231
THROUGH FRENCH OPTICS
A Critical View of the American People by Paul Bourget.
The Analytical Race Specialist Tells What He Thinks of Us After Twenty Days' Inspection.
Some Criticisms of His View by Mrs. Feathe -- We are Children, but We Are Glad of it.
We have been viewed and reviewed -- we Americans, by any number of foreign visitors. Some of them have been foolish, shallow and provincial, some have been honest, earnest, and even profound. A great many have babbled nothings and bored us to the verge of extinction. Some of them have been simply stupid, and have taken the bad manners of foreign immigrants, finding hospital in this country, as the standard of American manners.
But the other day a great observer of men came among us, and viewed us as he had viewed many another people, from the point of view of Race. Since "Cosmopolis" was written, Paul Bourget has stood identified with the question of Race -- the great modern aclineator and discriminator of it -- the man who reads humans as the Egyptologist reads hieroglyphs. His facile and scholarly genius has become identified with this questions, and it is, therefore, with profound interest that one reads what he has to say about the American race, that new, yet very individual thing, which yesterday was not, and which today embodies so large a part of the best energy and pride in the world.
For it is a fact that while other nations grown languid, sated and overcultivated, so that patriotism has degenerated in them into a vanity or disappeared altogether into a vague cosmopolism, that in America the sentiment strengthens and grows, bracing itself as foes to its principles appear, growing defiant as philosophers threaten its overthrow, and asserting itself passionately with the vehemence of youth and of faith.
All this is a part of the involuntary and spontaneous effort of the American race to create, formulate and cement itself. Indeed, we have cast the mold, and given it free, strong lines. It is hardening now. And by and by we will take it out of the mold. It will be finished. Time will behold it, and will begin its work upon it. It will mellow it, beautify it, and, presently begin to weaken it. The ravages will become apparent. And the disintegration will come -- how many centuries from now?
But never mind.
That is altogether another, a different story.
M. Bourget's first impressions of America, on leaving the steamer, appear to have been that we are rather terrible. He certainly considers us astonishing We gave his nerves a tingle -- even a shock. And it must be admitted that we are horribly noisy and brutal in our business life. To be sure, he enjoyed the harbor, it would be hard to forgive anyone who did not enjoy the harbor of New York.
"On the morning of the seventh day we come in sight of New York -- summer's morning, burning and veiled. We were not able to enter yesterday, and I am glad of it, before the inconceivable picture of this arrival. The steamer is mounting the mouth of the Hudson, which forms the harbor for the great town, with a movement as gentle as it had been rapid twenty-four hours ago. This sensation would be worth the voyage alone, so unexpected and profound is it. The enormous estuary shivers and ripples, stirred by the last throbbings of the Atlantic, and, on these two banks, as far as the eye can reach, on the right where New York spreads itself out, on the left where Jersey City swarms, indefinitely, interminably, it is a series of short wooden jetties, brand and covered in. Names are written on them, here that of a railroad company, there of a shipping company, then of another railroad company and of another shipping company, and continuously also from each of these jetties a ferryboat starts out or arrives in, carrying away or emitting passengers by the hundreds, dozens of carriages with horses harnessed to them, entire trains full of goods I count five or six of those ferry-boats, then fifteen, then twenty. Enormous, overhanging the green water with their two decks painted in white and brown, they go beating the heavy waters with their iron wheels, and at their summit a gigantic swing beam regulates their uniform movement, they go, encountering one another, pushing up against each other, without doing any harm, so steady is their speed, with their appearance of colossal, laborious animals, each performing its task with a conscientious safety."
As for the city itself, he paid that the tribute of being very much surprised at it.
The two towns, on the right and on the left, continue to extend themselves beyond what you could dream of Leaning out on the New York side, I can distinguish some very small houses, an ocean of low constructions whence emerge, like islands with abrupt cliffs, buildings of brick so boldly colossal that even from here their height is crashing to the eye I count the stories above the line of roofs. One of them has ten, another twelve. Another is unfinished A hollow framework of iron is outline against the sky, a project of six such stories atop of eight others already built.
"gigantic, colossal, immoderate, unbridled, words fail to equal that apparition, that landscape in which the enormous mouth of the river acts as frame to a development of human energy greater than itself. Having reached this intensity of collective efforts that energy becomes an element of nature History adds to that impression, in order to redouble it, the indisputable bluntness of figures. IN 1624 not much more than 250 years ago, the Indians sold to a Westphalian the point of this island of Manhattan. He founded the town, which is there now. The poetry of democracy, and there is really one, lies in those rushes of popular vitality wherein the individual disappears, where the separate effort is but as a note of nothing in an immense concert. It is certainly not the Parthenon, that little temple on a little hill where the Greeks have fixed their ideal; only so much material as was indispensable and spiritual essence sufficient to animate the whole, even to the smallest atom, with measure and harmony, but it is the dark and violent poetry of the modern world which gives you a tragic shiver, so much voluntary and furious humanity holds in a horizon like that of this morning and it is the same every day!"
Bourget's first mingling with the Americans at Castle Garden undeniably gave him a shock But it seems that his friends had led him to expect as much Indeed, he tells of one young Frenchman who came here armed with letters of introduction, and all that would have made his visit entertaining. Yet, five days after landing, he took a steamer for home.
"I was not able to stand the blow," was the only reply he made to his astonished parents.
Bourget says. "That blew in landing is certainly a severe one to a Frenchman accustomed to that administrative order, the slowness of which one abuses so much when obliged to submit to it, but which we regret when we find ourselves in an Anglo-Saxon crowd, where the struggle for life has already its humble and pain symbol in the struggle for the baggage as soon as the boat arrives at the quay.
"An immense shed, crowded with people going and coming, shoving and knocking up against one, gigantic policemen, with huge stomachs protruding from under their belts, who hold themselves in that crowd as columns against which it shall break, custom house officers in unbottoned uniforms, for it is warm whose cheeks are swollen out with a quid, and who expectorate long jets of brown saliva over the floor where the boxes are to be placed; those boxes just arrived and thrown over with a jerk amid the expressmen who offer their checks carpenters with chisels and hammers to undo and nail up the cases, the arms of employes in the open cases turning and turning over the linen and dresses with the roughness of people in a hurry; then those trunks no sooner closed and 'checked' than they are seized by porters and hurled down at the risk of being broken along a sloping plank into the lower floor. A strong smell of human sweat permeates everything. There you have the entrance into the big American city. It has as brutal and as rapid as a boxing feint"
Of course Bourget permits himself to be entertained with all the paraphernalia of our civilization He is almost irritated at the national genius for ingenuity, and considers the endless contrivances for the saving of time and energy as childish He can, however, and does, understand a bath tub with hot and cold water, and looks upon that as a more reasonable refinement. He is distressed, also, as might have been expected, about our apparent lack of time.
"At what o'clock does one love?" he cries "At what o'clock does one die? At what o'clock does one think? At what o'clock, in short, is one a man -- and not a work machine in motion?"
He is exercised for fear we will never ever find time to grow roses He thinks people look too self-centered. He complains because they appear to be engaged with inward thought, instead of being interested and amused by their neighbors. But in all this he finds, as well he may, a nervous and triumphant energy which belongs and only could belong to a race which is young and strong and independent.
So, to pass over all these observations of tricks of living and his comments upon the splendor of the surroundings of the rich, and the prodigality of all, and the rush, assertion, love of display, and candor, let us get at what he seems to consider the salient point.
He is writing of the set at Newport, our "coterie of millionaires," and says:
"As the wealthy classes in America have no kind of influence over the elections, the ambitious politician has nothing to do in society There is no institut here to give the vogue of a wordly coterie which can lead a writer or an artist. Neither is there a center whence literary reputations radiate and which is condensed in a few salons. The girls only exceptionally receive marriage portions, so that the fortune hunters chiefly consist in strangers ruined and with titles, who generally disappear after a season They feel too soon that old Europe is still the surest ground for that kind of speculation, as on the other hand the morals of the country seem good in the main and that an acknowledged 'lisson' is here a phenomenon, this social life cannot either serve as a screen to the complications of passional life. Reduced in that way to its proper basis it develops itself more and more exaggeratedly toward gorgeousness and public entertainments, and as everywhere some real food and a positive occupation are necessary to such vigorous activities, this society life ends here at least by turning entirely toward sport. So again, what logically should be a fault becomes a principle of health, so true is it that among the strong races everything develops into force, even frivelity and vanity, while among the people who are getting old even culture and delicacy only end in sickness and corruption.
"How do they amuse themselves?
"I have amused myself in order to answer that question with a certain amount of precision by following almost hour by hour for several days the use which some of those women make of the time who are called here 'leaders of society' I transcribe one of the sketches thus obtained, taking it among twenty others. They are almost all similar by the physiological strength which the display, the taste for out of door life and for exercise, and this way of amusing themselves explains why the ladies of society, instead of being debilitated and having faded complexions and that 'old glove' look, as a cruel humorist put it, like their sisters in all the large cities of Europe, retain on the contrary the freshness of their skins, that suppleness of movement and their vital force. They are aware of it and they are proud of it.
"'What pleases me,' said one of them, 'In considering that I am an American is to know that I belong to a fine and healthy race.' * * *
"They do not modify their criticism as regards the Parisiennes. I hear one deploring the change of one of her fellow countrywomen who has married a Frenchman: 'She was so robust with such a good complexion, and now she has become thin and worn, quite sallow,' and they laugh in saying such things, with their happy laughter, in which there is what we can so difficultly understand, honest animism, with their teeth cleaned so that they are like precious things, and when the dentist has worked there he has put in gold, which shines with such new brilliancy that it no longer has the appearance of an infirmity!"
In another place, in describing a game of tennis Bourget says:
"At a certain moment one of the young players who has just hit the ball calls one of his attendants to clean the indiarubber sole of his shoe, which has become encrusted with mud. He contrives during this commonplace operation to assume an attitude so graceful that I can understand a young girl exclaiming, 'Oh! how I wish he would win! He is so nice looking!' a naive exclamation in which the profound admiration of the American woman for looks, for that physical beauty, considered after the pagan fashion. It goes so far, that admiration, that one of the most celebrated athletes in the United States gathers in his box, after the representation in which he has taken part, the women of the best society, and, with the torso naked, gives them a lecture about his body, a conference on musculature. The photograph of that torso, muscular. In fact, like that in the vatican which old Michael Angelo's bands caressed, is sold in all the shops, and more than one amongst those fair spectature of the tennis possesses one in her little drawing room. 'There are people who consider that very indecent," said one of those women in showing me that singular document of her independence of ideas. 'I do not. It is a Greek thing, that is all.'"
It is certain that Americans will read this with some vanity. For there have been times when, taking the word of others for it, they have been led to think themselves an enervated race. They have consented to think this in spite of fact that a larger proportion of their children live than the children of any other nation, in spite of the fact that they are more temperate than the English or Irish, more pure of life than the French, less given to suicide than the Germans, less subject to madness than the Scandinavians, seldom afflicted with indolence like the Italians. All these troubles of brain and body, the result of national hysteria or national vice, appear here in the minimum Our vices, like our virtues, come from an excess of energy. In very many cases it takes the form of greed. We are accumulations We do not mean to be merciless, but there are times when some among us approach it. But the strength is there -- it has always been there. It has been a torrent that flowed on, from state to state, subduing half a world, and civilizing it till it mocked the civilization of other countries. Nothing in the development of the world has been so tremendous. Nothing has involved such an outburst of intellectual during and creativeness Nothing has required such physical courage, such foregoing of sentiment, ease, love of home, caution, and personal indulgence. In another sense, this magnificent exploit of the Americans, which in 200 years has subjugated a wilderness of the mightiest sort, has been supremely selfish. But it has been a selfishness so colossal that it attained dignity, and even heroism.
Weak? No. We never have been. True, some, presuming on their restless ambition, have worn themselves out and fallen under the curse of prostrated nerves. But these have served as object lessons, and the man of affairs knows where to put a period to his work now. He cultivates amusement with the same passionate interest that he cultivates business. He compares his son with the son of his neighbor, from physical standards as well as mental ones. He wants his daughters large and beautiful as well as his sons. And part of the life of almost every home is in the interest in physical sports of some sort or other.
What M. Bourget has to say about our conversation is also interesting, and, though we may not like it, it is true.
"There is in the conversation of the American, and, above all, of the American woman, a second feature which saves them from pedantry and stiffness. That feature is their vivacity. There is their slightest remark a profound favor of reality, and also in the movement as in the gesture. Never anything abstract or vague, always those words which pint, those terms which betray experience. Also they have in no degree that notion of personal effacement which gives a more brilliant varnish to politeness, but which diminishes all the individuality of conversation. They never hesitate to speak of themselves and to recall their voyages, their adventures -- what they call, to put it exactly, their experiences They easily gain by it, having little wit of speech, what one might call the wit of things, a picturesqueness of delivery, which produces an original, novel humor when they mix it with gayety. Here again you may feel beneath the rich woman, like beath the lavish man, the people quite near You will also feel this in a certain general naivete of conversation.
"Equivocal insinuations are totally eliminated, and the gossip is rarely of a cruel kind. Mockery is constant, but a mockery which does not tear to pieces. It is carried on above all by means of gay anecdotes The individual features of a character are its main objects. Then follow the social errors, the faults in taste in the pursuit of celebrities or titled people These last generally come from Europe, and they prove that the passage from the new world to the old has the habitual reslut of drawing forth the defects of the Americans instead of correcting them.
"At home in his birthplace he is more simple, more cordial, and, all things considered, when you hear him speak you respect him, you find him good-natured, as they say, without much hatred, without much envy and so easily amused. Forain and to me, after having spent a few days at Newport:
"They are children.'"
There were never truer words spoken. It is difficult to prove that they are true. But any American who has known the feeling of intense entertainment upon talking with a cultivated foreigner will perceive what is meant. The flavor of foreign conversations is very sweet to most of us. We listen to it, fascinated We perceive in it something that out best learning, our most honest efforts, our amiability, frankness and experience will not give us We are, in fact, naive, simple direct -- or, if subtle, it is with a transparent subtlety. The complex mental makeup of the foreigner therefore baffles and diverts us. And, by acknowledging this superior mental adeptness, we confess our own simplicity. It is nothing to be ashamed of. It is, in fact, one of the characteristics of the new race. It belongs to youth. It comes from the necessity of dealing with things directly. It is the result of seeing things themselves, as they are, and not in seeing the ideas about things. It shows personal contact with labor, with difficulties with detail, with law-making, with school building It stands for all that is the antithesis of idleness. It is the antipodes of aristocracy -- that is, of decay. It is the heart and soul of a democracy.
M. Bourget is a genius True, he might have dealt better with us if a good many of us who are not millionaires could have shown him our home life But he has done exceedingly well as it is, and we are obliged to him.
All of which is another sign of our simplicity. For if we were a more developed nation we would be outraged at this scrutiny. We would rise up to cast out the man who approached us with a microscope in his hand to examine us as if we were disease-bearing animaculae. But being what we are, a simple race, more or less spectacular, given to viewing ourselves from an objective point of view, we consent to be examined, and are almost as delighted as the scientist when a spot is discovered on back or belly different from that of any of our tiny tribe. Yes we, the new race, are conscious of our newness. We make a boast of it. For man must make a boast of something And since we are debarred of all legends of antiquity may we not have new tales of prowess -- tales of lands and seas subdued? Of many races moulded into one? Of a passionate attempt at government which is so near the ideal that poor human nature only found its balance by abusing and debasing every principle of it? Have we not higher mountains, larger inconsistencies, bigger buildings, finer ships, more steam and electricity, more beauty and energy -- yes, even more refinement and delicacy than any other nation? Aye, verily, we have found a way to heap excess on everything. We are extremists. We gorge ourselves, whether it be with money, power, splendor or refinement.
We are children!
But it will be just so much longer for us to live!
So, here's to you, Paul Bourget! Perceiver! Genius! We drink your health with the assumption and the gaiety of youth. For it is wonderful to be young! ELIA W PEATTIE.
THE DIAMOND NECKLACE
Sunday morning two young men sat in the smoking room of a cozy apartment. Outside the snow was falling silently in great blue white flakes.
On the divun his tail and legs ornamented with tufts of curly black hair, his body shaved in the approved fashion, a poodle slumbered peacefully, and Floyd taller, the owner of the premises, attired in a smoking jacket of a horsey plaid, was lolling in an easy chair, his slippered feet stretched toward the fire. His companion, Arthur Van Stade, had been his greatest friend at college, and this was their first meeting in three years. Van Stade had been in India killing big game, and had barely escaped having the tables turned, as a large scar across one cheek testified, according to Kate Field's Washington. Taylor had stayed at home, but to him had come the greater change. As he expressed it, he was a "settled down, old married man with a family' -- which meant that he had the sweetest little wife in the world and a tiny mite of bink and white humanity, known in the house as a baby.
"That's a rather fine dog you have there, Arthur," said Van Stade, turning to the poodle and lazily looking over the sleeping animal.
"Well, I should think so," replied Taller "I don't suppose you will believe me when I tell you that when he came into my possession he was worth no less than $1,000. The spring after you went away," he went on, ' having finished my college course I went over to the other side for the London season I went to Lond, and in London I stayed long after the time allotted to that city had expired. It was there I met Edith. In six weeks we were engaged The remainder of the season I passed in Scotland with the family of my fiance. They had planned to go to Nic when the cold weather came on, and, of course, I determined to go with them. We went as far as Paris together, but at the last moment I was detained in that city for a few days, and was obliged to allow the rest of the party to proceed without me, promising to join them in a week at most
"I had run short of funds and the remittance expected from my father had not arrived This I did not consider necessary to explain to Edith and her family. I said vaguely that business kept me in Paris. Four days after their departure the letter from my father arrived. He had heard of my engagement, and, to my satisfaction, approved of it. Besides the amount expected he sent an additional $1,000, with which he instructed me to buy a suitable present for Edith. If the modest diamond I had bought her for our engagement had been my only gift, I was pleased and gratified with my father's generous present.
'The following morning I started out in search of something from my dear girl, whom I should be with the very next day. I visited all the lending jewelry stores on the Avenue del Opera and was so confused by the glittering array of gems spread out to lure the American dollar from wealthy travelers that I could decide on nothing My $1,000, which had seemed so much, now appeared ridiculously small and I had almost despaired of finding anything worthy of my beloved when my eyes fell upon an extremely beautiful necklace, consisting of two rows of pearls caught together at intervals by small diamond clasps It lay in a velvet case of azure blue and the moment I saw it I decided that it was just what I wanted
"I asked the price.
"Five thousand francs, monsieur,' replied the salesman.
"Exactly the sum I had to spend! I bought it without a moment's hesitation. The little blue box was about to be wrapped up when the salesman discovered some imperfection in the clasp. He was profuse in his apologies and said that it would be repaired and ready for me the following morning I explained that this would not do, as I was to leave the city on a night express for Nice. After a moment's hesitation the jeweler promised that I should have it at 6 o'clock, without fail.
"As I was leaving the store I noticed a woman standing by my side, it would be more correct to say that I noticed a beautiful white hand with long tapering fingers, on one of which was a diamond of unusual size and brilliancy. In her hand was a small jeweled watch, and as I was leaving the counter I caught a few words spoken in a peculiarly musical voice. I was too full of the thought of Edith's happiness on receiving my gift even to glance at the woman's face, and long before I had reached the sidewalk she was forgotten.
At 6 o'clock I returned, and, true to his promise, the man had the necklace ready for me. Placing it in the inside pocket of my coat, I left the store and had just time to complete a few remaining arrangements before going to the station. I bought a first class ticket and tipped the guard, after giving him to understand in my very best French that I did not want him to put other passengers in my compartment. I tucked my traveling rug around my knees, opened a French novel, when the door was opened and a woman hurriedly entered the compartment and took the seat next to the window on the other side of the car I glanced at my unwelcome companion. She was dressed in mourning of the richest material in perfect taste. As I was noticing these details something by her side that I had at first taken for a fur cape moved. It proved to be a black French poodle, and, as he sat up and turned his head toward me I saw that around his neck he wore a broad silver collar, from which depended a peculiar heart-shaped padlock.
"Turning to my novel I soon forgot the intruders, nor did I again think of them until perhaps half an hour afterward, when I was startled by feeling something cold and wet pressed against my hand. It was the poodle's nose. He had crawled across the seat and was evidently desirous of making my acquaintance.
"Chico, come here!" exclaimed a singularly familiar voice.
"The dog paid no attention to his mistress, but wagged his tail contentedly as I stroked his curly head.
"You must excuse the dog, sir," said my companion 'He is a great pet and expects everyone to notice him. I am afraid he will annoy you.'
"I protested that he would not, and added that I was fond of dogs, poodles in particular. Perhaps my answer was due in part to the fact that the woman was young and beautiful I had only that minute become aware of this, the
232
A SUMMERTIME MEDLEY
A Young Violin Maker of Omaha and His Work -- One of His Creations.
Nebraska's School for the Deaf and Some of the Things It Has Accomplished.
The Negro Question and a Word for the Indians -- Mrs. Peattie Drops Into Poetry.
Love for a day -- and then, my sweet, farewell! I would not with one accent, bid you stay. See, not the semblance of a teardrop fell. Even when you said 'twas love but for a day.
Dreams are the dearest things that life may bring. And knowledge robs us flat of these, you say. But you will leave me with this flawless thing, The perfect memory of love a one day.
No, let no purer day on our love dawn. I fear to see the hideous feet of clay, Love, go. I shall not weep when you are gone, To think our kisses lasted but a day.
'In all centuries, at all times," says Oclave Thanet There have been artisans with the artist's soul."
There is no such a one in Omaha. His name is Clinton A. Cane, and he is to be found high up in a certain business block of the city, in a little room about 15x10, standing at his bench.
He is a young man, only 27, and he dresses fastidiously, and wears a tiny gold chain to his eye glasses, and white tie. But he is a workman all the same And his occupation is the making of violins
Long ago -- as a man of 27 counts time -- Mr. Case went to an old violin maker in this town named Fenwick, and asked him to take him for his apprentice. Mr. Fenwick was not particulary interested. He had not himself found violin making a very inspiring occupation and he did not see why anyone else should do so. But the young man insisted on being taught something of the creat. He hung around and pried about, he looked at the old man's tools and examined his woods, and asked questions. He read about tone, and its relations to other things -- its dependence upon form, fiber, space and vibration He read about varnishes, and the lost art of the old masters, and dreamt about the time when he should make a violin with strong lungs, and a beautiful voice that would sing clear and steadfast, and have a range like some great mezzo.
So, presently, he turned out a little violin. It was made flat, as Mr Fenwick had told him to make it, and it had a narrow waist, as Mr. Fenwick had also instructed. The curves were fairly true, the thing well put together, and the varnish was like satin
'I made thirty violins before I made one as good as that," confessed old Fenwick, bending over it and looking at it a little jealously. "As for the varnish, it looks as if it were made of amber"
'So it is" said the novice.
"No!' cried Fenwick. "No one knows nowadays how to make an amber varnish. It is a lost art.'
Young Case smiled back at him
"It is a found art," he said. I have found it Remember, will you, that the first violin I ever made had a coat of amber varnish. And it will grow more beautiful every year."
That was seven years ago -- the ear of the great blizzard, as we designate it out here in Nebraska. And the varnish has grown more beautiful every year
'It is a secret I alone hold," says young Case. 'It is the secret of the old masters. I said I would find it, and I did"
Sir Case has made thirty six violins since then. Some good musicians in this and in other cities possess them. People come from other towns to get these instruments, which already have a pretty fame.
For they are no longer made flat nor narrow in the waist.
'It takes full lungs and a large throat to make a large voice," the violin maker reasoned. So he built his violins with a large swell to them and a very wide waist. And he studied much to make the lines in proportion and to slope the sides of it, so that the hand would slip easily to the harmonics. He became a connoisseur in the texture of wood and a student of the effect of varnishes upon woods, and he learned at last certain laws that govern resonance and tone.
And each violin sang clearer and better, till at length he fashioned of fir and maple -- which were without flaw -- an instrument which is his masterpiece. it is a bit like a Quarnerius in its shape, but still is is original. The sides bulge in a beautiful swell, the edges make a delicate curve, all the more noticeable because the waist is so broad that one might fear a destruction of symmetry. Perhaps the instrument is an eight of an inch longer than is usual. The color is a dark brown, and through the wonderful amber varnish the maple shows its waving lines.
In tone the violin is the great mezzo of which Case used to dream when he first commenced his work. It took him six months to make the violin to his satisfaction. But it is to his satisfaction now -- or almost
It's a lovely thing to the eye, but when Hans Albert takes it in his hands, and stands at the rear of the little shop, and draws his slow bow across it, lovingly, and sweeps up and down in a sudden passion of sound, then the instrument is a voice, proud, and true, and deeply responsive, echoing the moods of the artist's soul, as a mirror would reflect his face.
"He will be one of the greatest makers of violins the world has known," cries Hans who is always an enthusiast.
May be. Anyway, whether he reaches such an eminence or not he evidently expects to He is sure of himself, and intoxicated with his work. His whole healthy life is concentrated on his trade. And he has made, without doubt, the best violin ever made in this town.
* * * * * * *
Mr Holman, who, when he is not objecting, is abolishing, now proposes to abolish the board of Indian commissioners. He objects to the small appropriation of $5 000 needed to cover the traveling expenses of this board when on business for the government Mr Dennis T Flynn of Oklahoma made the argument that the board should be abolished because "there is scarcely a matter ever broached in congress or in the department in reference to the Indian service that these people (the commissioners) are not around nosing in" Seeing that this nosing" has been the best protection of the Indian, and that it has been the means of preventing jobbery and frauds, people in general will not have a bad opinion of these nosers.
Mr. Holman has also shown a singular inconsistency in refusing to approve the small appropriation of $5,000 for the commissioners, and in introducing a bill for creating a commission of six to investigate and report from time to time, for which he asks an appropriation of $20 000. He is willing to enlarge the political machine, in fact, and to increase political patronage, but he is not willing to permit the investigations of a number of disinterested persons whose motives are disinterested, and who have no political trading to do He is bidding shamelessly for a return of the "ring" methods. And if this obtains, it will simply mean more defrauding of the Indian, more supplying of unfit and insufficient food, and more absurd proportionment of supplies.
The Washington Post says "Prior to the formation of the board of Indian commissioners there was no branch of the public service so rich in scandal or so profitable to the members of the ring as that of Indian affairs, but with the incoming of this organization the thieves who had fattened at the expense of both the appropriative source and those who were supposed to be benefited were driven either into other fields, or into discreditable obscurity."
Yet the attempt is openly made to reinstate this shameless crew, whose reason for being will be to absorb the money the people appropriate and to which the Indian is entitled.
* * * * * * *
Rev. John Albert Williams rector of the church of St. Phillip the Deacon, in a letter of kindly criticism concerning the article which appeared in the WORLD-HERALD last sunday, says
"There is a portion of your article from which I dissent. It is this. 'There is not a drawing room in this country where the negro community comes as a friend of the family, although in church, or political or educational work he may occasionally associated with those of social position'
'[?] This puts the case too strongly There are many drawing rooms in this country where individuals do commonly come as friends of the family -- not on suffrance, but as friends, drawn together by like tastes and like pursuits It is when we are associated with those of social position in church, or political, or educational work that we feel too often that we are there by tolerance or suffrance merely, so far as certain individuals are concerned. But so far as rights or immunities are concerned we are there by sovereign right which he may dispute who will, but which we refuse to surrender. There are many drawing rooms where we are welcomed as friends, and not as co-workers in certain lines of thought or activity."
This comes from a man who is certainly in a position to know whereof he speaks, and I am glad he has found and enjoyed the friendship to which his accomplishments and his sincere life and upward purpose entitle him. He is among the most energetic of our clergymen, and is held in deep affection among his own people and parish, and in admiring respect by all who know him I infer from his remarks that he does not feel himself debarred from the privileges which should be his, and it gives me pleasure to know it.
* * * * * * *
Mr. and Mrs. Gillispe, the superintendent and matron of the Nebraska Institute for the Deaf, have left for Chatauqua, N. Y ,accompanied by a class of pupils which will illustrate their work in aural development. As those know well who are acquainted with the progress made at our institute for the deaf these two instructors have made a specialty of the development of latent hearing Indeed, they may be said to have invented the system of aural development, and, with their assistants, Mr. and Mrs Taylor, have brought int communication with the world many an unfortunate who would otherwise have been immured in silence as long as life lasted.
The pupils who are to go to Chautauqua are three in number, one being a young man who has received five years' instruction, and the others two little girls 6 years of age, who have had about a years instruction. These two little things are very pretty. Mabel Scanlan, who comes from Kearney, is a blond, with a vivacious temperament Helen Oliver, who is from Lincoln, is a grave and very attractive brunette. They are about the same height, and famous friends When they came to the institute they were excellent examples of children well born, well cared for, and yet, by reason of their terrible affliction of deafness, almost undeveloped in their faculties. Immured in that prison of silence, with only their eyes to assist them in becoming acquainted with the world around them, without means of communicating their ideas or formulating their ideas by means of words, with their curiosity awake, their natures continually irritated by their inability to correspond with any about them, they were in many respects like animals, with instincts, desires, but no modes of expression But they suffered, without doubt, as animals can never suffer, and this suffering was, in the nature of things, in a fair way to produce ill-nature, or, perhaps even a worse form of mental viciousness This would be almost inevitable.
The task of establishing a means of commnication, of indicating the nature of a word and at last of awaking in the silence with which they were surrounded, some idea of sound, its distinctions and meaning is a task so enormous that those who have never tried it may be well pardoned if they cannot appreciate entirely what it means.
These children were to all intents and purposes deaf. They had never heard a sound. Yet they were not, in the scientific sense of the word, entirely deaf. The sense of hearing was latent to them. And by the system of ear education which Mr Gillispie has introduced they were taught to hear violent sound, then to distinguish one sound from another, and finally to hear the voice and to distinguish words. What endless patience this instruction takes no one can say. It means months of ceaseless work. And even at best it must be limited. The word knowledge cannot be extensive. But, after all, the world has been made audible for the and expressible and enjoyable. It is the difference between darkness and light, between misery and joy, between living death and throbbing life
There are eighteen in the class of aural development, but these little ones were chosen to go because their parents could afford it and were willing to have them go on the long journey, and because the girls work together so well, and make such a charming picture in their similarities and contrasts.
The young man is an example of what can be done with five years' training From being a mere unhappy animal, he has become an interesting and ambitious young man, with a desire to fit himself for active work in the way of cabinet making or some similar occupation having developed a talent for designing and for joining, and other fine carpentering.
It is almost the same as making a sense -- this developing of one that, but for the outputting of such extraordinary and unselfish energy, would have lain dormant And the instructors at the institute may well expect to win credit at the New York, Chautauqua, and to thus bring within reach of this development hundreds of other afflicted creatures.
Already this system of aural development, which was first instigated by Mr.
OFF with the PA[N?] In a sale at have been s with our gre Sales, there must be necessa ends in Coats -- Vests - sell PA[N?] PANTS FOR S 50c, ODD SIZE PA[N?] $1.00, S Remember, our time the best bargains you ground When we ad known as such annd is s Look in the show w PA[N?]
COLU
Gillispie, has now found its way into fifteen or twenty institutions for the deaf.
It is safe to say that such success would never have been obtained at the Nebraska institute had the superintendent had less capable assistants. But the youth, energy, nervous force and friendliness with which both Mr and Mrs Taylor are endowed has made it possible for them to control and teach these unfortunates. And the result is beautiful -- it is like watching the manufacture of thinking, happy men and women out of mere physical matter. Indeed, that is exactly what it is
ELIA W. PEATTIE.
THE OSTERGARD WOOD.
Newman Grove's Pleasure Grounds -- Woodman Spare That Tree.
NEWMAN GROVE, Neb , June 28 -- [Specail.] -- If every traveling man who makes the Scribner branch of the Elkhorn road knew what handsome pleasure grounds lay near to Newman grove, what excellent boating there was between the town and the wood, and what jolly, hospitable people were to be found in that enterprising little city, many of them would surely lay their plants so that they might spend a Sunday at this place.
Accompanying is found an engraving giving a representative view of the many beautiful landscapes that are to be found
[Drawing] THE OSTERG
in the course of three miles'rowing from the boat house near the city to the park.
The boating is on a mill pond, and a four-mile stretch of the finest water in the state is open to those who enjoy such scenery.
At every turn in the winding stream such beautiful views as the above are encountered.
The picnic grounds are about three miles from the boat house and are located on what is known as Hackberry Island. This island is heavily timbered with hackberry, oak and elm. There are some exceptionally fine oak trees, estimated to be from 300 to 400 years old.
The town of Newman Grove is under obligations to Colonel Thomas Ostergard, a true lover of nature, for the pleasures of this beautiful park. A few years ago the grounds belonged to a man with no artistic tastes, but whose only desire was to clear off the woods as quietly as possible and put theground into corn Colonel OStergard made frequent pilgrimages to these woods, and every time he noted with regret that some tree that had been a prime favorite of his had fallen beneath the spoilers ax. At last he could stand it no longer and purchased the grounds for $4,000. Since then the underbrush has been cleared out, flowers planted and cared for, the channel of the stream has been kept clear, landings have been put in, boats purchased and boat houses erected, and today there are no finer pleasure grounds to be found in Nebraska.
The WORLD-HERALD's representatives will not forget for many a year the very pleasant Sunday spent in Newman grove where he enjoyed the hospitalities of Colonel Ostergard in this beautiful park.
233
A SUMMERTIME MEDLEY
A Young Violin Maker of Omaha and His Work -- One of His Creations.
Nebraska's School for the Deaf and Some of the Things It Has Accomplished.
The Negro Question and a Word for the Indians -- Mrs. Peattie Drops Into Poetry.
Love for a day -- and then, my sweet, farewell! I would not with one accent, bid you stay. See, not the semblance of a teardrop fell. Even when you said 'twas love but for a day.
Dreams are the dearest things that life may bring. And knowledge robs us flat of these, you say. But you will leave me with this flawless thing, The perfect memory of love a one day.
No, let no purer day on our love dawn. I fear to see the hideous feet of clay, Love, go. I shall not weep when you are gone, To think our kisses lasted but a day.
'In all centuries, at all times," says Oclave Thanet There have been artisans with the artist's soul."
There is no such a one in Omaha. His name is Clinton A. Cane, and he is to be found high up in a certain business block of the city, in a little room about 15x10, standing at his bench.
He is a young man, only 27, and he dresses fastidiously, and wears a tiny gold chain to his eye glasses, and white tie. But he is a workman all the same And his occupation is the making of violins
Long ago -- as a man of 27 counts time -- Mr. Case went to an old violin maker in this town named Fenwick, and asked him to take him for his apprentice. Mr. Fenwick was not particulary interested. He had not himself found violin making a very inspiring occupation and he did not see why anyone else should do so. But the young man insisted on being taught something of the creat. He hung around and pried about, he looked at the old man's tools and examined his woods, and asked questions. He read about tone, and its relations to other things -- its dependence upon form, fiber, space and vibration He read about varnishes, and the lost art of the old masters, and dreamt about the time when he should make a violin with strong lungs, and a beautiful voice that would sing clear and steadfast, and have a range like some great mezzo.
So, presently, he turned out a little violin. It was made flat, as Mr Fenwick had told him to make it, and it had a narrow waist, as Mr. Fenwick had also instructed. The curves were fairly true, the thing well put together, and the varnish was like satin
'I made thirty violins before I made one as good as that," confessed old Fenwick, bending over it and looking at it a little jealously. "As for the varnish, it looks as if it were made of amber"
'So it is" said the novice.
"No!' cried Fenwick. "No one knows nowadays how to make an amber varnish. It is a lost art.'
Young Case smiled back at him
"It is a found art," he said. I have found it Remember, will you, that the first violin I ever made had a coat of amber varnish. And it will grow more beautiful every year."
That was seven years ago -- the ear of the great blizzard, as we designate it out here in Nebraska. And the varnish has grown more beautiful every year
'It is a secret I alone hold," says young Case. 'It is the secret of the old masters. I said I would find it, and I did"
Sir Case has made thirty six violins since then. Some good musicians in this and in other cities possess them. People come from other towns to get these instruments, which already have a pretty fame.
For they are no longer made flat nor narrow in the waist.
'It takes full lungs and a large throat to make a large voice," the violin maker reasoned. So he built his violins with a large swell to them and a very wide waist. And he studied much to make the lines in proportion and to slope the sides of it, so that the hand would slip easily to the harmonics. He became a connoisseur in the texture of wood and a student of the effect of varnishes upon woods, and he learned at last certain laws that govern resonance and tone.
And each violin sang clearer and better, till at length he fashioned of fir and maple -- which were without flaw -- an instrument which is his masterpiece. it is a bit like a Quarnerius in its shape, but still is is original. The sides bulge in a beautiful swell, the edges make a delicate curve, all the more noticeable because the waist is so broad that one might fear a destruction of symmetry. Perhaps the instrument is an eight of an inch longer than is usual. The color is a dark brown, and through the wonderful amber varnish the maple shows its waving lines.
In tone the violin is the great mezzo of which Case used to dream when he first commenced his work. It took him six months to make the violin to his satisfaction. But it is to his satisfaction now -- or almost
It's a lovely thing to the eye, but when Hans Albert takes it in his hands, and stands at the rear of the little shop, and draws his slow bow across it, lovingly, and sweeps up and down in a sudden passion of sound, then the instrument is a voice, proud, and true, and deeply responsive, echoing the moods of the artist's soul, as a mirror would reflect his face.
"He will be one of the greatest makers of violins the world has known," cries Hans who is always an enthusiast.
May be. Anyway, whether he reaches such an eminence or not he evidently expects to He is sure of himself, and intoxicated with his work. His whole healthy life is concentrated on his trade. And he has made, without doubt, the best violin ever made in this town.
* * * * * * *
Mr Holman, who, when he is not objecting, is abolishing, now proposes to abolish the board of Indian commissioners. He objects to the small appropriation of $5 000 needed to cover the traveling expenses of this board when on business for the government Mr Dennis T Flynn of Oklahoma made the argument that the board should be abolished because "there is scarcely a matter ever broached in congress or in the department in reference to the Indian service that these people (the commissioners) are not around nosing in" Seeing that this nosing" has been the best protection of the Indian, and that it has been the means of preventing jobbery and frauds, people in general will not have a bad opinion of these nosers.
Mr. Holman has also shown a singular inconsistency in refusing to approve the small appropriation of $5,000 for the commissioners, and in introducing a bill for creating a commission of six to investigate and report from time to time, for which he asks an appropriation of $20 000. He is willing to enlarge the political machine, in fact, and to increase political patronage, but he is not willing to permit the investigations of a number of disinterested persons whose motives are disinterested, and who have no political trading to do He is bidding shamelessly for a return of the "ring" methods. And if this obtains, it will simply mean more defrauding of the Indian, more supplying of unfit and insufficient food, and more absurd proportionment of supplies.
The Washington Post says "Prior to the formation of the board of Indian commissioners there was no branch of the public service so rich in scandal or so profitable to the members of the ring as that of Indian affairs, but with the incoming of this organization the thieves who had fattened at the expense of both the appropriative source and those who were supposed to be benefited were driven either into other fields, or into discreditable obscurity."
Yet the attempt is openly made to reinstate this shameless crew, whose reason for being will be to absorb the money the people appropriate and to which the Indian is entitled.
* * * * * * *
Rev. John Albert Williams rector of the church of St. Phillip the Deacon, in a letter of kindly criticism concerning the article which appeared in the WORLD-HERALD last sunday, says
"There is a portion of your article from which I dissent. It is this. 'There is not a drawing room in this country where the negro community comes as a friend of the family, although in church, or political or educational work he may occasionally associated with those of social position'
'[?] This puts the case too strongly There are many drawing rooms in this country where individuals do commonly come as friends of the family -- not on suffrance, but as friends, drawn together by like tastes and like pursuits It is when we are associated with those of social position in church, or political, or educational work that we feel too often that we are there by tolerance or suffrance merely, so far as certain individuals are concerned. But so far as rights or immunities are concerned we are there by sovereign right which he may dispute who will, but which we refuse to surrender. There are many drawing rooms where we are welcomed as friends, and not as co-workers in certain lines of thought or activity."
This comes from a man who is certainly in a position to know whereof he speaks, and I am glad he has found and enjoyed the friendship to which his accomplishments and his sincere life and upward purpose entitle him. He is among the most energetic of our clergymen, and is held in deep affection among his own people and parish, and in admiring respect by all who know him I infer from his remarks that he does not feel himself debarred from the privileges which should be his, and it gives me pleasure to know it.
* * * * * * *
Mr. and Mrs. Gillispe, the superintendent and matron of the Nebraska Institute for the Deaf, have left for Chatauqua, N. Y ,accompanied by a class of pupils which will illustrate their work in aural development. As those know well who are acquainted with the progress made at our institute for the deaf these two instructors have made a specialty of the development of latent hearing Indeed, they may be said to have invented the system of aural development, and, with their assistants, Mr. and Mrs Taylor, have brought int communication with the world many an unfortunate who would otherwise have been immured in silence as long as life lasted.
The pupils who are to go to Chautauqua are three in number, one being a young man who has received five years' instruction, and the others two little girls 6 years of age, who have had about a years instruction. These two little things are very pretty. Mabel Scanlan, who comes from Kearney, is a blond, with a vivacious temperament Helen Oliver, who is from Lincoln, is a grave and very attractive brunette. They are about the same height, and famous friends When they came to the institute they were excellent examples of children well born, well cared for, and yet, by reason of their terrible affliction of deafness, almost undeveloped in their faculties. Immured in that prison of silence, with only their eyes to assist them in becoming acquainted with the world around them, without means of communicating their ideas or formulating their ideas by means of words, with their curiosity awake, their natures continually irritated by their inability to correspond with any about them, they were in many respects like animals, with instincts, desires, but no modes of expression But they suffered, without doubt, as animals can never suffer, and this suffering was, in the nature of things, in a fair way to produce ill-nature, or, perhaps even a worse form of mental viciousness This would be almost inevitable.
The task of establishing a means of commnication, of indicating the nature of a word and at last of awaking in the silence with which they were surrounded, some idea of sound, its distinctions and meaning is a task so enormous that those who have never tried it may be well pardoned if they cannot appreciate entirely what it means.
These children were to all intents and purposes deaf. They had never heard a sound. Yet they were not, in the scientific sense of the word, entirely deaf. The sense of hearing was latent to them. And by the system of ear education which Mr Gillispie has introduced they were taught to hear violent sound, then to distinguish one sound from another, and finally to hear the voice and to distinguish words. What endless patience this instruction takes no one can say. It means months of ceaseless work. And even at best it must be limited. The word knowledge cannot be extensive. But, after all, the world has been made audible for the and expressible and enjoyable. It is the difference between darkness and light, between misery and joy, between living death and throbbing life
There are eighteen in the class of aural development, but these little ones were chosen to go because their parents could afford it and were willing to have them go on the long journey, and because the girls work together so well, and make such a charming picture in their similarities and contrasts.
The young man is an example of what can be done with five years' training From being a mere unhappy animal, he has become an interesting and ambitious young man, with a desire to fit himself for active work in the way of cabinet making or some similar occupation having developed a talent for designing and for joining, and other fine carpentering.
It is almost the same as making a sense -- this developing of one that, but for the outputting of such extraordinary and unselfish energy, would have lain dormant And the instructors at the institute may well expect to win credit at the New York, Chautauqua, and to thus bring within reach of this development hundreds of other afflicted creatures.
Already this system of aural development, which was first instigated by Mr.
OFF with the PA[N?] In a sale at have been s with our gre Sales, there must be necessa ends in Coats -- Vests - sell PA[N?] PANTS FOR S 50c, ODD SIZE PA[N?] $1.00, S Remember, our time the best bargains you ground When we ad known as such annd is s Look in the show w PA[N?]
COLU
Gillispie, has now found its way into fifteen or twenty institutions for the deaf.
It is safe to say that such success would never have been obtained at the Nebraska institute had the superintendent had less capable assistants. But the youth, energy, nervous force and friendliness with which both Mr and Mrs Taylor are endowed has made it possible for them to control and teach these unfortunates. And the result is beautiful -- it is like watching the manufacture of thinking, happy men and women out of mere physical matter. Indeed, that is exactly what it is
ELIA W. PEATTIE.
THE OSTERGARD WOOD.
Newman Grove's Pleasure Grounds -- Woodman Spare That Tree.
NEWMAN GROVE, Neb , June 28 -- [Specail.] -- If every traveling man who makes the Scribner branch of the Elkhorn road knew what handsome pleasure grounds lay near to Newman grove, what excellent boating there was between the town and the wood, and what jolly, hospitable people were to be found in that enterprising little city, many of them would surely lay their plants so that they might spend a Sunday at this place.
Accompanying is found an engraving giving a representative view of the many beautiful landscapes that are to be found
[Drawing] THE OSTERG
in the course of three miles'rowing from the boat house near the city to the park.
The boating is on a mill pond, and a four-mile stretch of the finest water in the state is open to those who enjoy such scenery.
At every turn in the winding stream such beautiful views as the above are encountered.
The picnic grounds are about three miles from the boat house and are located on what is known as Hackberry Island. This island is heavily timbered with hackberry, oak and elm. There are some exceptionally fine oak trees, estimated to be from 300 to 400 years old.
The town of Newman Grove is under obligations to Colonel Thomas Ostergard, a true lover of nature, for the pleasures of this beautiful park. A few years ago the grounds belonged to a man with no artistic tastes, but whose only desire was to clear off the woods as quietly as possible and put theground into corn Colonel OStergard made frequent pilgrimages to these woods, and every time he noted with regret that some tree that had been a prime favorite of his had fallen beneath the spoilers ax. At last he could stand it no longer and purchased the grounds for $4,000. Since then the underbrush has been cleared out, flowers planted and cared for, the channel of the stream has been kept clear, landings have been put in, boats purchased and boat houses erected, and today there are no finer pleasure grounds to be found in Nebraska.
The WORLD-HERALD's representatives will not forget for many a year the very pleasant Sunday spent in Newman grove where he enjoyed the hospitalities of Colonel Ostergard in this beautiful park.
234
IDENTIFYING ONE'S SELF
The American Aversion of Uniforms Is Unwittingly Disregarded in Many Cases.
Mrs. Peattie Writes of Unions and Art- The Musical Union of Omaha and the Albert Concert.
Are you glad that you are what you are? Richard Harding Davis, in his charming series of letters entitled "Our English Cousins," says: "In America, we hate uniforms because they have been twisted into meaning badges of servitude; we will our coachmen shave their mustaches. This tends to make every class of citizens look more or less alike. But in London, you can always tell a bus driver from the driver of a four-wheeler, whether he is on his box or not. The Englishman recognizes that, if he is in a certain social grade, he is likely to remain there, and so, instead of trying to dress like someone else, in a class to which he will never reach, he 'makes up' for the part in life he is meant to play, and the 'bus driver buys a high white hat, and the barmaid is content to wear a turn-down collar man would as soon think of wearing a false nose as a mustache. He accepts his position and is proud of it, and the butcher's boy sits up in his cart just as smartly, and squares his elbows, and straightens his legs and balances his whip with as much pride as any driver of the mall cart in the park.
"All this helps to give any man you meet individually. The Hanson cab driver is not ashamed of being an abandon cab driver, not is he thinking of the day when he will be a boss contractor and tear up the streets over which he crawls, looking for a fare, and so he buys artificial flowers for himself and his horse, and soaps his rubber mat, and sits up straight and business-like, and if you put him into livery, you would not have to teach him how to look well in it. He does not, [word] our drivers, hang one leg over the edge of the seat, or drive with one leg across the other, and leaning forward with his whip. The fact that you are just as good as the next man, as the constitution says you are, does not absolve you from performing the very humble work your chance to be doing, in spite of the constitution, in a slovenly spirit."
This presents a problem that all of us must have considered at one time. The constitution has, indeed, assured us equal rights, but it could not, nor could any human agency make us equals. What folly to suppose that you are equal of Emerson, or that I am the equal of Edison! How thoughtless and egotistical must the person be who will for a moment presume to say we are all on a plane! And, when one comes to think of it, would it not be very dull if we were all on a plane? It is not a pleasure to indulge in hero worship? Are you not proud and glad to look up to a great man or woman, and to feel his or her life acting as an inspiration to youth? Of course, a lady or gentleman never looks down on anyone. That remains for those to do who are uncertain of their position. The person of generous nature and of good breeding feels pity, admiration, appreciation, or regret those beneath him, but never, by any chance "looks down" upon him. It is, for one thing, not worthwhile. And secondly, the student of human nature learns how all humans have their use, no matter of what curious species they may be.
I have always thought that work in America would be dose a great deal better if each of us would identify ourselves with some form of work, and be proud of it, instead of feeling a constant uncertainty and discontent, and as if we might be restore or millionaires tomorrow.
I believe in the religion of discontent, when content is out of keeping with human liberty. But there is really nothing inconsistent with perfect liberty in any honest occupation for which there is a demand, and which one does with pride and pleasure. It goes without saying that every man who performs his work unwillingly is a slave. For him, there is no liberty. But the man who possesses his unconquerable soul is just as happy at a clerk's desk as he would be if he were the proprietor of the concern for which he works.
A milliner said to me the other day: "I have always been ashamed of the fact that I was a milliner. I would so much rather have been something else."
She need never have looked at things that way. To begin with, she makes exquisite hats. She is an artist in her way. And when you come to think of it, what art is more truly feminine and graceful than that of making dainty headgear for women-crowning with beauty the most beautiful thing in the world a woman's head. What if some milliners do bear a reputation not without reproach? Is that anything against the milliners whose lives are good and pure?
It is ridiculously [word] to say that anything that is worth doing at all worth doing well. But Americans seem almost to have overlooked that. They are content to do small things poorly, while they dream of the opportunity for doing large things well. ANd to most that large opportunity does not come. Truth to tell would not one be much better fitted to occupy an important and conspicuous position, if he had lived up to the very best opportunities of an obscure an unimportant one?
It is possible to decorate life and make it beautiful anywhere, under all honest circumstances.
I once knew a beautiful young woman, the wife of a dry goods merchant, who, finding that her husband was not succeeding very well in business, owing to innate qualities which made him unpopular, left her home through the day and went into his store as chief clerk. Her training had been most careful. She belonged to an aristocratic eastern family. She had traveled much, was well educated, and had elegant and modest manners. The result was what she imagined it would be. [word] simple, cordial, fine loaners, her taste, he interest in all sorts and conditions, her bright, indefinable charm, made the little store a sort of salon. And to go to it was one of the features of the town. I am proud to say that the beautiful young woman did not lose the place in society which she had previously occupied, and that, if anything, it became more secure. In short, she made a success. And success in anything wins a sort of respect. I read somewhere the other day of a woman who loved celebrities and would have gone to dinner on the arm of the best crossing sweeper in London if she could not have found any other celebrity at hand. Success does pay, and it depends largely on being thoroughly enamored with the work in which one is engaged and identifying one's self with it, instead of being ashamed of it.
It is noticeable too, that if one is ashamed of his occupation that others also will apologize for it, and one is liable to overhear one's dearest friend saying;
"She's a little dressmaker, you know, but she's real nice for all that."
I don't know what form of the out direct would be best calculated to punish a friend who would apologize for one's mode of earning a living. But then, if one were tremendously proud of making dresses, and succeeded in making the most artistic gowns in town, and impressing an individuality on all of them, it would be very different-very different, indeed!
Even in democratic western life a dressmaker could not, of course hope to get into "society," But then, that would be as much society's loss, perhaps, as the dressmaker's and, fortunately, the dressmaker, or the milliner, or the clerk, knows where to find charming friends, and no end of happiness just as much as if she stood around among swarms of excited and weary women the folly that brought her there and the inhospitality that took away all the chairs.
One of the advantages of being a milliner or a dressmaker would be. I should think, that one would not be likely to go anywhere that there were not chairs in which to sit.
There is just one thing about which if quarrel with some milliners and dressmakers, and that is that they do not permit themselves a place in which to luxuriate in the atmosphere of a home, entirely apart from their work. The dressmaker's front room is apt to be her "trying-on-room," and at night still shows signs of labors that have gone on there during the day; or the milliner sleeps back of her shop, and has no place which stands for rest and forgetfulness of work, it seems to me that whatever my labor. I would try to have at least one room which should bear no trace of it, and where one could sit in the evenings, and be purely a comfortable human being, reading by the fire and study lamp, in a gown that did not in any way suggest labor, and with such refinements at band as one could command. Almost anyone can do this who can do anything independent at all. And it is a part of the decoration of life of which divorcement from all thought of toll one can return to one's muttons-or bonnet frames- in the morning, without a sing of regret.
Really, let us not be ashamed of what we are. On the contrary, let us make much of it. Let us not be afraid to be spoken of as working women. Let us only dread to be thought of as idle women. And let us put the best of our brains, and personalities, and hopes into our work, whatever it may be. And when we have succeeded we will be respected, no doubt about that.
Various little episodes have, of late, brought into prominence the existence in this city of a musical union-that is to say, a union of players on musical instruments. Of course, everyone has long known of the existence of such an organization. But recent occurrences which have shown the union in the light of an organized discourager of good music has once more called attention to this anomaly. I say anomaly because I feel that any leveling organization in the art cannot but be utterly out of keeping with the spirit of art.
A union, I take it, is an organization formed for the purpose of keeping up a standard of wages, and of securing for all members equal opportunities and equal pay. Even in the trades it is doubtful if such an arrangement is ever perfectly just, and those who have belonged longest to the trades unions, and has the most experience with them, will be the first to uphold me in this.
But to have a union in art is absurd as it would be for a company of disembodied souls, seeking judgment before the throne of God, to band together for an equal giving out of rewards and punishments in spite of their individual deserts. To chain art down to a standard of common work and wage may be looked upon as the veritable raps of the Heavingly Maid, and I marvel that any person calling himself a musician could for a moment consent to such a thing.
Art is the most intense medium of individualism. An artist is nothing if not distinctive, singular, isolated and peculiar. He is an eagle, and flies alone, and cannot in the nature of things, "flock" like a common blackbird. All advancement in art is discouraged by the conditions of a union. A dull mediocrity must be the inevitable result of working in such a manner, and no artist could expect to be developed under such restrictions, or, if he were, he would have no chance to do anything, save by severing his connection with the union.
It is the same in any form of art.
How absurd, for example, to have a union of painters! Why the man who could draw a dog's head would be placed on equal footing with the man whose pictures were the result of the subtlest genius and years of sacrificial work!
At one time there was some talk in this city among the newspaper reporters of joining the 'Lypographicial union-or at least a branch of it devoted to practical journalists. It was to set a scale of wages, to lay down rules as to what one should or should not do, and to form an organization by which editors might be held in check if they showed a disposition to discharge a man they did not want, or exercised any other prerogative of a free citizen. The idea that the callow youth who came on the paper yesterday, and who would serve but the briefest apprenticeship, and who did not know news from turnips, nor literary style from a sewing machine, who was unconscious that journalism contained moral responsibilities, or that it had its magnificent task to perform daily-the idea that he was too preposterous! So was the idea preposterous that we were all to strike if the proprietor concluded that he did not want one of our numbers and id not choose to tell the reason why? It was also preposterous that we were to insist upon a working number of hours. The newspaper man's work is done only when there is no more work to do, and every newspaperman who is worth anything knows it. We all felt that the profession would be degraded by putting it among the list of mechanical occupations. I believe, incidentally, that the Typographical union voted not to admit us anyway, but that was what was to be expected. A compositor always looks with fixed pity and smothered contempt upon a man who merely writes. He is regarded as a slave to provide the compositor with copy-and so perhaps he is. But then one ought to be willing to stop a hole to keep the wind away.
I should think wages would be a secondary consideration to a musician. And it is difficult to understand how one would have the impertinences to ask a man of fine talent to live down to the restrictions set for commoner musicians, or how one would be willing to play on equal conditions with a very poor musician.
I should say that the wings of art had been deliberately clipped and that fetters had been put on her feet. A union may be a good place for a man with the bones between his fingers, but one who has any ambition in his soul, or genius in his cranium, I should think the union would have much the same effect that a brick would if bound on the head of a baby.
Is seems to me that art will reach its limitations soon enough without any assistance from man. ELLA W. PEATTIE.
MARCHIONESS OF ZETLAND,
The Beautiful Wife of a Former Viceroy of Ireland.
The marchioness of Zetland belongs to the noble house of Lumley, a family noted for handsome men and beautiful women. Her husband is the head of the illustrious Scotch house of Dundas, whose members have played such a conspicuous part in English and scotch history. He received his title of marquis as a reward for the services which he rendered as viceroy of Ireland during the last Salisbury administration, having been appointed lord lieutenant on the resignation of Lord Londonderry. His predecessor in the Zetland peerage was famous as the grandmaster of English Freemasons an office which is now held by the Prince of Wales. Lady Zetland has several grown-up children, one of her daughters, Lady Hilda, having married Lord Southampton during her father's viceroyalty at Dublin, Lady Zetland is a later of the present earl of Scarborough, who is able to trace his ancestry in an unbroken line back to the days of Edward the Confessor-that is to say, prior to the Norman conquest. Lord and Lady Zetland are very rich and hospitable, and consequently popular, and there are few more charming hostesses than the marelioness.
235
THE PAVEMENT OF HELL
It Is Revealed in Blundering Efforts to Do Good "Regardless."
Danger in Benevolence Without Consideration Behind it -- Overturning the Existing Order.
There is no charitable industry -- if that expression may be used -- more energetically conducted in Omaha and In Nebraska than the finding of homes for homeless children, or the accuring of good homes for children who live in poor ones. This is, undoubtedly, a sensible, practical and beautiful charity. But it is one in which the most careful judgment needs to be exercised. The point of view of the person who makes a profession of charity is not always the best. Long familiarity with misery in many forms and the nose for economizing time, strength and money leads such person, however excellent they may be, to take a perfunctory view of their duties. They are apt to evolve theories which rapidly crystalize into dogmas And these dogmas are lived up to with unflinching faithfulness, and are liable to be inflicted upon the beneficiaries -- or the victims -- of their benevolence, with something akin to tyranny. It is not difficult to see how it all comes about. At first, it is true, they feel for each suffering man and woman They make a study of his or her needs -- they give not only of time and money, but of themselves. But after a time, dismayed at the extent of the task before them, they reduce their charity to a system, degenerate into statistics and talk about "cases" instead of men and women. It is when homefinding for children reaches this point in the minds of chronically benevolent persons, that the time comes to temper common sense with sentiment.
What I mean is this. In the eagerness to adjust wrong conditions, to keep children from growing up amid vicious surroundings, to save them from privation and uncleanliness, they are taken from their natural homes and put in others. Their condition is probably benefited. The professional benefactor goes around with a virtuous feeling in his or her breast and never [?] to remember that that which God hath joined together has been put asunder.
Scientific charity is very well, education, sanitation, Christianity and good clothes are very well. But older than any of these things, reaching down into the deepest mysteries of human existence, reaching up to link man with God, binding us all in the bundle of life together with thongs stronger than life or death, is the love that links a mother to her child.
I say now, candidly, that I think there is a tendency to find too many homes for children. I think there is too much attempt made to persuade poverty stricken parents to give up their children; I think wrong doing girls too frequently resign their babies to the ready accommodation of convenient charities; I think we are too disregardful of the natural ties.
These self-sacrificing philanthropists say, not wihout some reason, that a child is better off in a well-kept, Christian, refined home than in a dirty, pagan and ignorant one.
Do you know, I am not sure that the premises are absolutely correct? I am rather inclined to the opinion that it is an open question, and that the dirty, pagan and ignorant home may be where the child is happiest.
And the constitution of the United States insures to every child, as well as to every man and woman, the right to the pursuit of happiness. No one has a right to make us prosperous, or refined, or Christian against our will. If any little child among us prefers to shiver over the scant fire in a shanty on the river bottoms, half clothed and half fed, for the sake of seeing the face of a rough, tired, loving mother at night, then that little child has a right to stay there, and no one has a moral right to take her away and put her in the midst of good people, good furniture, good books and good influences.
Of course, everyone will affirm that this is a debatable point. And I admit the privilege and benefits of debate. But since the societies of charity and the charitable persons have their dogmas, I may also have mine. And I say a little child would rather be beaten by its own mother than to live unbeaten with a woman not its mother And I say again that the child has a right to its pursuit of happiness.
Why does my little boy sit and gaze at me with happy eyes -- why does he run his fingers over my face with an eloquence of touch in them? Why does he nestle close to me with smiles and say, "Mine, mine!" if anybody else touches me? Not because I am any better to him than "several other persons I am not very much with him; I am not always patient. I sometimes punish him, I refuse him a great many things that he wants. He does not therefore love me better than he loves anyone "else for any good reason. He loves me from instinct -- instinct bound up in each fibre of his dimpled and beautiful body -- instinct lying in the mystic cells of his busy brain -- instinct throbbing and surging with the blood of his passionate little heart.
Now supposing that I were even more unworthy of him than I am, that his future would suffer materially from his association with me, would it be best to take him from me? If you want a tree to bear fruit, is it best to cut of the roots close to the trunk and leave them bleeding?
The philosophic person with good furniture and a fund of respectability will reply that there is a difference between the child in my home and the child in the home of the scrub woman whose husband is a drunkard, and whose life is encumbered with repulsive cares I don't believe it. I think dirty, rough little hands hold as tight to mother's skirts as white, dimpled little hands I believe that the thrill that runs up from such a clutch, along the dress skirt to the mother's heart, is just as delicious when the gown is of work-soiled cotton as when it is of azure silk.
Nor do I think that evil surroundings necessarily make a child evil, just as I am very sure that good surroundings do not always make a child good. I know of the case of a boy who grew up in one of the worst sections of Chicago. His companions were boys of filthy habits, who were never so decent as when they were engaged in street fights with each other The public school which he attended had the reputation of being the "toughest" school in Chicago His own home was poverty stricken and in many ways uninviting. He was poorly and often ridiculously dressed. But all the evil he heard only filled the little boy's mind with disgust and he took to finding his companions among books. Some of these were as bad as the companions but had played with upon the streets. He read everything that came along There he went out to work, with his common school education but half completed And he spent a good part of his money on the theater. He sat in the gallery night after night, and saw everything that appeared on the boards. The appropriate ending to such a tale would naturally be that the boy went to the "demnition bow-wows." Every write of fiction for the Sunday school libraries would certainly make that the end of such a career. But this is the age of verities, and we do not write so much about how things ought to be as how they are. And the truth about this boy is that he educated himself. He had furnished himself with contrasts, and having a well made mind, he deliberately made his selections When he grew up the men who sought him and loved him were gentlemen, and some of them were scholars, the women who admired him and were proud of his friendship, were gentlewomen with fine thoughts and dainly, fair lives, and today his enemies as well as his friends know that he never took a cent which belonged to another that he has never betrayed a friend, that he has loved one woman and her alone and that his mind is stored with many riches.
I know another man of about the same age, brought up in the same city but in the most undeniably respectable part of town. He was given the benefits of the best schools, and of the best society, surrounded with refinements, allowed, to read only "good" books, to see "good" plays and to go to "good" places. That young man lived a lie for years, broke his wife's heart, cheated his partner and covered his mother with shame. And his mind is filled with saw dust. He can no more hold a conversation worth listening to than he can make a promise which he will keep.
Perhaps there are those who can explain all this. But I cannot. I only see some mysterious soul-force triumphing over influences of ancestry, environment and education.
All of which persuades me that the problems of life bear very little resemblance to problems in arithmetic, and that there is no rule by which they can be solved.
For these reasons it seems to me that one should be very careful about "busting up a home," as a little girl said to me the other day. Her mother had grown tired washing for sixteen years, and taking care of the children her husband had deserted, and she went raving mad, and died so, within a week after her seizure. The four children clung together tenaciously.
"You won't let them bust up the home, will you," the oldest girl, said. Yet every dictate of reason says it would be better all around if the children were all placed in comfortable, protected homes. But, though my brain might approve of that, my heart would be haunted by the thought of how the home would seem after it was "busted," and how lonesome and strange the children would feel in alien homes, separated forever, and unconscious even of each other's whereabouts.
It is the habit among those who furnish protection to unfortunate young women during their time of sorest trial, to relieve them of their children if they so desire, and to find good homes for them. The erring girl goes free, can make her own living, is not dragged down by shame, and the baby grows up without the reproach of being a bastard. All of which sounds very well and appears to be the sensible thing.
But as a matter of fact there are some of those "reasonable" girls who give up their babies who never know what it is to sleep at night without dreaming of baby arms around their necks, and who are haunted in the day by the sound of a baby voice and the patter of baby feet.
I know this is so because I have been told so by one whose empty arms ached with longing for the child she thought a shame to have. And as for the baby -- I wonder if there was not always something unsatisfied in its little heart?
The modern times are wonderful times, and scientific clarity may be one of its best developments; but nature must never be lost sight of; the laws of God must not be disregarded. We must not be dogmatic and arrogant in our charity. We must not insist that those we strive to benefit must do our way or be forever cursed. We must not place economy above human love, nor common sense above human instinct. In our zeal for the benefaction of mankind and the best development of the commonwealth, let us not forget that the lowest, meanest creatures that lives has its rights. Let us remember that the ties of nature are sacred, and that to "bust up a home" may be a greater crime than letting a child grow up and vicious surroundings. ELIA W. PEATTIE.
FOR LENTS SOBER DAYS.
A Plain but Artistic Gown Which Combines Necessary Qualities
The melancholy days of Lent are come -- those when we wear sad hued clothes and a mock expression and go to church and bethink of our sins! Flippant? Well, perhaps so, but not in the deepest sense. Women cannot afford for a moment to lose sight of the mighty question of dress that they fail in the
[Drawing] FOR [?] DAYS.
becoming To go gayly attired in Lent is neither fashionable nor seemly for the churchwoman. It is not alone that she follow the vogue but the true lenten spirit decrees that her mind be free from the burden of laces and fripperies and be set upon higher things for a season given over to soberer thought [?[ it has come to pass that at the