That it is a shape with which one had better not thoughtlessly meddle is a conviction that my friend Buster stands ready to defend against all comers.
WORDSWORTH'S characterization of the woman in one of his poems as "a creature not too bright or good for human nature's daily food" has always appeared to me too cannibalesque to be poetical. It directly sets one to thinking of the South Sea islanders.
THOUGH Iago was not exactly the kind of per-son one would select as a superintendent for a Sunday-school, his advice to young Roderigo was wisdom itself--"Put money in thy purse."
Whoever disparages money disparages every step in the progress of the human race. I lis-tened the other day to a sermon in which gold was personified as a sort of glittering devil tempting mortals to their ruin. I had an instant of natural hesitation when the contribution-plate was passed around immediately afterward. Personally, I be-lieve that the possession of gold has ruined fewer men than the lack of it. What noble enterprises have been checked and what fine souls have been blighted in the gloom of poverty the world will never know. "After the love of knowledge,"
says Buckle, " there is no one passion which has done so much good to mankind as the love of money."
DIALECT tempered with slang is an admirable medium of communication between persons who have nothing to say and persons who would not care for anything properly said.
DR. HOLMES had an odd liking for ingenious desk-accessories in the way of pencil-sharpeners, paper-weights, penholders, etc. The latest con-trivances in this fashion--probably dropped down to him by the inventor angling for a nibble of commendation--were always making one another's acquaintance on his study table. He once said to me: "I 'm waiting for somebody to invent a mucilage-brush that you can't by any accident put into your inkstand. It would save me frequent moments of humiliation."
THE deceptive Mr. False and the volatile Mrs.
Giddy, who figure in the pages of seventeenth and eighteenth century fiction, are not tolerated in modern novels and plays. Steal the burglar and Palette the artist have ceased to be. A name indicating the quality or occupation of the bearer strikes us as a too transparent device. Yet there are such names in contemporary real life. That of our worthy Adjutant-General Drum may be instanced. Neal and Pray are a pair of deacons who linger in the memory of my boyhood. Sweet the confectioner and Lamb the butcher are indi-viduals with whom I have had dealings. The old-time sign of Ketchum & Cheetam, Brokers, in Wall Street, New York, seems almost too good to be true. But it was once, if it is not now, an actuality.
I HAVE observed that whenever a Boston author dies, New York immediately becomes a great literary centre.
THE possession of unlimited power will make a despot of almost any man. There is a pos-sible Nero in the gentlest human creature that walks.
EVERY living author has a projection of him-self, a sort of eidolon, that goes about in near and remote places making friends or enemies for him among persons who never lay eyes upon the writer in the flesh. When he dies, this phan-tasmal personality fades away, and the author lives only in the impression created by his own literature. It is only then that the world begins to perceive what manner of man the poet, the novelist, or the historian really was. Not until he is dead, and perhaps some long time dead, is it possible for the public to take his exact mea-sure. Up to that point contemporary criticism has either overrated him or underrated him, or ignored him altogether, having been misled by the eidolon, which always plays fantastic tricks with the writer temporarily under its dominion.
It invariably represents him as either a greater or a smaller personage than he actually is. Pre-sently the simulacrum works no more spells, good or evil, and the deception is unveiled. The hitherto disregarded author is recognized, and the idol of yesterday, which seemed so impor-tant, is taken down from his too large pedestal and carted off to the dumping-ground of inade-quate things. To be sure, if he chances to have been not entirely unworthy, and on cool exam-ination is found to possess some appreciable degree of merit, then he is set up on a new slab of appropriate dimensions. The late colossal statue shrinks to a modest bas-relief. On the other hand, some scarcely noticed bust may suddenly become a revered full-length figure.
Between the reputation of the author living and the reputation of the same author dead there is ever a wide discrepancy.
A NOT too enchanting glimpse of Tennyson is incidentally given by Charles Brookfield, the English actor, in his "Random Recollections."
Mr. Brookfield's father was, on one occasion, dining at the Oxford and Cambridge Club with George Venables, Frank Lushington, Alfred Tennyson, and others. "After dinner," relates the random recollector, "the poet insisted upon putting his feet on the table, tilting back his chair <i>more Americano</i>. There were strangers in the room, and he was expostulated with for his uncouthness, but in vain. 'Do put down your feet!' pleaded his host. 'Why should I?'
retorted Tennyson. 'I 'm very comfortable as I am.' 'Every one's staring at you,' said an-other. 'Let 'em stare,' replied the poet, pla-cidly. 'Alfred,' said my father, 'people will think you're Longfellow.' Down went the feet." That <i>more Americano</i> of Brookfield the younger is delicious with its fine insular flavor, but the holding up of Longfellow--the soul of gentleness, the prince of courtesy--as a buga-boo of bad manners is simply inimitable. It will take England years and years to detect the full unconscious humor of it.
