Whims Monthly (January, 1896)
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Price, 5 Cents. Sime. MONTHLY. THE WHIMS COMPANY, ee ae NEW YORK, Copyright, 18956, by The Whims Co.
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WHIMS— Published on the twenty-fifth day of each month at No. 23 Union Square, New York City. Subscription, Fifty Cents a year ; Foreign Subscription, Seventy-five Cents ; Postage pre- paid. The Trade zs supplied by the American News Company and tts Branches throughout the United States. Original Manuscripts in Poetry and Prose, containing from 100 to 2000 words, may be submitted to the Publishers. Un- avatlable Manuscripts will be returned to senders. The contents of “WHIMS” are covered by a general copyright. Editors are invited to reprint whatever may be useful to them, but they are requested to make proper ac- knowledgment therefor. Advertising rates will be furnished on application. THE WHIMS COMPANY, Room t4, 23 Union Square, New York.
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Vou. 1. ORME ERE No, :, HOPE. F AR down the winding lane of years, My weary heart is slowly wending, Grim walls of fate, sad vales of tears, To trembling prayers no answer sending; Yet through it all, sweet spirits call— Through lonely days of grief and aching:— “* Hope's roses blossom on the wall, To keep thy weary heart from breaking.” Across the sobbing sea of Doom, My weary heart is slowing drifting, My tearful eyes pierce through the gloom, Yet see no sign of rest or rifting, Still, spirits bright from yonder height Repeat through all my weary waking: “* Hope's starlight bright, through darkest night Will keep thy weary heart from breaking.” Though full of crosses, wet with dew, From chilled affection’s lonely garden, O’er troubled waves, through paths of rue, My soul perceives the land of pardon, And to and fro, now loud, now low, A voice is sweetest music making: ** Hope singing on through pain and woe, Will keep thy weary heart from breaking.” { Mary A. MICHELS.
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2 OLD JEWRY CHIMES. OLD JEWRY CHIMES. N EAR Gog and Magog, within sound of Bow-Bells, and but a few doors from where the greater Disraeli ‘‘ served his term,” stands a sixteenth-century stone church, for- merly the worship-house of fashionable resi- dents of London City, and on great municipal occasions the scene of impressive rites prelim- inary to important civic ceremonies in the neighboring Guildhall. Time has wrought many changes; the Westward migration of hu- mans has left the city with but few residents and the church with a membership but nomi- nal and in its Zersonne/ of a character very dif- ferent from that of the earlier days. The pew formerly rented by the knight of the shire, and occupied by him and his budding daughters, is now deserted or used by the casual visitor, or, perhaps, janitor from a near-by business house. A score of souls is a large congregation here, and the services and all else are surrounded with lack of interest and reality. The only justification for the continuance of the pastor- ate seems to be the necessity of a pretext for paying the minister’s salary. The church's whole interest lies in the past, except that its choir of bells have a present ministry of their own, a daily message to deliver. Though worn and feeble through exposure and age, they struggle bravely to the performance of
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J. J. BROOKS. 3 SSH RT EE EE EL EP TE EL I OS their office. In the morning and evening, as the crowds surge along Cheapside, on their way to and from the scene of a contest for a living or half-living, as the case may be, these physically inanimate moulds speak forth. Stand- ing in the thoroughfare, amidst the noise and the rattle, pausing perhaps to listen for the ‘‘ voice of the world,” it is with peculiar feelings that one recognizes the strains of ‘‘ Abide with Me ” ‘‘ Rock of Ages,” or ‘‘ Auld Lang Syne” emanating from these aged and weak bells. As they struggle—dropping a note here and there—to speak their message to the striving and often heartless workers and schemers who throng the neighborhood, a pathetic interest is imparted to their tones. Their weak and faulty notes have a plaintive strength and force. The tide of humanity ebbs and flows. Pass- ing along is the eager broker, the ambitious politician, the poor widow, the despairing out- cast—all sorts and conditions. The bells speak to all, but the interpretations of their message are as many and different as the hearers are varied in character and circumstance. To the broker the metallic ring of the currency is more intelligible and interesting. The teaching of the bells impresses him not. What has he to do with the ‘‘ Rock of Ages”? To him ’tis but: a massive metaphor! Others there are, less absorbed in earthly cares, and hungering for
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4 HOLLAND GIN PHILOSOPHY. the moral sustenance they cannot find in this disarranged world, in whom the chimes arouse comforting contemplations and memories of almost-forgotten friendships. The bells understand their mission and are steadfastly performing it. J. J. BRooks. HOLLAND GIN PHILOSOPHY. C)NE winter night not many years ago, while seated in a caf¢ in the fashion- able part of New York, a party of gentlemen was interrupted in their conversation by the entrance of a rather seedy individual, who came in with an air of dignified intoxication. Standing in the centre of the room, he said: ‘Gentlemen, I salute you.” | His coat was buttoned at the waist with one button, his shirt was effusive in front, and his waistcoat was négligé, ‘* Been to see ‘Alabama ?’” asked one of the party. ‘Yes, sah. It is a ve’y p’etty play; a pa’a- mount valid d’ama, sah.” ‘* Have you even been South, sah ?” ** Yes, sah. I have been stranded there fre- quently as anactor. Many a moonlight night I have wandered by the sleepy bazoo—I mean bayou—walking away from the hotel. You’ health, gentlemen.”
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ARCHIE RAYMOND HALL. 5 RRS SSR mR ‘* Befo’ the wa’?” ‘* No, sah, since the wa’.” ‘* You have the dialect, I notice.” ‘* Yes, sah, certain particularities of the South- ern dialect always come to me in certain stages of intoxication. But as I was about to say, that is where the great mistake lies.” ‘* What mistake ?” ‘*About love. Take the play of ‘ Alabama.’ The dramatists never do get at the truth. They always make the right man fall in love with the right woman. The fact is, the man always falls in love with the wrong woman in real life, and vice-versa. You sit and watcha play. When the actors and actresses come on you know exactly what the couples will be in the last act.. They may have lots of trouble before they get there, but you can foresee the harmony of creation that is so noticeably ab- sent from the real thing and so beneficently produced by the playwright. Now, let us—” and the seedy man lounged back in his chair and swung his left leg over his right. ‘* Hold on—have another.” : ‘* Ah, certainly, we’ll need it. Now, let us consider the question of love. Why should love be constant to one? How can love for one be eternal? I met a clever woman once— thank you, sah—here is to her—I met a clever woman once.” (With an uncertain movement
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6 HOLLAND GIN PHILOSOPHY. he sipped from his glass.) ‘‘We talked of love.” ‘* Ahem !” ‘*T said, gentlemen, we talked of love. My heart is dead.” (The seedy man shed a drunken tear.) ‘‘ We talked of love.” ‘* * Have you ever loved ?’ I asked her. ‘** Often,’ she answered. ** *Can one love more than once?’ ***Not the same man. I am in great diffi- cultv about that,’ she answered. ‘I am fond of horses, and I admire a man who loves them and can talk about them. I am interested in yachting, and I enjoy a moonlight walk with a man who can tell me the names and details of the best ones. I like prize-fights, and a third gen- tleman is welcomed because he goes to all the scrapping matches. I am sentimental, and I have a friend who reads poetry to me once or twice a week.’ *** And you love them all?’ ‘** At times. I couldn’t endure the prize- fight youth on my sentimental night, of course, and the chap who talks horse is a bore when I feel like talking yachting. But I couldn’t get on without all of them.’ *<* Do they all love you?’ ‘** That’s just the trouble. They all want to marry me, but how could I be happy with a husband eternally reading poetry or talking
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ARCHIE RAYMOND HALL. 7 PELE ELE LS ETS DETTE TRH TER ESAS EYE SER horses or describing prize-fights? That’s the mistake I find in men—they are not made with sufficient variety of tastes. Now, if there were one man who was fond of all these subjects he would be perfect, but even then I suppose he would like to talk of horses when I wanted him to be poetic. If I could marry as many as I liked it would be happiness. Do you think,’ she asked anxiously, ‘that there will be some liberty for woman in heaven?’ ***T doubt it,’ I said, sadly. ‘A woman never wants liberty except when she can’t have it—like anything else.’ ‘‘Now, gentlemen, what is love? There have been many definitions, but none have cov- ered the subject. For my own part, I some- times doubt if love is not simply an intense de- sire for something quenched by the possession. Sometimes the object has sufficient variety or ingenuity of charm to revive the desire, but be it woman or what you will, if it has not that power the love never comes back. The lover tells the sweetheart he is always the same, will always be the same. Clasped in his arms, the girl swears to the man she will never change. Gentlemen, that is where the mistake is made. For myself, gentlemen, I could only love a woman who is always different. Trust me, the woman who holds the husband holds him as she held the sweetheart, by ever showing some new charm.”
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8 HOLLAND GIN PHILOSOPHY. DFPRRE AR TETAS RED TE ADE SDS LIE LE EI, IL ED ‘*-You seem to know all about it.” ‘*IT know something, perhaps. I loved once, myself,” and the seedy man wept again. ‘‘I met, when I was a young man, a charming girl. She was many-sided. She had refined and varied tastes. Every day she seemed to show some new light, like the facets of a diamond. We were wedded. Still she seemed to develop new attractions for me. One happy year we passed together, and then—” ‘* She died ?” ‘‘No. She ran away with another man. She had variety enough for several husbands. And now, gentlemen, you know the secret of. my ad- miration for widows. I may have enough va- riety for a second wife. Butto resume. Love. as treated by the dramatist is badly treated. With a broken heart woman is a tragedy; with one husband she isa drama; with two husbands she becomes acomedy; with three husbands she becomes a farce-comedy, and with four hus- bands she becomes a farce. You can’t make a heroine for a strong play out of a woman who has been married three times. The ordinary human mind in an audience will admit the pos- sibility of a woman loving twice, but she can’t do it any more without being laughed at. Yet I doubt if there is a woman living who has not loved a half dozen different men in her lifetime well enough to have married them all. The trouble is that all men and women can love,,
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ARCHIE RAYMOND HALL. 9 perhaps, but few can entertain one another for a lifetime. The best husband and the best wife are the best company at all times. It is all very well that George is So clever and so bright that Mary is bound to be happy with him. But George, after he marries, expects Mary to entertain him, too. He might have found out while they were courting that she had nothing in her. He wasso vain hecouldn’t see anything but his own ability, which she kept telling him about. Hence, gentlemen, parting and pain. The divorce courts were es- tablished to relieve exhausted nature and give love a fresh start. Love isa fire, but youhave to keep putting fresh chips on it to keep it going. If you don’t somebody else will. Ah me! The woman sits by the ashes growing gray of a life whose warmth and light are nearly gone, and a new lover comes along with a little bundle of shavings and starts the whole business again. And just as often as the fire goes out, if the man comes with the shavings it will blaze afresh. Gentlemen,” and the seedy man got up and began walking up and down, ‘‘it is a great dispensation of Providence that love is eternal, but the object may be vivified ad libitum. If we were compelled to love one woman what a terrible thing life would be! If we could only say ‘I love you’ once in a life- time life would not be worth living. The poets tell us that it is ennobling to love, and if it be
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Io HOLLAND GIN PHILOSOPHY. ennobling to love one how much more en- nobling to be able to love many? In fact, gen- tlemen, when you look at it there is something very beautiful in the question of love.” ** Take a soothing drink, won’t you ?” ‘*Thank you, I had forgotten. But after all everything is a changing ideal. The woman at thirty wonders why at twenty she married the man she did when she sees how the other suitor of the same age has developed. The woman of twenty-five turns away from the man her more youthful fancy chose, and weds the fellow whom at twenty-two she thought a fool The man at thirty-five seeks the woman who hopelessly loved him ten years before, and finds she has changed her ideal, too, and so the world goes round. Ah, dear old Thackeray ! It has not changed since you sat at your table at forty years, dipping your nose in the old wine. Gentlemen, here’s to Gillian, God rest her soul !” The seedy man took his hat off reverently. ‘* Still, gentlemen, we look tenderly on those we have loved. The little girl who won our hearts at school is blessed in our memory, if but for the happy remembrance. She jilted us perhaps, behaved shamefully, but the scent of the new-mown hay, the summer sun- set when we watched and waited for her, the first love-letter surreptitiously written, sur-
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ARCHIE RAYMOND HALL. If reptitiously sent, have never been obliterated by cruelty or change of later years. Years may obliterate the traces of a hero’s name from the monument of his success, may change the rill to a mighty river, or the acorn to the tree, but while man lives the idol of his heart never dies. The woman we loved in the first blush of manhood still gets a tender glance of respect as she passes by on the arm of her husband. I sometimes think, gentle- men,” and the seedy man looked earnestly at the ceiling, ‘‘I sometimes wonder if it is not true love that keeps many sweethearts from getting married at all. A man may love a woman so much that he fears in asking for her hand he may lose her love. A man may ‘love a woman so purely that he hesitates to ask her to link her life with his, lest she should see his weaknesses. After all there is something wildly selfish in the impetuous love that bears its object blushing to the altar, something that lacks consideration for her. There is so much in a man’s hot-headed prom- ises that is nothing but the elation of conceit. ‘‘True love is sometimes cowardly—cow- ardly with that cowardice which is nobler than courage.” And the seedy man left as quietly as he came. ARCHIE RAYMOND HALL,
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I2 AN INCIDENT OF THE QUARTIER LATIN, AN INCIDENT OF THE QUARTIER LATIN. Sey ee the smoke is assuming fan- tastic shapes in gray. The liquor-scent- ed air rests oppressively in the hall. Through its veil rouged faces and sensuous eyes take indefinite forms and the boisterous laughter sounds gay and resounds sepulchral. | Not far away the clock from a serene church- tower strikes eleven ; outside peace reigns over the snow-bedecked night, white as virtue. Within revelry progresses, and although the licking flames throw a glaring light over the Scene, it is bleak and black as a starless night. | The curtain has ascended over the little stage. In front of it, below, some one is abusing the ‘suffering strings of the piano- forte with a discordant and weird potpourrz of Spanish melodies. It is the man with the sal- low complexion and the aimless, bulging eyes, who sometimes falls asleep while drumming on the ivory keys, long discolored to a dark brown. There is a commotion behind the stage, and then a girl scarce out of her teens emerges from the wings and mechanically bows and extravagantly distributes hand-kisses to the motley audience. The light of life has long departed from her eyes. Her costume du ballet is of a gaudy gauze, pale pink and airy. Me-
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EUGENE EBLE. 13 RC 9 RR AEA ES LE IS SL chanically she goes through the movements of the Spanish fas seul, bending and turning sensu- ously. The men sip from their liquor and look on through hazy eyes. A half-hearted ap- plause greets her ere she withdraws. The atmosphere has grown denser. It is stifling. Two men quarrel; some one with strong arms summarily throws them out. They both lie bleeding in the snow. The man at the piano, with the sallow feat- ures, has changed over to a topical somg. A moment later a ‘‘comedian” with toothless mouth, hollow cheeks, and features inter- woven with black furrows steps on the stage, and in a cracked voice pours out his unmusi- cal music; he is boisterously applauded. Just then, amid the buzz of hilarity and ap- plause, a ragged individual staggers in. His eyes are blurred and diffused; his beard is gray and unkempt. With tottering step he walks to one of the front tables. ‘‘ Here, garcon, fill me a goblet—of wine—to the brim, I say, and bring it quickly.” 3 The man’s voice is hoarse and rasping ; some one at the next table remarks, ‘‘ He’s drunk,” but the ragged individual does not hear it. Irresolutely the waiter goes on his errand and the vagabond lapses into silence. He seems oblivious of all about hims Al-+ though he, too, shows the signs of dissipation,
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I4 AN INCIDENT OF THE QUARTIER LATIN, DLP LEE PIT ED I SS SSE EE CES EE SPT OI PT SEEPS 8 OS Re CE, there is a remarkable contrast between his features and those of the rest abouthim. A stately forehead and perfect features—though withered—are uncommon in the low concert halls of the Quartier. The man of the sallow features has begun softly playing a sweet old melody—‘‘ Adieu, Adieu, mein Herz.” The irreverent buzz con- tinues—only one listens—the gray-haired va- grant. As the last tones die away a tear rolls from his eye. * *% * * * * During those few moments, while the pure little melody was swaying through the pes- tiferous atmosphere, the memory of his youth came back to his dazed mind. For a moment it brought him back to that night when she— she with the eyes of lustrous black—impressed one passionate, parting kiss on his burning lips, and as he passed out into the world, into the night, her voice was tremulously and softly singing that same melody, ‘‘Adieu, Adieu, mein Herz,” and then in the moonlit night, heslowly made his way up through the mountainous vine- yard, and with a bleeding heart looked down upon the city which he had left behind to es- cape a hopeless love, for she—she with the raven hair and the demure voice—was humble, and he, alas! was Prince Karl Friedrich von
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I OR 7 ee EUGENE EBLE. I5 Waldenfels, fourth cousin to His Majesty the King. * % * * % * ‘* Fill up my goblet, sluggard !” he roars, as though to drown the memories which pass through his wrecked mind. He tossesacoin | to the waiter and murmurs, ‘‘ To-day we live and to-morrow we die.” Meanwhile the performance progresses. A wan, rouged damsel, with a slight figure, steps on the stage. The programme has it ‘‘ Mlle. de Laforge, Solo.” She begins with a Parisian ditty, and makes an attempt to look gay, but it is insincere. The voice is mellow but hollow. The sot with the gray hair looks up in drunk- en surprise. Something in her voice seems strangely familiar. His sight is too diffused to hold her features. Large drops of perspira- tion run from his brow. The song is ended. Rapturous applause follows. The woman has disappeared behind the wings; again the ap- plause sways through the hall, and finally she reappears. She begins again—hark! ‘‘ Adieu, Adieu, mein Herz,” flows from her colored lips pure as virgin gold. : ‘“My God! Louise!” The gasp comes hoarsely from the drunken manin rags. He rises with an effort, and half reeling, stag- gers to the piano. Some one cries, ‘‘ Throw him out!” but he hears it not. He sits at the
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16 AN INCIDENT OF THE QUARTIER LATIN. piano; the stiff fingers grow limber; he plays the accompaniment throughout with a master’s hand; no one interferes—the music has touched the hearers’ hearts. Ah! what feeling, what pathos in that touch! The audience glares and stares, and then, as the last note dies away, a tumultuous uproar of applause spontaneously bursts forth. She has disappeared, but the vagrant still sits in the chair asin a daze. Then as he rises and faces the audience another peal of applause bursts forth. With difficulty he steadies himself on the piano. ‘*Gargon! quick! quick! fill the goblet! I—I’m faint !” : There is consternation. Some of the men have risen from their chairs, and the nearest one hands him a wine-filled glass. A strange lustre comes into the vagrant’s eye. ‘*Let’s drink !” hecries out hoarsely. ‘‘ Let’s drink—for to-day—we—live—to-morrow——” the glass slips from his hand, and with a faint gasp he falls back into the chair. The vagabond’s eyes had closed. ; EUGENE EBLE.
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PURE HEART. 17 PURE HEART. LESSED he Whom the gods have given A pure and noble heart, His is the treasure that whatever His charmed hand may touch, will swell with bliss. That hut becomes Olympus’ self That holds the gods residing in his breast. Life’s poor to him alone Who from poor eyes beholds it. The very bloom of spring Is withered ’neath his greedy hand. Therefore, ye gracious gods, to whom ye gave Your blessed gift, Preserve it unto him, Preserve in him The pure, the noble heart. —After the German of Ludwig. THE WOMAN'S QUEST. ae was a Woman whose heart for many years had hungered for Love. Her life had been passed in searching for this greatest boon to mankind, but nowhere had she found it. The days flitted by, but her quest remained unsatisfied. Nowhere in all the world could she find Love. The Guide came to her one day. He was
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18 THE WOMAN’S QUEST. hoary and bent, and the history of a thousand years was traced upon his brow. He gently touched the Woman who sought for Love. ‘* What seekest thou?” he asked. **Love,” she whispered. ‘‘Oh, great and wise Guide, canst thou show it to me?” *“Come,” he said, with an ineffable smile, ‘*I will show you Love.” They went a little way. By and by they entered a wood. Before them were two lovers wrapped in the sweet communion of their own thoughts. The man’s arm was around the girl. Her head rested against his breast. Helooked down into her eyes and their lips met. ‘‘ This—this—is Love?” said the Woman. But the Guide replied, ‘*Not Love. This is Passion.” They travelled on a space, and came upon one man strong in his perfect health bending over the bleeding form of a comrade upon the ground. With exceeding tenderness he poured oil upon his wounds and bound them in soft cloths. The Woman’s face was irradiated with a sudden gleam. ‘*This is Love,” she murmured. ‘*No,” said the Guide, ‘‘this is Pity—not Love.” The night came on, and with it sleet and wind. Before the two searchers rose the sight
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OLIVE BEATRICE MUIR, I9 of a lady richly clad, her garments perfumed, leaning over the form of a poor little one—an utter stranger. The child shivered in his rags, which clung about him in tatters. He sobbed, for the hunger gnawed at his vitals. The lady gathered him to her bosom and carried him within, where all was warmth and comfort. With her own hands she dressed and fed and warmed the child. Then in her arms she gently rocked him to peaceful slumbers. And as she softly crooned to him a song, a light al- most holy glorified her face. The Woman paused. **Is not this Love ?” she queried. ‘*No,” said the Guide, ‘‘ this is Charity.” The Woman turned sorrowfully away. ‘* Will I never find Love?” she mourned. ‘** Wait,” said the Guide. Yet a little further did they wander, until a cottage was reached. Within could be seen a mother rocking her babe to sleep. <A peaceful smile lightened the infant’s face. The mother’s features deepened into a beatified expression. The Woman turned to the Guide. ‘What is that?” she asked, in a whisper fullofawe. . The Guide smiled upon her as he watched her gaze become fascinated by the picture. ‘Can you not guess?” OLIVE BEATRICE Murr.
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' 20 TO-DAY. TO-DAY. RINITY Church stands at the head of Wall Street. Facing East, it represents God. Atthe foat is the East River—oblivion. The Stock Exchange is between, the Temple of Mammon; the Custom-House is beside. It is the place of the law. We have here the chan- nel and its ports. In the daytime a human tide here ebbs and flows. At certain seasons the flow is well defined: on the eve of panic from Mammon to God, as the herd gathers be- fore the storm; in the panic the Street is in flood. Some are pushed into oblivion, but the Street remains full.—Curious paradox.—In the time of plenty, the tide sets to the place of the law. Man is mindful of its comforts in the hour of fortune; Gold has its concomitants; noblesse oblige. Inthe Temple of Mammon all is Babel. No tongue is of the Pentecost. They cry aloud and dance to the music of their throats. Thencomesahush. The place emp- ties like a sigh. But after all is said and done the trend is up and down; some to the church- yard, some tothe river. There is rest. And old Trinity smiles down equally upon the mob and the dead. They are alike, in- cidents. G. E. M.
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THE TRAVELLER FROM ABROAD. 21 as eR RMN MN OC RE WCW a IN THE TRAVELLER FROM ABROAD. AVE you seen the man who’s been to Europe Once (for four weeks) in his life, Who has been in London three days And in Paris all of five; Who discusses Art and Science From the foreign point of view, And believes he knows the Old World From beginning through and through ? He knows all about the bull-fights Which are had in sunny Spain, For in passing through that country He could see one (from the train); As for Venice, he tells stories That amaze the Yankee’s ear, While his Russian adventures Fill the soul with pain and fear, In a word, this clever fellow, Who knows Europe ‘‘ like a book,” On a four weeks’ journey learned it, Every city, town, and nook, He knows all the foreign customs, Not forgetting Greece and Spain, And seems shocked when people tell him That his tales ‘‘ give them a pain.” — The On-looker,
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22 FRIVOLITY. TO ANNETTE. HARMING woman, I adore you, I adore your winsome ways, I adore your eyes that sparkle In the sun’s illuminous rays; But, Annette, You’re a coquette ! Wondrous woman, I could love you, I could woo you with a flame That doth flicker, glow, and smoulder, —But I know your cruel game, For, Annette, You’re a coquette. Tempting woman, cease your gaming, Cease to flirt, pray, cease to revel, For Annette, though you are pretty, *Til you cease you’ll be—a devil, For, Annette, You're a coquette. —The Victim. ee ‘ we ie
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ENTRE NOUS, 23 ENTRE NOUS. > > % WITH APOLOGIES TO “THE N. Y. DAILY HOWL.” A Daily Howl reporter called upon Mr. Snuffern (who was wounded in yesterday’s wreck, as exclusively told in Zhe Howl) to procure further details regarding his injuries. Mr. Snuffern, although very low from loss of blood, and rapidly sinking, with, great effort raised himself and smiled faintly when in- formed that the reporter came from Zhe How. ‘*T am very glad to see you,” he gasped, as in his last breath, ‘‘and shall be pleased, ay, de- lighted, to give any and all information to 7%e Howl, as I consider it a splendid and whole- some home-journal ; my wife, my sons, and my daughters read 7he Howl, and prefer it to all other dailies.” The Howl reporter, having stenographically taken down the main items of the dying man’s statement, as here given, considerately left the bedside to permit Mr. Snuffern to draw the last breath. >; 3. * ABOUT SIR HENRY, THEY bent me to the top of my patience until I could no longer endure their ever- wagging tongues. Thank Heaven that Sir
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24 ENTRE NOUS. SS Se RANA CPT SESE CERES IME EY OMS SE Henry Irving has left us and that now I need not dread reading my morning papers for fear of encountering their criticisms on ‘‘ Macbeth,” ** Louis XI.,” ‘* The Bells,” and other plays of his repertoire, which have made my breakfast- chops seem tough and my coffee warmed-over. The majority of newspaper critics have han- dled Mr. Irving either with irreverent ridicule or cheap enthusiasm. His manner of speech they found to be odious, his walk objectionable, and indeed only his scenic effects were perfect; the pretty pictures pleased them; they appealed to the eye and required no interpretation to be understood. Dramatic newspaper-writers are as common in America as fleas on a dog; dramatic critics as scarce as honest politicians. William Win- ters is one of the latter, but he is growing old and hates innovations, dramatic or otherwise. In making Mr. Irving the target of ridicule the dramatic editor has voiced the sentiments of the average theatre-goer who takes in prize- fights, farces, and dramatic performances alter- nately without discrimination. This simple- minded person, who visits theatres with the in- tention of being amused, ‘‘ patronizes”’ Irving performances for curiosity’s sake only, and applauds to be comme il faut. In his heart, however, he knows that it is a lie, and inwardly regrets that he did not go to see the ‘‘ Pink-
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ENTRE NOUS. 25 eyed Beauty” Burlesque i s farce, ‘‘A Rent in His Pants.” Mr. Irving’s characteristics—ah ! there’s the rub !—these the public at large could not con- done, while the public of refinement regretted, but excused them; only those whotruly form the world of Art—artists—admired and applauded them. Originality pleases the artistic taste. Mr. Ir- ving has ignored criticism and has continued in his own way. Mimics have sprung up and have attempted imitation; Dixey and many others have scored applause with their truthless impersonations of Irving and counterfeits of “his art. They have cheated the public into the belief that they are clever actors, that their work is truthful, where in fact it is a lie, for they have palmed off the skeleton for the soul, the counterfeit for the original. It is sad but true that the public has given its acquiescence to these offensive contortions. Mimicry is a trick as vile as pickpocketing. Mimicry upon Mr. Irving is as ridiculous as a parody on ‘‘The Raven.” The person who encourages these necessarily belongs to the rabble of ignoramuses who discuss the Fine Arts over the counter. The majority-dramatic reporter is none such, but he certainly is quite adrift on the subject of dramatic Art, and should confine himself to Mrs, James Brown Potter e¢ a/, of like calibre.
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26 . ENTRE NOUS. A PRETTY volume of pretty poems comes from the press of Frederick A. Stokes Com- pany under the title of ‘‘Zyrics of Love and Nature.’ Miss Mary Berri Chapman is un- known to the literary world save for some poems which from time to time have appeared in the Century. The book is essentially the work of a high-strung, clever woman. Her poems, although extravagantly effusive, con- tain much excellent material; indeed, some clever and novel ideas are embodied in Miss Chapman’s flowery flow of poetry. ‘‘ Lyrics of Love and Nature’ will more particularly please the feminine than the masculine fancy. =. * ONCE upon a time I was willing to believe Vance Thompson a very promising newspaper- writer. That was when he devoted himself exclusively to dramatic and musical reviews for the Commercial Advertiser. Since then he has degenerated into the editorship of a fortnightly which will print anything which is stark mad or appalling. A most apt associate to Vance Thompson is James G. Hunecker. These two men have the ability to write more about snakes, dragons, and unheard-of mon- sters than six men combined, each with a six | days’ jagon. Vainly I read and re-read ‘‘Goo Goo”; the yy
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ENTRE NOUS, 27 Re en Se EE ES remarkable tale was too deep for my modest intelligence. Still persevering, I read it back- ward, then vertically, up and down, and then upside-down, but the story was unfathomable. Yet, I remained determined to see the point, resolved to find the cypher. Many hours I worked until light dawned upon my feeble brain, for, reading betwixt the lines, I compre- hended: clearly could I see this unique bit of poetry— ‘* What fools these mortals be To give ten cents for me.” > > > COMMENTARIES. To those who can only conceive of ar# as an an attribute of such as Calvéand the de Reszkes, etc., the reception accorded to the appearance in America of Yvette Guilbert will savor of degeneracy ; but, if they could only perceive it, by the self-same standards is Guil- bert an artiste, and she won those of us who can appreciate genius, though allied to vaude- ville. > > % ANDRE CHENIER was a French poet, who at thirty-two was guillotined in Paris in 1794. He left behind many little bits of whimsical inspi-» ration in gems of imaginative verse. In the preparation of the memorial volume recently
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28 ENTRE NOUS. issued Louise Heller has used the same dis- cretionary skill that characterized her transla- tion of ‘‘ Madame Sans Géne.”’ > Not long ago, in New York, a woman of the Tenderloin took her life, and as she was neither old nor ugly an interest seldom aroused in such cases was awakened. The women of her own class contributed to the burial and saved her from Potter’s Field, and this seemed to so surprise conventionality that several of the daily papers interviewed colleagues of the suicide, and published verbatim, with an at- tempt even to reproduce the fatois, their com- ments and deductions. The whole would have furnished an able volume under the title ‘* How to Succeed in the Streets of New York.” Yet, mark you, many of these papers would not present a liberal review of a well-written novel dealing with the same environments, nor translate for their readers the songs of Mlle. Guilbert. ape ee THERE are a great many people who can give Mr. Townsend valuable information con- cerning real ‘‘Chimmie Faddens” and tene- ments and their products. Now, if Mr. Town- send can write entertainingly about things he. isn’t conversant with, how much nicer it would be if he wrote upon something he is.
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ADVERTISEMENTS. Antique Silverware. Antique English Silver-plated Ware. Antique Bronzes and Statuaries. Antique Jewelry. Antique Dresden China. > > Old and Modern Paintings, 18th Century Laces, &c., &c. > % E, F. EBLE, 15 West 42d Street, NEW YORK.
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MRREERICS 2° Tae” Every Progressive Musician or Ama- leur reads THE American Art Journal, A Weekly Résumé of the Doings of the Musical World in Creative and Repro- ductive Art. Issued every Saturday at 23 Union Sguare, New York. | Exclusive Cailoring —— RR BROSSEAU & JOSLIN, 229 BROADWAY, 7 NEW YORK. oes 2