satyr. Hedoesn't go around groaning page after page of top-heavy debates as tothe inherent justice of his cause or his moral right to thrust a tallowcandle between the particular ribs behind which the heart of his enemyis to be found--balancing his pros and cons, seeking a quo for eachquid, and conscientiously prowling for final authorities. When youinvade the chiropodical secret of the real hero's fine boot, or brushhim in passing--if you have looked once too often at a certain lady, orhave stood between him and the sun, or even twiddled your thumbs at himin an indecorous or careless manner--look to it that you be preparedto draw and mayhap to be spitted upon his sword's point, with honor. Sdeath! A gentlemen of courage carries his life lightly at the needleend of his rapier, as that wonderful Japanese, Samsori, used to make theflimsiest feather preside in miraculous equilibration upon the tip ofhis handsome nose. 

No hero who does more or less than is demanded by the best practicalopinion of the society of his time is worth more than thirty cents as ahero. Boys are literary and dramatic critics so far above the criticsformed by strained formulas of the schools that you can trust them. They have an unerring distrust of the fellow who moves around with hisconfounded conscientious scruples, as if the well-settled opinion of thebreathing world were not good enough for him! Who the deuce has got anybusiness setting everybody else right?

Some of these days I believe it is going to be discovered that theatmosphere and the encompassing radiance and sweetness of Heaven arecomposed of the dear sighs and loving aspirations of earthly motherhood. If it turns out otherwise, rest assured Heaven will not have reachedits perfect point of evolution. Why is it, then, that motherswill--will--will--try, so mistakenly, to extirpate the jewel of honest, manly savagery from the breasts of their boys? I wonder if they knowthat when grown men see one of these "pretty-mannered boys, " cocksureas a Swiss toy new painted and directed by watch spring, they feel anunholy impulse to empty an ink-bottle over the young calf? Fauntleroykids are a reproach to our civilization. Men, women and children, all ofus, crowd around the grimy Deignan of the Merrimac crew, and shout andcheer for Bill Smith, the Rough Rider, who carried his mate out of theruck at San Juan and twirls his hat awkwardly and explains: "Ef I hadn'ta saw him fall he would 'a' laid thar yit!"--and go straight home andpretend to be proud of a snug little poodle of a man who doesn't playfor fear of soiling his picture-clothes, and who says: "Yes, sir, thankyou, " and "No, thank you, ma'am, " like a French doll before it has hadthe sawdust kicked out of it!

 * * * * *

Now, when a hero tries to stamp his acts with the precise quality ofexact justice--why, he performs no acts. He is no better than that poortongue-loose Hamlet, who argues you the right of everything, and then, by the great Jingo! piles in and messes it all by doing the wrong thingat the wrong time and in the wrong manner. It is permitted of course tobe a great moral light and correct the errors of all the dust of earththat has been blown into life these ages; but human justice has beenmeasured out unerringly with poetry and irony to such folk. They areadmitted to be saints, but about the time they have got too good fortheir earthly setting, they have been tied to stakes and lighted upwith oil and faggots; or a soda phosphate with a pinch of cyanide ofpotassium inserted has been handed to them, as in the case of our oldfriend, Socrates. And it's right. When a man gets too wise and good forhis fellows and is embarrassed by the healthful scent of good humannature, send him to heaven for relief, where he can have the goodlyfellowship of the prophets, the company of the noble army of martyrs, and amuse himself suggesting improvements upon the vocal selectionsof cherubim and seraphim! Impress the idea upon these gentry withwarmth--and--with--oil!

 * * * * *

The ideal hero of fiction, you say, is Capt. D'Artagnan, first nameunknown, one time cadet in the Reserves of M. De Troisville's company ofthe King's Guards, intrusted with the care of the honor and safety ofHis Majesty, Louis XIV. Very well; he is a noble gentleman; thechoice does honor to your heart, mind and soul; take him and hold theremembrance of his courage, loyalty, adroitness and splendid endurancewith hooks of steel. For myself, while yielding to none who honorthe great D'Artagnan, yet I march under the flag of the Sieur Bussyd'Amboise, a proud Clermont, of blood royal in the reign of Henry III. , who shed luster upon a court that was edified by the wisdom of M. Chicot, the "King's Brother, " the incomparable jester and philosopher, who would have himself exceeded all heroes except that he despised theactors and the audience of the world's theater and performed valiantfeats only that he might hang his cap and bells upon the achievements inridicule. 

Can it be improper to compare D'Artagnan and Bussy--when the intentionis wholly respectful and the motive pure? If a single protest isheard, there will be an end to this paper now--at once. There are somecomparisons that strengthen both candidates. For, we must consider theextent of the theater and the stage, the space of time covering theachievements, the varying conditions, lights and complexities. As, forinstance, the very atmosphere in which these two heroes moved, theaccompaniment of manner which we call the "air" of the histories, andwhich are markedly different. The contrast of breeding, quality andrefinement between Bussy and D'Artagnan is as great as that whichdistinguishes Mercutio from the keen M. Chicot. Yet each was his ownideal type. Birth and the superior privileges of the haute noblesseconferred upon the Sieur Bussy the splendid air of its own sufficientprestige; the lack of these require of D'Artagnan that his intelligence, courage and loyal devotion should yet seem to yield something of theirgreatness in the submission that the man was compelled to pay tothe master. True, this attitude was atoned for on occasion by bluntboldness, but the abased position and the lack of subtle distinction ofair and mind of the noble, forbade to the Fourth Mousquetaire the lastgracious touch of a Bayard of heroism. But the vulgarity was itselfheroic. 

 * * * * *

Compare the first appearance of the great Gascon at the Hotel deTroisville, or even his manner and attitude toward the King when hesought to warn that monarch against forgetfulness of loyalty proved, with the haughty insolence of indomitable spirit in which Bussy threwback to Henry the shuttle of disfavor on the night of that remarkablewedding of St. Luc with the piquant little page soubrette, Jeanne deBrissac. 

D'Artagnan's air to his King has its pathos. It seems to say: "I speakbluntly, sire, knowing that my life is yours and yet feeling that it istoo obscure to provoke your vengeance. " A very hard draught for a man offire and fearlessness to take without a gulp. But into Bussy's mannertoward his King there was this flash of lightning from Olympus: "Mylife, sire, is yours, as my King, to take or leave; but not even youmay dare to think of taking the life of Bussy with the dust of leastreproach upon it. My life you may blow out; my honor you do not dareapproach to question!"

There are advantages in being a gentleman, which can not be denied. Oneis that it commands credit in the King's presence as well as at thetailor's. 

It is interesting to compare both these attitudes with that of"Athos, " the Count de la Fere, toward the King. He was lacking inthe irresistibly fierce insolence of Bussy and in the abasement ofD'Artagnan; it was melancholy, patient, persistent and terrible in itsrestrained calmness. How narrowly he just escaped true greatness. Iwould no more cast reproaches upon that noble gentleman than I wouldupon my grandmother; but he--was--a--trifle--serous, wasn't he? He wasbrave, prompt, resourceful, splendid, and, at need, gingerish as thebest colt in the paddock. It is the deuce's own pity for a man to beborn to too much seriousness. Do you know--and as I love my country, Imean it in honest respect--that I sometimes think that the gentlenessand melancholy of Athos somehow suggests a bit of distrust. One isalmost terrified at times lest he may begin the Hamlet controversies. You feel that if he committed a murder by mistake you are not absolutelysure he wouldn't take a turn with Remorse. Not so Bussy; he would throwthe mistake in with good will and not create worry about it. Hang itall, if the necessary business of murder is to halt upon the shufflingaccident of mistake, we may as well sell out the hero business and rentthe shop. It would be down to the level of Hamlet in no time. Unless, ofcourse, the hero took the view of it that Nero adopted. It is improbablethat Nero inherited the gift of natural remorse; but he cultivated oneand seemed to do well with it. He used to reflect upon his mother andhis wife, both of whom he had affectionately murdered, and justifiedhimself by declaring that a great artist, who was also the RomanEmperor, would be lacking in breadth of emotional experience andretrospective wisdom, unless he knew the melancholy of a two-prongedfamily remorse. And from Nero's standpoint it was one of the bestthoughts that he ever formulated into language. 

To return to Bussy and D'Artagnan. In courage they were Hector andAchilles. You remember the champagne picnic before the bastion St. Gervais at the siege of St. Rochelle? What light-hearted gayety amid theflying missiles of the arquebusiers! Yet, do not forget that--ignoringthe lacquey--there were four of them, and that his Eminence, theCardinal Duke, had said the four of them were equal to a thousand men!If you have enough knowledge of human nature to understand the finegame of baseball, and have at any time scraped acquaintance with theinteresting mathematical doctrine of progressive permutations, you willsee, when four men equal to a thousand are under the eyes of each other, and of the garrison in the fort, that the whole arsenal of logarithmswould give out before you could compute the permutative possibilitiesof the courage that would be refracted, reflected, compounded andconcentrated by all there, each giving courage to and receiving couragefrom each and all the others. It makes my head ache to think of it. Ifeel as if I could be brave myself. 

Certainly they were that day. To the bitter end of finishing the meal;and they confessed the added courage by gamboling like boys amid awfulthunders of the arquebuses, which made a rumble in their time like theirsuccessors, the omnibuses, still make to this day on the granite streetsof cities populated by deaf folks. 

There never was more of a gay, lilting, impudent courage than those fourmousquetaires displayed with such splendid coolness and spirit. 

But compare it with the fight which Bussy made, single-handed, againstthe assassins hired by Monsereau and authorized by that effeminatefop, the Due D'Anjou. Of course you remember it. Let me pay you theaffectionate compliment of presuming that you have read "La Dame deMonsereau, " often translated under the English title, "Chicot, theJester, " that almost incomparable novel of historical romance, by M. Dumas. If, through some accident or even through lack of culture, youhave failed to do so, pray do not admit it. Conceal your blemish andremedy the matter at once. At least, seem to deserve respect andconfidence, and appear to be a worthy novel-reader if actually you arenot. There is a novel that, I assure you on my honor, is as good asthe "Three Guardsmen;" but--oh!--so--much--shorter; the pity of it, too!--oh, the pity of it! On the second reading--now, let us speak withfrank conservatism--on the second reading of it, I give you my word, manto man, I dreaded to turn every page, because it brought the end nearer. If it had been granted to me to have one wish fulfilled that fine winternight, I should have said with humility: "Beneficent Power, string itout by nine more volumes, presto me here a fresh box of cigars, and theaccount of your kindness, and my gratitude is closed. "

 * * * * *

If the publisher of this series did not have such absurd sensitivenessabout the value of space and such pitifully small ideas about thenobility of novels, I should like to write at least twenty pages about"Chicot. " There are books that none of us ever put down in our lists ofgreat books, and yet which we think more of and delight more in than allthe great guns. Not one of the friends I've loved so long and well hasbeen President of the United States, but I wouldn't give one of them forall the Presidents. Just across the hall at this minute I can hear thefrightful din of war--shells whistling and moaning, bullets s-e-o-uing, the shrieks of the dying and wounded--Merciful Heaven! the "Don Juanof Asturia" has just blown up in Manila Bay with an awful roar--again!Again, as I'm a living man, just as she has blown up every day, andseveral times every day, since May 1, 1898. There are two warriors overin the play-room, drenched with imaginary gore, immersed in the tendergrace of bestowing chastening death and destruction upon the Spanishfoe. Don't I know that they rank somewhat below Admiral Dewey as heroes?But do you suppose that their father would swap them for Admiral Deweyand all the rainbow glories that fine old Yankee sea-dog ever willenjoy--long may he live to enjoy them all!--do you think so? Of coursenot! You know perfectly well that his--wife--wouldn't--let--him!

I would not wound the susceptibilities of any reader; but speaking formyself--"Chicot" being beloved of my heart--if there was a mean man, living in a mean street, who had the last volume of "Chicot" inexistence, I would pour out my library's last heart's blood to getit. He could have all of Scott but "Ivanhoe, " all of Dickens but"Copperfield, " all of Hugo but "Les Miserables, " cords of Fielding, Marryat, Richardson, Reynolds, Eliot, Smollet, a whole ton of Germantranslations--by George! he could leave me a poor old despoiled, destitute and ruined book-owner in things that folks buy in costlybindings for the sake of vanity and the deception of those who alsodeceive them in turn. 

Brother, "Chicot" is a book you lend only to your dearest friend, andthen remind him next day that he hasn't sent it back. 

 * * * * *

Now, as to Bussy's great fight. He had gone to the house of Madame Dianade Monsereau. I am not au fait upon French social customs, but let uspresume his being there was entirely proper, because that excellent ladywas glad to see him. He was set upon by her husband, M. De Monsereau, with fifteen hired assassins. Outside, the Due D'Anjou and some othersof assassins were in hiding to make sure that Monsereau killed Bussy, and that somebody killed Monsereau! There's a "situation" for you, double-edged treachery against--love and innocence, let us say. Bussyis in the house with Madame. His friend, St. Luc, is with him; alsohis lacquey and body-physician, the faithful Rely. Bang! the doors arebroken in, and the assassins penetrate up the stairway. The brave Bussyconfides Diana to St. Luc and Rely, and, hastily throwing up a barricadeof tables and chairs near the door of the apartment, draws his sword. Then, ye friends of sudden death and valorous exercise, began a surfeitof joy. Monsereau and his assassins numbered sixteen. In less than threemoderate paragraphs Bessy's sword, playing like avenging lightning, had struck fatality to seven. Even then, with every wrist going, hereflected, with sublime calculation: "I can kill five more, because Ican fight with all my vigor ten minutes longer!" After that? Bessy couldsee no further--there spoke fate!--you feel he is to die. Once more theleaping steel point, the shrill death cry, the miraculous parry. Thevillain, Monsereau, draws his pistol. Bessy, who is fighting halfa dozen swordsmen, can even see the cowardly purpose; he watches;he--dodges--the--bullets!--by watching the aim--

 "Ye sons of France, behold the glory!"

He thrusts, parries and swings the sword as a falchion. Suddenly apistol ball snaps the blade off six inches from the hilt. Bessy picks upthe blade and in an instant splices--it--to--the--hilt--with--his--handkerchief! Oh, good sword of the good swordsman! it drinks the bloodof three more before it--bends--and--loosens--under--the--strain! Bessyis shot in the thigh; Monsereau is upon him; the good Rely, lying almostlifeless from a bullet wound received at the outset, thrusts a rapier toBessy's grasp with a last effort. Bessy springs upon Monsereau with thegreat bound of a panther and pins--the--son--of--a--gun--to--the--floor--with--the--rapier--and--watches--him--die!

You can feel faint for joy at that passage for a good dozen readings, ifyou are appreciative. Poor Bessy, faint from wounds and blood-letting, retreats valiantly to a closet window step by step and drops out, leaving Monsereau spitted, like a black spider, dead on the floor. Herehope and expectation are drawn out in your breast like chewing gumstretched to the last shred of tenuation. At this point I firmlybelieved that Bessy would escape. I feel sorry for the reader who doesnot. You just naturally argue that the faithful Rely will surely reachhim and rub him with the balsam. That balsam of Dumas! The same thatD'Artagnan's mother gave him when he rode away on the yellow horse, and which cured so many heroes hurt to the last gasp. That miraculousbalsam, which would make doctors and surgeons sing small today if theyhad not suppressed it from the materia medica. May be they can silencetheir consciences by the reflection that they suppressed it to enhancethe value and necessity of their own personal services. But let themlook at the death rate and shudder. I had confidence in Rely and thebalsam, but he could not get there in time. Then, it was forgone thatBessy must die. Like Mercutio, he was too brilliant to live. Depend uponit, these wizards of story tellers know when the knell of fate ringsmuch sooner than we halting readers do. 

Bessy drops from the closet window upon an iron fence that surroundedthe park and was impaled upon the dreadful pickets! Even then foranother moment you can cherish a hope that he may escape after all. Suspended there and growing weaker, he hears footsteps approaching. Isit a rescuing friend? He calls out--and a dagger stroke from the hand ofD'Anjou, his Judas master, finds his heart. That's the way Bessy died. No man is proof against the dagger stroke of treachery. Bessy waspowerful and the due jealous. 

Diana has been carried off safely by the trustworthy St. Luc. She musthave died of grief if she had not been kept alive to be the instrumentof retributive justice. (In the sequel you will find that this Queen ofHearts descended upon the ignoble due at the proper time like a thousandof brick and took the last trick of justice. )

 * * * * *

The extraordinary description of Bussy's fight is beyond everything. Yougallop along as if in a whirlwind, and it is only in cooler moments thatyou discover he killed about twelve rascals with his own good arm. Itseems impossible; the scientific, careful readers have been known todeclare it impossible and sneer at it with laughter. I trust everynovel reader respects scientific folks as he should; but science is noteverything. Our scientific friends have contended that the whale did notengulf Jonah; that the sun did not pause over the vale of Askelon; thatBaron Munchausen's horse did not hang to the steeple by his bridle;that the beanstalk could not have supported a stout lad like Jack; thatGeneral Monk was not sent to Holland in a cage; that Remus and Romulushad not a devoted lady wolf for a step-mother; in fact, that loads ofthings, of which the most undeniable proof exists in plain print allover the world, never were done or never happened. Bessy was killed, Rely was killed later, Diana died in performing her destiny, St. Luc waskilled. Nobody left to make affidavits, except M. Dumas; in his lifetimenobody questioned it; he is now dead and unable to depose; whereupon thescientists sniff scornfully and deny. I hope I shall always continue torespect science in its true offices, but, brethren, are there not timeswhen--science--makes--you--just--a--little--tired?

Heroes! D'Artagnan or Bessy? Choose, good friends, freely; as freely letme have my Bessy. 

VIII

HEROINES

A SUBJECT ALMOST WITHOUT AN OBJECT--WHY THERE ARE FEW HEROINES FOR MEN. 

Notwithstanding the subject, there are almost no heroines in novels. There are impossibly good women, absurdly patient and brave women, butfew heroines as the convention of worldly thinking demands heroines. There is an endless train of what Thackeray so aptly described as "pale, pious, and pulmonary ladies" who snivel and snuffle and sigh and lingerirresolutely under many trials which a little common sense woulddissolve; but they are pathological heroines. "Little Nell, " "LittleEva, " and their married sisters are unquestionable in morals, purposeand faith; but oh! how--they--do--try--the--nerves! How brave and noblewas Jennie Deans, but how thick-headed was the dear lass!

These women who are merely good, and enforce it by turning on the faucetof tears, or by old-fashioned obstinacy, or stupidity of purpose, canscarcely be called heroines by the canons of understood definition. On the other hand, the conventions do not permit us to describe as aheroine any lady who has what is nowadays technically called "a past. "The very best men in the world find splendid heroism and virtue in Tessl'Durbeyfield. There is nowhere an honest, strong, good man, full ofweakness, though he may be, scarred so much, however with fault, whodoes not read St. John vii. , 3-11, with sympathy, reverence and Amen!The infallible critics can prove to a hair that this passage is aninterpolation. An interpolation in that sense means something insertedto deceive or defraud; a forgery. How can you defraud or deceive anybodyby the interpolation of pure gold with pure gold? How can that be aforgery which hurts nobody, but gives to everybody more value in thething uttered? If John vii. , 3-11, is an interpolation let us hopeHeaven has long ago blessed the interpolator. Does anybody--even theinfallible critic--contend that Jesus would not have so said and doneif the woman had been brought to Him? Was that not the very flower andsavor and soul of His teaching? Would He have said or done otherwise? Ifthe Ten Commandments were lost utterly from among men there would yetremain these four greater:

"Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you. "

"Suffer little children to come unto me. "

"Go and sin no more. "

"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do. "

My lords and ladies, men and women, the Ten Commandments, by the side ofthese sighs of gentleness, are the Police Court and the Criminal Code, which are intended to pay cruelty off in punishment. These Four arethe tears with which sympathy soothes the wounds of suffering. Blessedinterpolator of St. John!

There are three marvelous novels in the Bible--not Novels in the senseof fiction, but in the sense of vivid, living narratives of humanemotions and of events. A million Novels rest on those nine versesin John, and the nine verses are better than the million books. Thestory of David and Uriah's wife is in a similar catalogue as regardsquality and usefulness; the story of Esther is a pearl of great beauty. 

 * * * * *

But to return to heroines, let us make a volte face. There is an oldstory of the lady who wrote rather irritably to Thackeray, asking, curtly, why all the good women he created were fools and the brightwomen all bad. "The same complaint, " he answered, "has been made, Madame, of God and Shakespeare, and as neither has given explanation Ican not presume to attempt one. " It was curt and severe, and, of course, Thackeray did not write it as it would appear, even though he may havesaid as much jestingly to some intimate who understood the epigram;but was not the question rather impudently intrusive? Thackeray, youremember, was the "seared cynic" who created Caroline Gann, the gentle, beautiful, glorious "Little Sister, " the staunch, pure-hearted womanwhose character not even the perfect scoundrelism of Dr. George BrandFirmin could tarnish or disturb. If there are heroines, surely she hasher place high amid the noble group!

There are plenty of intelligent persons sacramentally wedded to mereconventions of good and bad. You could never persuade them that RebeccaSharp--that most perfect daughter of Thackeray's mind--was a heroine. But of course she was. In that world wherein she was cast to live shewas indubitably, incomparably, the very best of all the inhabitants towhom you are intimately introduced. Capt. Dobbin? Oh, no, I am notforgetting good Old Dob. Of all the social door mats that ever I wipedmy feet upon Old Dob is certainly the cleanest, most patient, serviceable and unrevolutionary. But, just a door mat, with the virtuesand attractions of that useful article of furniture--the sublime, immortal prig of all the ages, or you can take the head of any novel-reader under thirty for a football. You may have known many women, fromBernadettes of Massavielle to Borgias of scant neighborhoods, but youknow you never knew one who would marry Old Dob, except as thatemotional dishrag, Amelia, married him--as the Last Chance on thestretching high-road of uncertain years. No girl ever willingly marriesdoor mats. She just wipes her feet on them and passes on into thedrawing room looking for the Prince. It seems to me one of thetriumphant proofs of Becky as a heroine that she did not marry CaptainDobbin. She might have done it any day by crooking her little finger athim--but she didn't. 

Madame Becky, that smart daughter of an alcoholic gentleman artistand of his lady of the French ballet, inherited the perfect non-moralmorality of the artist blood that sang mercurially through her veins. How could she, therefore, how could she, being non-moral, be immoral? Itis clear nonsense. But she did possess the instinctive artistmorality of unerring taste for selection in choice. Examine the factsmeticulously--meticulously--and observe how carefully she selected thatbest in all that worst she moved among. 

In the will I shall some day leave behind me there will be devised, inprimogenitural trust forever, the priceless treasure of conviction thatBecky was innocent of Lord Steyne. I leave it to any gentleman who hashad the great opportunity to look in familiarly upon the outer and upperfringes of the world of unclassed and predatory women and the noblelords that abound thereamong. Let him read over again that famous scenewhere Becky writes her scorn upon Steyne's forehead in the noble bloodof that aristocratic wolf. Then let him give his decision, as an honestjuryman upon his oath, whether he is convinced that the most nobleMarquis was raging because he was losing a woman, or from the discoverythat he was one of two dupes facing each other, and that he was the foolwho had paid for both and had had "no run for his money!" Marquises ofSteyne do not resent sentimental losses--they can be hurt only in theirsportsmanship. 

You may begin with the Misses Pinkerton (in whose select school Beckyabsorbed the intricate hypocrisies and saturated snobbery of the highestEnglish society) and follow her through all the little and big turmoilsof her life, meeting on the way of it all the elaborated differentialsof the country-gentleman and lady tribe of Crawley, the line officersand bemedalled generals of the army (except honest O'Dowd and his lady), the most noble Marquis and his shadowy and resigned Marchioness, theR--y--l P--rs--n--ge himself--even down to the tuft-hunters Punter andLoder--and if Becky is not superior to every man and woman of them inevery personal trait and grace that calls for admiration--then, why, byGeorge! do you take such an interest, such an undying interest, in her?You invariably take the greatest interest in the best character in astory--unless it's too good and gets "sweety" and "sticky" and so sourson your philosophical stomach. You can't possibly take any interest inDobbin--you just naturally, emphatically, and in the most unreflectingway in the world, say "Oh, d--n Dobbin!" and go right ahead aftersomebody else. I don't say Becky was all that a perfect Sunday Schoolteacher should have been, but in the group in which she was born to moveshe smells cleaner than the whole raft of them--to me. 

 * * * * *

Thackeray was, next to Shakespeare, the writer most wonderfully combinedof instinct and reason that English literature of grace has produced. Hehas been compared with the Frenchman, Balzac. Since I have no desire toprovoke squabbles about favorite authors, let us merely definitely agreethat such a comparison is absurd and pass on. Because you must havenoticed that Balzac was often feeble in his reason and couldn't make itkeep step with his instinct, while in Thackeray they both step togetherlike the Siamese twins. It is a very striking fact, indeed, that duringall Becky's intense early experiences with the great world, Thackeraydoes not make her guilty. All the circumstances of that world wereguilty and she is placed amidst the circumstances; but that is all. 

"The ladies in the drawing room, " said one lady to Thackeray, when"Vanity Fair" in monthly parts publishing had just reached thecatastrophe of Rawdon, Rebecca, old Steyne and the bracelet--"The ladieshave been discussing Becky Sharpe and they all agree that she wasguilty. May I ask if we guessed rightly?"

"I am sure I don't know, " replied the "seared cynic, " mischievously. "Iam only a man and I haven't been able to make up my mind on that point. But if the ladies agree I fear it may be true--you must understand yoursex much better than we men!"

That is proof that she was not guilty with Steyne. But straightway then, Thackeray starts out to make her guilty with others. It is so much themore proof of her previous innocence that, incomparable artist as he wasin showing human character, he recognized that he could convince thereader of her guilt only by disintegrating her, whipping himselfmeanwhile into a ceaseless rage of vulgar abuse of her, a thing of whichThackeray was seldom guilty. But it was not really Becky thatbecame guilty--it was the woman that English society and Thackerayremorselessly made of her. I wouldn't be a lawyer for a wagon load ofdiamonds, but if I had had to be a lawyer I should have preferred tobe a solicitor at the London bar in 1817 to write the brief for therespondent in the celebrated divorce case of Crawley vs. Crawley. Against the back-ground of the world she lived in Becky could have beenpainted as meekly white and beautiful as that lovely old picture of St. Cecilia at the Choir Organ. 

Perhaps Becky was not strictly a heroine; but she was a honey. 

 * * * * *

Men can not "create" heroines in the sense of shadowing forth whatthey conceive to be the glory, beauty, courage and splendor of womanlycharacter. It is the indescribable sum of womanhood corresponding to theunutterable name of God. The true man's love of woman is a spirit senseattending upon the actual senses of seeing, hearing, feeling, tastingand smelling. The woman he loves enters into every one of these sensesand thus is impounded five-fold upon that union of all of them, which, together with the miracle of mind, composes what we call the human soulas a divine essence. She is attached to every religion, yet enters withauthority into none. She is first at its birth, the last to stay weepingat its death. In every great novel a heroine, unnamed, unspoken, undescribed, hovers throughout like an essence. The heroism of womanis her privacy. There is to me no more wonderful, philosophical, psychological and delicate triumph of literary art in existence than thefew chapters in "Quo Vadis" in which that great introspective genius, Sienkiewicz, sets forth the growth of the spell of love with which Lygiahas encompassed Vinicius, and the singular development and progress ofthe emotion through which Vinicius is finally immersed in human love ofLygia and in the Christian reverence of her spiritual purity at the sametime. It is the miracle of soul in sex. 

Every clean-hearted youth that has had the happiness to marry a goodwoman--and, thank Heaven, clean youths and good women are thick asleaves in Vallambrosa in this sturdy old world of ours--every such youthhas had his day of holy conversion, his touch of the wand conferringupon him the miracle of love, and he has been a better and wiser man forit. Not sense love, not the instinctive, restless love of matter formatter, but the love that descends like the dove amid radiance. 

 * * * * *

We've all seen that bridal couple; she is as pretty as peaches; he is asproud of her as if she were a splendid race horse; he glories in knowingshe is lovely and accepts the admiration offered to her as a tribute tohis own judgment, his own taste and even his merit, which obtained her. There is a certain amount of silliness in her which he soon detects, a touch of helplessness, and unsophistication in knowledge of worldlythings that he yet feels is mysteriously guarded against intrusion uponand which makes companionship with her sometimes irksome. He feelssuperior and uncompensated; from the superb isolation of his greaterknowledge, courage and independence, he grants to her a certain tenderpity and protection; he admits her faith and purity and--er--but--yousee, he is sorry she is not quite the well poised and noble creature heis! Mr. Youngwed is at this time passing through the mental digestiveprocess of feeling his oats. He is all right, though, if he is half asgood as he thinks he is. He has not been touched by the live wire ofexperience--yet; that's all. 

Well, in the course of human events, there comes a time when he isfrightened to death, then greatly relieved and for a few weeks becomesas proud as if he had actually provided the last census of the UnitedStates with most of the material contained in it. A few months later, when the feeble whines and howls have found increased vigor of utteranceand more frequency of expression; when they don't know whether MasterJack or Miss Jill has merely a howling spell or is threatened with fatalconvulsions; when they don't know whether they want a dog-muzzle or adoctor; when Mr. Youngwed has lost his sleep and his temper, together, and has displayed himself with spectacular effect as a brute, selfish, irritable, helpless, resourceless and conquered--then--then, my dearmadame, you have doubtless observed him decrease in self-estimated sizelike a balloon into which a pin has been introduced, until he looks, infact, like Master Frog reduced in bulk from the bull-size, to which heaspired, to his original degree. 

At that time Mrs. Youngwed is very busy with little Jack or Jill, as thecase may be. Her husband's conduct she probably regards with resignationas the first heavy burden of the cross she is expected to bear. She doesnot reproach him, it is useless; she has perhaps suspected that hisassumed superiority would not stand the real strain. But, he is thefather of the dear baby and, for that precious darling's sake, she willbe patient. I wonder if she feels that way? She has every right to, and, for one, I say that I'll be hanged if I find any fault with her if shedoes. That is the way she must keep human, and so balance the littleopen accounts that married folks ought to run between themselves forthe purpose of keeping cobwebs and mildew off, or rather of maintainingtheir lives as a running stream instead of a stagnant pond. A littlegood talking back now and then is good for wives and married men. Don't be afraid, Mrs. Youngwed; and when the very worst has come, whycry--at--him! One tear weighs more and will hit him harder than an ax. In the lachrymal ducts with which heaven has blessed you, you are moresurely protected against the fires of your honest indignation than youare by the fire department against a blaze in the house. And be patient, also; remember, dear sister, that, though you can cry, he has agift--that--enables--him--to--swear! You and other wedded wives veryproperly object to swearing, but you will doubtless admit that thereis compensation in that when he does swear in his usual good formyou--never--feel--any--apprehension--about--the--state--of--his--health!

This natural outburst of resentment has not lasted three minutes. Mr. Y. Has returned to his couch, sulky and ashamed. He pretends to sleepostentatiously; he--does--not! He is thinking with remarkable intensityand has an eye open. He sees the slender figure in the dim light, hanging over the crib, he hears the crooning, he begins to suspect thatthere is an alloy in his godlikeness. He looks to earth, listens to thethin, wailing cries, wonders, regrets, wearies, sleeps. At that momentMrs. Y. Should fall on her knees and rejoice. She would if she couldleave young Jack or Jill; but she can't--she--never--can. That's whatsent Mr. Y. To sleep. It is just as well perhaps that Mrs. Y. Isunobservant. 

A miracle is happening to Mr. Y. In an hour or two, let us say, there isa new vocal alarm from the crib. Almost with the first suspicion offretfulness or pain the mother has heard it. Heaven's mysterioustelepathy of instinct has operated. Between angels, babies and mothersthe distance is no longer than your arm can reach. They understand, feeland hear each other, and are linked in one chain. So, that, when Mr. Y. Has struggled laboriously awake and wonders if--that--child--is--going--to--howl--all----. Well, he goes no further. In the dim light he seesagain the slender figure hanging over the crib, he hears the crooningand the retreating sobs. It is just as he saw and heard before he fellasleep. No complaints, no reproaches, no irritation. Oh, what a brute hefeels! He battles with his reason and his bewilderment. Had he fallenasleep and left her to bear that strain; or has she gone anew to therescue, while he slept without thought? Up out of his heart thetenderness wells; down into his mind the revelation comes. The miracleworks. He looks and listens. In the figure hanging there so patientlyand tenderly he sees for the first time the wonderful vision of thesweetheart wife, not lost, but enveloped in the mystery of motherhood;he hears in the crooning voice a tone he never before knew. Mother andchild are united in mysterious converse. Where did that girl whom hethought so unsophisticated of the world learn that marvel ofacquaintance with that babe, so far removed from his ability to reach?It must be that while he knew the world, she understood the secret ofheaven. She is so patient. What a brute he is to grow impatient, whenshe endures day and night in rapt patience and the joy of content! Shecan enter a world from which he is barred. And, that is his wife! Thatwas his sweetheart, and is now--ah, what is she? He feels somehowabashed; he knows that if he were ten times better than he is he mightstill feel unworthy to touch the latchet of her shoes; he feels thatreverence and awe have enveloped her, and that the first happy love andlonging are springing afresh in his heart. It is his wife and his child;apart from him unless he can note and understand that miracle ofnature's secret. Can he? Well, he will try--oh, what a brute! And hewatches the bending figure, he hears the blending of soft crooning andretreating sobs--and, listening, he is lost in the wonder and fallsunder the spell asleep. 

Mrs. Y. , you are happy henceforth, if you will disregard certain smallmatters, such as whether chairs or hat-racks are for hats, or whetherthe marble mantelpiece or the floor is intended for polishing bootheels. 

 * * * * *

Of course, such an incident as has been suggested is but one ofthousands of golden moments when to the husband comes the suddendazzling recognition of the mergence of that half-sweetheart, half-mistress, he has admired and a little tired of, into thereverential glory and loveliness of wifehood, motherhood, companionhood, through all life and on through the eternity of inheritance they shallleave to Jacks and Jills and their little sisters and brothers. Inthat lies the priceless secret of Christianity and its influence. The unspeakably immoral Greeks reared a temple to Pity; the grossestmythologies of Babylon, Greece, Rome and Carthage could not change humannature. There have been always persons whose temperament made themsympathize with grief and pity the suffering; who, caring none forwealth, had no desire to steal; who purchased a little pleasure forvanity in the thanks received for kindness given. But Christianity sawthe jewel underneath the passing emotion and gave it value by cleansingand cutting it. In lust-love is the instinctive secret of thepreservation of the race; but the race is not worth preserving that itmay be preserved only for lust. Upon that animal foundation is to bebuilt the radiant home of confident, enduring and exchanging lovein which all the senses, tastes, hopes, aspirations and delights offriendship, companionship and human society shall find hospitalityand comfort. When it has been achieved it is beautiful, a twin to thedelicate rose that lies in its own delicious fragrance, happy on thepure bosom of a lovely girl--the rose that is finest and most exquisitebecause it has sprung from the horrid heat of the compost; but who shallthink of the one in the presence of the pure beauty of the other?

Nature and art are entirely unlike each other, though the one simulatesthe other. The art of beauty in writing, said Balzac, is to be able toconstruct a palace upon the point of a needle; the art of beauty inliving and loving is to build all the beauty of social life andaspiration upon the sordid yet solid and persisting instincts ofsavagery that lie deep at the bottom of our gross natures. 

 * * * * *

Now, it is in this tender sacred atmosphere, such as Mr. And Mrs. Youngwed always pass through, that the man worthy of a woman'sconfidence finds the radiant ideal of his heroine. He may with proprietyspeak of these transfigured personalities to his intimates or write ofthem with kindly pleasantry and suggestion as, perhaps, this will beconsidered. But, there is a monitor within that restrains him fromanalyzing and describing and dragging into the glare of publicity thesacred details that give to life all its secret happiness, faith anddelight. To do so would be ten times worse offense against the ethics ofunwritten and unspoken things than describing with pitiless precisionthe death beds of children, as Little Nell, Paul Dombey, Dora, LittleEva, and, thank heaven! only a few others. 

How can anybody bear to read such pages without feeling that he isan intruder where angels should veil their faces as they await thetransformation?

"It is not permitted to do evil, " says the philosopher, "that good mayresult. "

There are some things that should remain unspoken and undescribed. Haveyou never listened to some great brute of a sincere preacher of thegospel, as he warned his congregation against the terrible dangersattending the omission of purely theological rites upon infants? Haveyou thought of the mothers of those children, listening, whose littleones were sick or delicate, and who felt each word of that hard, ominouswarning as an agonizing terror? And haven't you wanted to kick theminister out of the pulpit, through the reredos and into the middleof next week? How can anybody harrow up such tender feelings? How cananybody like to believe that a little child will be held to account?Many of us do so believe, perhaps, whether or no; but is it not cruel toshake the rod of terror over us in public? "Suffer little children tocome unto Me, " said the Master; He did not instruct us to drive themwith fear and terror and trembling. Whenever I have heard such sermons Ihave wanted to get up and stalk out of the church with ostentatiousnessof contempt, as if to say to the preacher that his conductdid--not--meet--with--my--approval. But I didn't; the philosopher hashis cowardice not less than the preacher. 

But there is something meretricious and cheap in the use of materialand subjects that lie warm against the very secret heart of nature. Themystery of love and the sanctity of death are to be used by writers andartists only in their ennobling aspect of results. A certain class ofFrench writers have sickened the world by invading the sacredness ofpassion and giving prostitution the semblance of self-abnegated love; acertain class of English and American writers have purchased popularityby the meretricious parade of the scenes of death-beds. Both areviolations of the ethics of art as they are of nature. True love as truesorrow shrinks from exhibition and should be permitted to enjoy thesacredness of privacy. The famous women of the world, Herodias, Semiramis, Aspasia, Thais, Cleopatra, Sapho, Messalina, Marie de Medici, Catherine of Russia, Elizabeth of England--all of them have beenimmoral. Publicity to women is like handling to peaches--the bloom comesoff, whether or not any other harm occurs. In literature, the greatfeminine figures, George Sand, Madame de Sevigne, Madame de Stael, George Eliot--all were banned and at least one--the first--was out ofthe pale. Creative thought has in it the germ of masculinity. Genius ina woman, as we usually describe genius, means masculinity, which, of allthings, to real men is abhorrent in woman. True genius in woman is theantithesis of the qualities that make genius in man; so is her heroism, her beauty, her virtue, her destiny and her duty. 

Let this be said--even though it be only a jest--one of those smartattempts at epigram, which, ladies, a man has no more power to resistthan a baby to resist the desire to improve his thumb by suckingit--that: whenever you find a woman who looks real--that is, whoproduces upon a real man the impression of being endowed withthe splendid gifts for united and patient companionship inmarriage--whenever you find her advocating equal suffrage, equal rights, equal independence with men in all things, you may properly run away. Equality means so much, dear sisters. No man can be your equal; you cannot be his, without laying down the very jewels of the womanlinessthat men love. Be thankful you have not this strength and daring;he possesses those in order that he many stand between you and morepowerful brutes. Now, let us try for a smart epigram: But no! hang theepigram, let it go. This, however, may be said: That, whenever you finda woman wanting all rights with man; wanting his morals to be judgedby hers, or willing to throw hers in with his, or itching to enter hisemployments and labors and willing that he shall--of course--nurse thechildren and patch the small trousers and dresses, depend upon it thatsome weak and timid man has been neglecting the old manly, savage dutyof applying quiet home murder as society approves now and then.