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The Lounger

DR. TALMAGE is 'down' on bad literature. So we are all; but the Tabernacle pastor is more vehement in his expression of his likes and dislikes than most of us. He is quoted as saying, among other things:--'Standing as we do chin deep in fictitious literature, shall we read novels?' (I should think it would be hard not to, if we keep our eyes open.) 'I say that there are some good novels which are profitable reading but at the same time I say that 99 percent. of novels are bad and unwholsesome. Pure fiction is history and poetry combined. We can never repay the debt we owe to Hawthorne Cooper, Mrs. Edgeworth, Thackeray and Dickens.' Dr. Talmage is right. We might have been able to repay them if we had thought of it while they were living, but it's too late now. All we can do to-day is to pay their successors. There are some excellent fiction-writers still with us; but we don't seem anxious to pay, or repay, them any more than we have to. Those that were born in this country get something for their work; but how about those who were born abroad, whose books are reprinted here the thousands and tens of thousands, but whom a timid Congress, backed by apathetic or immoral public opinion, permits us to rob systematically under cover of the law?

BUFFALO BILL and the Wild West are a 'hit' in London. Our English cousins, with that squeamish avoidance of slang which characterizes all their speech, have christened the show 'The Yankeries.' The press has visited the grounds, and interviewed the leading actors in the drama of border life there enacted daily by whites, reds and Mexicans; and newspaper readers have been duly enlightened on a thousand points of interest in connection with the exhibition. The Saturday Review, always first to give correct and unbiassed information concerning things American, describes Buffalo Bill as a Government scout and guide, who participated with credit 'in the terrible conflicts which endured from 1863 to 1867.' We take this as a reference to the Civil War (1861-65). As this began when the editor of The Saturday was eleven and ended when he was fifteen, the slip is pardonable.

The St. James's Gazette assumes on the part of the English public a degree of familiarity with the career of Buffalo Bill which is probably unwarranted by the facts. 'Everybody knows that the proper name of this gentleman is the Honourable W.F. Cody, member of the United States for the State of Nebraska. Why he prefers to be called Buffalo Bill instead of a member of the American Parliament may not be so great a mystery after last Friday's proceedings in the House of Commons.' Now 'everybody knows' nothing of the sort. In the first place, 'Honorable' (even when spelt with a u) is not a name, but a title. In the second place, Members of Congress do not represent States but Congressional Districts. In the third place, Mr. Cody is not a Member of 'the American Parliament' at all.

ANOTHER thing which everybody didn't know till The St. James's Gazette repeated the fact is that 'a lady is now being paid 51. a night for whistling in New York drawing-rooms. 'There is more to marvel at in this than meets the eye,' says the writer. 'Any country yokel can whistle to himself, but to whistle before a company is another matter. A well-known English actor, who is a famous whistler, once conceived the idea of teaching the accomplishment. He soon formed a class, and found no difficulty in explaining to his pupils the theory of whistling. But they could never get beyond the theory. When he said "Prepare to pucker!" (or whatever the phrase was), his pupils found they could not do it. He tried to show them the way, and found that he could not do it either. So the class had to be disbanded.' This was a misfortune, for skillful whistling is an accomplishment not to be sneezed at. I am told by persons who have heard him in private, that Wilhelmj can whistle with as much accuracy and brilliancy as he can play the violin. When his bow-arm fails him, he can come back to New York and still make $25 a night.

WHAT is there about chopping trees that makes it so fascinating a pastime to public men? There is no more familiar figure in modern American history than that of Horace Greeley chopping down trees in the woods of Chappaqua. In England 'the Grand Old Man' Gladstone finds his chief amusement swinging the keenbladed axe; and going further back, we have honest George Washington hacking with his little hatchet at the bark of a cherry tree. Perhaps it was the example of Washington that inspired Greeley and Gladstone. One reason, I suppose, why men with a weight of cares on their backs like to fell trees, is that they get exercise and at the same time cannot think of anything but the work in hand. Who ever heard of Greeley writing an editorial or Gladstone framing an address while swinging his axe? They couldn't do it. They must think of the sharp instrument they are wielding, or they will deal themselves a blow that will end their thinking altogether. Let the scoffer scoff! These brain-weary gentlement know what they are about; and I venture to say that the only real waking rest they enjoy is when they are making the chips fly from a stubborn hole.

MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON, the poet, is not blind, as has been frequently stated. Her eyes, as noted in last week's CRITIC, have been strained with much reading and writing, so she uses them as little as possible. She gets some one to read aloud to her, and uses the type-writer instead of the pen. It is about thirty years since Mrs. Preston published her first volume. Ten years later she published 'Beechwood: A Rhyme of the War,' which was written during the evenings of one week. Her 'Old Songs and New' appeared in 1870 and was highly praised by The Saturday Review, which said that many of her classical themes would never have appeared if she had not previously made the aquaintance of.