The San Francisco call. [volume], August 18, 1895, Page 17, Image 17

About The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913

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Books and
Bookmakers
The Call's efforts/ to present an ap
propriate.literary.department, illustrating
■the wealth of Hterary California, are ap
preciated abroad. In evidence of this fact
riiav. be cited the' fo-llo.wing.extract from a
••letter-.writtcn by Walter Blackburn Harte
. to one'of ■T.nECALL's.contributors:
iammu.eh interested in your work in TffE
■ (TaI;L and in the group of friends and writers
you are in touch with in California. It seems
if Von what I see of the paper, which I tend, with
interest,, that the editors do manage to get con
siderable.'literary, matter into .the paper—*
most un.usual. aiiid -px.traordinary tiling in
•modern journalism. The report of the Olym
pians at sport is very ontermining. 1 hope 1
may see more of The -Cam- It is more generous
to literature them any of the papers we have
here in Boston, which are swamped with out
door sports and murders. .
, ..Joaquin Miller's t>raisfr of the dear old
Sacramento River will be enjoyed by every
.Californian. who is worthy of the name.
The; deep debt of gratitude due from the
State and Nation to this noble stream can
not be overstated. The poet of the Sierras
has; civen a glimpse, of the glories of the
'river's past history, w-ith a prophecy of its
future blessings for the people.
Last autumn a remarkable . book ap
peared in Boston that has Since engaged
A French Poster.
considerable attention. It is pre-emi
nently a book beloved of writer folk.
Zangwin, Richard Le Gallienne.and the
critic of Public Opinion in London; Ham
ilton Mabie, Brander Mathews and others
in this country bailed the quaint little vol
umeof "Meditations in Motley" as witness
that the art of essay-writing still survives
in America. .
Walter Blackburn Harte. th*e author of
. these .Meditations," is yet quite a young
•'man with, it is evident, a literary future.
He has lately essayed fiction, and has tried
: the. novel experiment of treating it as sub
jectively as he treats! life in his-"Medita
tipns." The Call publishes to-day a
sketch by him, in which the drama is en
tirely one of mental processes, as dis
tinguished from the more transitory,
physical activities of life. It is an unusual
sort of study and one which' we are per
* ■". A JPO&TEB BY : JOHN SLOAN.
suaded -will afford pleasure to a large num
ber of thoughtful readerg.
A JOURNAL INTIME.
This is what the projectors of Moods, the
new quarterly, call their quaint publica
tion. They furtuer tell us that it is a
publication '"wherein the artist and the
author pleaseth himself." The inference
is, however, that these worthies have also
pleased the editor of Moods, else, we pre
sume, they had pleased themselves in
private.
. The keynote of Moods is youth. This,
perhaps, goes without saying, for moods
belong essentially to youth, along with
melancholy, which, if our artistic expres
sion goes for aught, is essentially the pre
rogative of youth.
It is well to please one's self, if, indeed,
the true artist can ever accomplish this,
and doubtless Philip Hale pleases himself
when he spells "dilletante," and E. St.
Elmo Lewis may gratify an impulse of
waywardness when he says "I confess it
was not me" ; but we submit that, while
artist and author may be accorded the ex
emption from criticism which they claim,
the proofreader should not have been al
lowed to please himself.
The best thing about Moods is the entire
seriousness with which it takes itself.
This seriousness is in reality the only
artistic thing in the book. The; illustra
tions are for the most part rather tenta
tive essays in various directions than
genuine expressions from artists who have
heard their message and comprehended its
meaning. Joseph Gould Jr., has a portrait
of decided merit, but there is scarcely
another picture in the volume that shows
definite grasp of an idea. But ideas are,
perhaps, no essential part of moods. The
fiterarv work is somewhat better. Blanche
.Dillaye has a vision, in chapters, which
she calls "The Tube of Truth," which is
full of literary and artistic veracity. E.
" THE CALL'S » POSTER.
[Sketched by Kahlcr.]
St. Elmo Lewis' sketch, "The Confessions
of an Egoist," is also noteworthy, albeit
it in sadly given to wordiness. This, in
deed, is the trouble of most of the con
tributors to Moods. "The thoughts of
youth are long, long thoughts," and the
temptation of youth is to indulge in gar
rulous expositions thereof. We combat
this tendency in middle life, warned by
experience of the shortness of the years,
and only in the gentle leisure of age do we
feel that we may again yield to it.
. But Moods is not without that promise
which excuses its existence. Unquestion
ably there is a necessity in these days for
a series of independent publications. They
are essential to the keeping alive of literary
and artistic independence. The Yellow
Book, weird and yellow though it be, The
Chap Book, The Philistine, even that jolly
little local joke, The Lark, are valuable as
they stand for protest, each in its way.
against the solidifying tendency of
prosperous, artistic respectability. To-day,
as when Browning wrote:
It were better youth
.-in- 1. M strive, through acts uncouth,
Toward making, than repose on aught found
made.
And if youth's wobbly, somewhat strad
dling, efforts to stand alone shock conserva
tive susceptibilities, we may console our
selves with Josh Billings' thoroughly
philosophic reflection that "the conserva
tism Of most folk is nothing but their
radicalism gone to seed." [The Jenson
Press, 810 Sansom street, Philadelphia.]
PERPETUAL YOUTH.
There is a great deal of common-sense,
along with a vast amount of nonsense, in
this little book of Eleanor Kirk's. There can
be no doubt but that most of us grow old
prematurely. Equally, there must exist in
most minds a doubt as to whether perpet
ual youth is a desirable thing. To most
useful men and women the signs of ad
vancing years come as honorable scars, re
ceived in the battle of life, and the "mind
your-own-business" policy preached by
Eleanor Kirk as the essential preservative
of youth and beauty is a deadly one in a
world where society and not the individ
ual is the chief consideration. At the
same time, any protest against the en
grossing whirl of our modern civilization
is timely, and. the woman — Miss Kirk's
book is written for women — who will take
the author's advice, to the tranquilizing of
her mind, will find it very efficacious in
postponing the evil day, if it be an evil
day, of silvered locks and wrinkles.
[Brooklyn, N. V. : The Idea Publishing
Company.]
THE WOEM THAT CEASED TO TURN.
As a chip thrown overboard, so to speak,
to note the progress making by our social
bark, this little Dook by Gorham Silva is
very significant. It is an exceedingly re
alistic picture of certain phases of New
England lite in the early thirties. David
Converse, a well-to-do elderly bachelor,
driven to desperation by the depredations
THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 1895.
of a shiftless "hired" housekeeper, marries
a girl from the poorhouse and brings her
home. She is a nameless waif, born in the
poorhouse, reared among its associations
and wholly unable either to read or write.
Ignorant and wicked she leads her hus
band "a dance," as the countiy phrase
goes, that reduces him eventually to beg
gary. The story is unspeakablysqualid,
and the only comfort to be derived from
it lies in the reflection that the world has
moved since David Converse's day. We
have grown in wisdom and in the humani
ties. The sheer brutality of that respecta
ble community's dealings with its pauper
element could probably not be equaled in
any backwoods settlement in the land to
day. That there still are men as weak as
David Converse, and women as wicked as
Bethesda Blow, is probably true, but that
there exists anywhere to-day a community
so steeped in ignorance nnd brutal disre
gard for the higher humanities is doubt
ful. The story is in its way a powerful
and certainly" an interesting one. [New
\ork: J. S. Ogilvie Publishing Company.]
THE SALOON-KEEPER'S LEDGER.
A series of temperance revival discourses
by the Rev. Louis Albert Banks, D.D., in
which he dwells upon the enormous drain,
mentally, morally and financially, that
A Foster of Sarah Bernhardt.
the saloon-keeper is upon the Nation's re
sources. The book has an introductory
chapter by Theodore L. Cuyler, D.D. [New
York: Funk & Wagnalls Company.]
"Spanish in Spanish," by Louis Duque,
late instructor in the Leland Stanford Jr.
University. This work is based on purely
scientific principles by which the student
is enabled — through a gradual elimination
of English, and while mastering the essen
tials of the language— to think and ex
press himself first in English-Spanish,
then in Spanish-English, and finally
purely in Spanish.
In the first part all parts of speech are
fully treated with the proper syntactical,
proeodical and orthographical observa
tions. In the second part syntax is
broueht to bear on points not governed by
a law common to English and Spanish. In
the third part the most perfect prosody of
living languages is reviewed, and In the
fpurth part the principles of Spanish pho
netic orthography are set forth. The ap
pendix includes a complete and important
list of words that are constructed with
prepositions, a treatise on Romance phi!
oiogy in general but especially in Spanish
phonetics and an exhaustive vocabulary.
Published by Allen & Bacon, Boston;
for sale by Cunningham. Curtiss & Welch,
327 Sansome street, and Whitaker & Kay
Co.. 723 Market street.
The poster craze is still raging. In this
interesting domain of art The Call has
presented a new creation. A fac-simile of
The Call's poster in black and white is
" Are you an expert P "—Printers' Ink
Poster.
presented to-day. Several other specimens
of poster work are also given. Collectors
of posters will tinct a limited number of
copies of The Call's posters at the main
business office, 710 Market street.
J. E. SHAIN'S AFFAIRS.
A Garnishment Served on the Complaint
of W. Rigbj Jr.
As the latest development of the finan
cial troubles of Collector J. E. Sham, a
garnishment was yesterday served on the
California Title Insurance and Trust Com
pany to cover a claim of $536 16 preferred
by W. Rigby Jr.
Mr. Rigby belongs to the Commercial
Agency, and in the matter is an assignee
of Macondray & Co. for $386 16 and A.
Schilling & Co. for $150, representing in
each case money collected, for which,
with interest and costs, ha is suing. Mr.
Rigby stated that the garnishment was
against the equity of the disposition of
property valued at $12,000, transferred on
May 29 by Sbain to the California Title
Insurance and Trust Company. He added
that Sham had issued orders against the
$12,000 to secure 65 cents on the dollar of
his 'liabilities while he had offered to se
cure the remaining 35 cents on his personal
note.
At Sheriff Whelan's office it was stated
that Sham was still in business. A pre
vious attachment had been issued against
the Continental Insurance Company to
cover a claim for $289, but it was contended
that the property attached was exempt and
should be released.
D. A. Curtin, attorney for J. E. Sham,
said that he nad not yet investigated his
client's affairs and was only prepared to
admit that Mr. Sham owed money. His
assets were in such shape that he could
not tell whether they would be sufficient
to cover the liabilities or not. He could
not hazard an estimate of the latter at
present. He had given several orders on
the property in the hands of the California
Title Insurance and Trust Company, but
that method had been stopped. In the
meantime Mr. Sham was continuing his
business.
The knightage ceremony at Windsor was
a Jong affair. In the case of Sir Henry
Irving, the Queen is seid to have shown
marked interest. According to a London
paper, in this case alone were added the
words, "I have very much pleasure."
THE CURE OF
ENTHUSIASM.
BY WALTER BLACKBURN HARTE.
The poet stood leaning against the door
jamb, in the hallway leading up to the
editorial rooms of the Sentinel, apparently
loating and blinking in the sunlight. One
step below him the crowd moved to and
fro, but his head was thrown back, his chin
elevated above the level of the heads of the
passers-by and his eyes were fixed upon
the patch of blue sky that showed above
the cluster of roofs, where the narrow,
serpentine thoroughfare was lost to view
in one of its many turns, and apparently
ended in the fantastic ugliness of sky
scraping buildings. The busy throng,
staring and elbowing and pushing on the
pavements, held no face or gleam of color
or moving interest to catch and hold his
incurious, dreamy eyes, and the unceasing
rattle and rumble of the traffic, punctured
every few minutes by the sharp, jarring
clang-clang of the electric bells of the
string of creeping cars, only made a dron
ing accompaniment to his stirring, roving
thoughts.
He had descended the long dusky stair
way with the slow uncertain step of a man
stricken with pain. His heart and mind
were filled to stifling with fury and bit
terness at some fresh indignity put upon
him in the horrible trade he loathed but
was compelled to engage in from neces
sity, and that strange quirk of intellectual
incapacity for business so common among
men with the esthetic temperament and
creative imagination. He was bitterly con
scious of this lack of adaptability as a
weakness, and cursed himself and his fate
a thousand times a day ; but he had learned
from experience that he could not cope with
other men in the cunning and shrewdness
necessary in the world of affairs, and he
shrank from every contact with its grim
realities. And all his dreams of giving
his life to literature were long ago dis
pelled by his knowledge of the actual de
mands and requirements of the literary
siiop. But yet poetry and beauty and
troth were the supreme, the real, things
in life to him, and he could not divorce his
mind and his life from thoughts of the
beauty and the mystery and poetry that
filled the sad old world— even this world of
trifles and tragedy — that it seared hia
heart to be obliged to chronicle every day.
And so all the time he was fascinated
and tortured by the show o; life, and every
day's round of trivial interests broke his
spirit anew on the wheel. But when the
rich, luminous glow of the day — the tender
caressing sunshine of early summer — en
wrapped and filled him with the strange
tickle passion, of mere life, more potent for
the moment even than thought, the tumult
of wild and desperate resolves that racked
his mind and gave place to the memories
of old days filled with dreams and sun
shine, whose greatest sorrows were the
pains of clamorous Hopes deferred.
Thus, finding some solace for the ills and
deprivations of the present in the half ob
livion of recalling the old sorrow of those
early hopes, whose fulfillment long habit
had "dulled and diminished and made half
unreal, he crossed the street to spend an
hour in the Old Corner Bookstore finger
ing the books he intended to buy and read
in the far-away leisure of Lotus land that
was to be his when his own works should
be read and famous and all his days his
own to squeeze the soul out of life and
weave all he had lived into the fantasies
which haunted his imagination.
He smiled at the thought. It was too
late now. His ambition was gone. He
was enchanted with tae unconquerable
sloth that comes of debasing and frittering
away the mind and imagination in the
vuigar travesties of literature and the long
sorrow that is inconsolable for its lost past
of prime. His love of books and literature,
however, survived his ambition, and in the
happiest and most oblivious moods he en
joyed little snatches of the triumphs of
others, and this privilege was accorded
him at the Old Corner.
As he entered the store one of the clerks
with whom he was on friendly terms nod
ded a "Good-morning" and said laughingly,
"That was a clever sketch of yours in yes
terday's 'Golden Era,' Clifford. The
whole town is talking of it. Old Judge
Hawkins was in here and guffawed aloud
over it, and you know twenty such men
gossiping here make public opinion."
"Ah, then the villainy may yet reach
the ears of the gods, and I shall be damned
in another world as well as in this. 'Sh!
say no more, Wilkins. These small noises
carry too far, while they last, nowadays —
and drown all the articuhate utterances of
the time. That is the irony of enfranchis
ing the million wits to give them the
freedom of the achievements of the world
of poets and men of science; the end is the
obstruction of thought in the Uippant,
lecherous desire of 10,000,000 empty heads.
Our newspapers are mirrors for 10,000,000
despots who, from ruling the hearthstone,
now rule the world of thought. Let magis
trates take heed that the mere blackboard
schoolmaster and his muddled devils do
not prosper too long at the expense of free
thought and poetry, beauty and imagina
tion, the state Hiid civilization. With the
eclipse of beauty comes complacency, ab
sorption in the petty hour, the diminish
ing of all ideals, a rupture with tradition,
a break in the historic consciousness of a
civilization of mere getting and mechanism
without meaning or morality — anarchy!
But whatever is, is right, of course, and
especially inevitable in a democracy. My
generation's about slipped away, anyway,
and after me, the deluge ! So let us have v
look, won't you, at this new poet I see
heralded in me London papers. What's
his name? Murchison. It may be I can
make a little story out of him for the Sun
day paper."
He was glancing through the uncut
pages of the dainty London book, when a
familiar voice at his elbow gave him a
little start, and he turned to see Miss Abby
Wil bourne smiling up at him.
"And why were you not at Mrs. Brad
deck's reception on Thursday ? I have not
seen you there once this season, and you
must confess they are really more amus
ing than most occasions of the sort in Bos
ton. 1 looked for you especially last week,
and only gave you up at the last moment,
though I could have known better. You
are such a recluse."
These two were well acquainted, and
Clifford Knew that Miss Wilbourne was
neither a prude nor a simpleton — the two
things he most abhorred — but a very
clever and moreover kindly and sympa
thetic little woman, as well aa a pretty
one. That is, he thought her pretty, for
he thought the greatest beauty in life was
an animated intelligence; and she was
one of those rare women who set all wits
ablaze, not with conscious striving to
shine herself, but by the line tact that is
the height of humanity and charity.
He dropped his voice a little and inter
rupted with a soft laugh, "I am not a re
cluse, Miss Wilbourne, but in the world,
and too much of it. On the go, on the go
all the time, for the devil."
"In the world, yes : but not of it, I know.
But a little society of another sort — a little
distraction— would do you good. Your
pet amusement, 'The Fantastic,' was
there on Thursday, with all the brazen ef
frontery of sober innocence. He asked
after you, but I knew not whether you
were living or dead. I did not expect such
fortune as this so soon."
"It is very agreeable of you to put it that
way."
"Well, you know I mean it. Life is too
short for one to go out of one's way to
dissemble."
"1 suppose 'The Fantastic' monopolized
you the whole afternoon?"
"More or less— perhaps— yes. The fact
is, yes. But he should not have done so if
you had been there."
He looked at her with his eyes a little
more a-sparkle than they had been before,
although tie always lighted up in her so
ciety.
"You have a tantalizing way of putting
a pretty thing that makes all other women
who sit merely at the receipt of custom in
social intercourse seem but stone images.
And your good things are spoken with a
bewitching candor that puts truth into bad
odor."
"Oh, but I'm quite sincere; I had ever
so many things I wanted to talk to you
about — my head was full of them — but
they're all gone now. lam afraid I spoiled the
'Fahtastic's' afternoon, for I kept him by me
all the time. He is a great admirer of yours—
and, well, I won't say what be says of your
work. I think his one and only error in crit
ical judgment lies in taking himself so
seriously. And — oh! but we can't talk here.
Everybody's staring at us. Are you too much
engaged or preoccupied to carry my book for
me across the Mall?"
"I have all the morning to loaf In, and you
know 1 am always delighted—"
She laughed and handed him the book and
led the way out of the store. Lifting her skirts
to descend the two steps to the street she
looked over her shoulder at him and said:
"And so, sir, it is here you spend your busy
days. You are delighted, of course, and all the
rest of it— but you have not been to see me for
weeks, and only just across the Mall, too."
"Indeed," he protested, "you can have no
idea of how busy and distracted I have been."
They sauntered slowly up School street, stop
ping for a glimpse of the foreign books in
Schoenof's window.
"Oh, I have been reading your ' Confessions
of a Busy Man' in the 'Merry-Go-Round,' and
I suppose that explains everything. I laughed
myself into quite a tragical mood over it. But
still I think you might make an exception in
my favor."
He bowed and said in great good humor, "I
have always held that literature is worse than
petty larceny as a secure and reputable occu
pation—but I perceive it has some compensa
tions."
"And they are?"
"One is, in this particular instance, that It
helps to make my unworthy self persona grata
to a very charming goddess— and a witty one
at that."
"I can't imagine a goddess with wit — and I
fear the majority of men would not appreciate
her. Wit and dignity appear so much at vari
ance, because stupidity sits on the bench and
in the jury-box. But I hope you don't regard
me as a goddess, either humorously or seri
ously—though I know there is no danger of
the latter."
"I assure you I have always found you a
veritable Minerva; but, thank heaven, one
with a keen sense of humor that, however, has
not ruined the perception of the poetic. Ido
not know why I should not seriously regard
you as a goddess."
"Please don't. I have a variety of reasons for
wishing to remain a mortal, and one is the
only goddess I ever knew at all intimately
was a Diana in gray stone at the end of my
grandfather's garden. One of the boys chipped
her nose off because he averred she looked up
pish. I thought she only looked forlorn — par
ticularly so about dusk. So to make a goddess
of me might reduce me to a worse plight than
ths stone images you speak of in such an un
complimentary fashion. Besides I take a con
siderably keener delight and interest in life as
an emancipated, Independent spinster—hap
pily born in the century of a glimmering com-
"And you are one of the very few mortals,
men or women, I know who make common-
Eense a haven of refuge for the spirit from the
sordid game of survival instead of a hideous
profanity of life. And for what are we all so
anxious to survive ? Our lives are ordered as
if men had settled forever that the mind was
mere mechanism, incapable of questioning,
and the spirit a delusion. The sole good and
market of our time is to eat and sleep— to
answer Shakespeare's question."
They were half way across the Common and
had stood for a moment watching a little boy
launch his toy boat on the frog pond. It sailed
out with a favoring breeze and then got be
calmed in the middle, and the boy became
greatly excited.
The two looked on half smiling, and then
she sank down upon one of the low wooden
benches under a great elm.
"Oh, life is not so black as that," she said,
looking across the sunlit water. "The modern
world has reached some plane of pity, sympa
thy, sentiment — a vague sense of moral obliga
tion, and it is growing. The world is slowly
becoming a better place to live in."
"Oi course that is so, and I should be wise
enough at 40 to keep the mere social circum
stance that makes thought an irony of spirit to
the poet separate and distinct in my mind
from the cosmic cycle of events swinging In
the slow grooves of" human life. .But it is diffi
cult for a man not to imagine his own mind
the center of the universe. Once admit to
yourself that you are but a fly on the wheel of
some unknown power, and life seems to have
lost all meaning and purpose. We are the
creatures of strange vanities."
"Is this optimism— or what? It is horrible
to me. It seems that taking the philosophic
view of life throws one off the pivot of one's
own identity. If we are but the creatures of
accident, the pawns of inflexible laws, and our
minds but mirror* of delusion, then ignorance
is bliss indeed. If we all have to renounce the
part we would play— give up hope and love and
the passions of the spirit and mind as mockery —
what can the advance of knowledge and reason
hold for us? To be more and more assured
that we are but pawns in a game of eternal
blind forces is to make reason the irony of an
unthinkable malevolence."
"It is men and not nature who make reason
a curse. Reason, lifted above the cosmic
struggle, should have been our consolation.
But as long as reason only conducts a war
upon necessity, mistaking mere superfluity for
peace, we are all food for powder in the merci
less conflict of nature's game. If we cannot
effect the moralization of intelligence— and
the facts show we cannot hope for such a
miracle— necessity, that was intended as the
mere spur of reason, becomes the eternal
jailer of all that is beautiful and real in human
life. This is the tragic thing in life; butonr is
thought to be mad if one feels the burden of it.
So we must live out our time in the ring as
cheerfully as possible and recognize that reason
but embitters the greater cosmic game that
holds the destinies of all,"
"But this serene acquiescence in the acci
dents of fortune leaves one's heart and mind
benumbed. The demands of the world of men
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You will have a healthy look, a healthy feeling and a healthy body
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are not surely the decrees of the unchangeable
laws of nature? Every thine in life seems
meaningless if we merely drift with the tide
without aim or purpose. It makes this an en
chanted world, in which all recognize that they
are prisoners, but dare not break their bonds.' 1
"The world's governed by tne paradox of in
exorable, inevitable law and chance. At 40
a man should be a stoic — or he can hardly es
cape being a fool. I hope, since the grim acci
dent of poverty will not allow of my being a
poet, that at least necessity has taught me to
be a stoic."
"Oh, but I hope to see yon give the devil the
slip one of these days, and then— ah, I wonder
if then you would be happy."
"At 40 years of age I cannot afford any
longer to delude mysel f with 3 o'clock in the
morning milleniums. That credulity was the
error of my youth, which misled me into Grub
street and for twenty years has made me the
'mock of dreams.' I lived on 3 o'clock in the
morning millenniums for years, but one must
reluctantly come to wisdom. I take the world
as I find it now, and deny myself even the
gratification of the spleen. When one's youth
is gone one can play the game with more
equanimity, and in such moments as these, in
au eddy, with the world roaring around, one
can feel something of the amused interest of a
spectator. But at 40 one is looking for the cure
of enthusiasm and not for its repair."
She felt something tighten about her heart
and turned to him impulsively, and then
looked in silence across the pond at the toy
boat becalmed in the middle, and thought how
it typified his life.
He was watching some sparrows hopping
around the water's edge, picking about for
food and bathing themselves in some puddles;
but her movement caused him to glance round
at her— and for some reason she flushed.
"In such a sunlit world as this it almost
seems, with a first glance around, that we could
trust ourselves wholly to God and nature, with
out fear of the morrow."
"Yes," she answered, smiling at his fancy.
"It is all very beautiful and calm, with its
music and light and motion. Those little spar
rows there are at peace with all the world;
they carry no burden of spiritual sorrow, and
nature is only a kind mother to them."
He laughed in a strange, half-mocking way
that grated upon her ears, and caused her to
look up at him sharply.
"At peace! Look at the little British beggars
fighting and beating those bluebirds. One
would suppose that with the whole earth and
sky, and the dominion in the treetops between
earth and sky open to them, they had room
enough to go their way, and find their food
and shelter without collision. But they are
our playfellows and companions in the grim
game of nature and don't know how large is
their world — only how keen is their momentary
necessity. All life preys upon life. The strug
gle for existence is being waged among the
silent weeds at our feet, among the bright nod
ding flowers over yonder, among these trees
towering serenely above our heads — even be
tween the beasts and the vegetable world.
The trees are symbols of fully developed
beauty, growtn and peace. But the beech and
the birch, the oak and the fir, for all their maj
esty and tranquility, are engaged in a murder
ous warfare and starve each other without
mercy. The conflict is unceasing throughout
all nature, and even the inoreanic elements
participate in it. For man alone is there a
refuge, and that is in the mind of man. We
are capable of reasoning, of reflection, of gain
ing knowledge from accumulated experience,
of prevision. Organized intelligence could
strip the cosmic process for us of half its ter
rors and severity, but the vain imagination of
greed has made reason the greatest curse of
existence. It is the mind of man and not the
cosmic process that enslaves our thoughts.
And in summing up the bitterness of life we
should remember this. Only stoicism is possi
ble—and that is difficult without epicurean
satisfactions. Thus the cosmic idea of the mil
lions pins us all down to the bitter round of
the shop, and insight can no more escape the
grim game of these perverted imaginations
than it can escape the bare necessities of na
ture upon which it is all reared. It is a game
of desperation. The mind in possession
of itself can only hold the solace of
a serene acquiescence in the unknown
ultimate ends of the unknowable eter
nal intelligence. It is not the mere neces
sity of nature that makes the irony of free will,
for free will is nurtured in necessity. It is
simply the greed of man that has made free
will a very motley of servitude. But God and
nature are indifferent to thought and passion,
and so we must play the smaller game of men
as if it were the greater. We are abandoned to
the merciless tyranny of each day's physical
necessities, and so as the everyday round of
life is governed by the dogmas of unholy fan
tasy and the knowledge of nature is ignored
or but adds a touch of bitterness, we can rea
son out the fatuity of the game, but must play
it as if blindfolded, and get our wits and pock
ets picked. We all acknowledge free will as a
matter of speculative philosophy, but we aban
don free will for bed and board and the priv
ilege of hopping with clipped wings in the
ring of civilized society. It is a myth of polite
card parties; it is the trump card, the honors
of the world of crime, but is severely forbidden
to respectability. Ah, it is all a game, and a
sad one, even for those who gain the hazards of
chance at the start. We must learn to accept
the inevitable."
"That makes life a gloomy business, although
it may be true. For myself 1 must cling to
the idea that life has some moral purpose and
mind and emotion, for we must be superior to
any fortuitous circumstance, either of the so
cial world or nature. And then nature does
not let us all discover that we are the sport of
chances and purposes more gross than our high
hopes. It would be unbearable to believe that
our thoughts, our aspirations and emotions
were all hopelessly imprisoned and rendered
impotent by our mere bodily needs."
" 'Tis so. I need but little more than the
sparrows, but I have to give up all my thought
and life for that little. I pay a heavy price for
mere existence, and cannot help envying the
sparrows; for though they are in the game
with the rest of us they are happy in the satis
faction of their instincts and carry no burden
of futile thought and passion."
"But our one sublime compensation is that
in the possession of reason we are assured of
God."
"Ah, no ; God is caught impotent in the game.
He can only secure good through evil— a bad
necessity, which gives us the pain and life as
we see it— whichever way we turn. There is a
lust in nature that impels us all to seek more
than abundance and so cheat ourselves."
"Well, I must cling to the idea of a God su
perior to the game. And then, too, there is
another factor in life that is only at its highest
perfection in the freedom and perfection of
reason— love; the human love of comprehen
sion, that lifts out of ita petty round and fills
it with gladness and purpose. Surely human
love in this world gives the game some moral
meaning? It lifts our intentions and impulses
at least out of the swirl of mere chance. And
even chance ceases to be the omnipotent dis
burser of happiness or woe when love holds the
spirit more precious than the things it may
do. It seems to me this is just as much in na
ture as the law of conflict."
"But love is only another of nature's lures to
gain her own ends at any cost to us through
our selfishness. All our finest emotions but
serve the gross purposes of nature ultimately.
To her the animal is of more importance than
the sentient reflecting mind, with its ideals
and aspirations of the moral life. We think
we love for love's sake, but the facts of life
show us that we are deceived. But to blind us
nature nas mingled passion with love, and bo
we perpetuate her tragic farce."
"I daresay we but serve the hidden purposes
of God through nature; but to a woman love
will always be first and last of all— love for its
own sake. She will never consent to open her
eyes to your conspiracy of cosmic law. It may
be love is selfish, but it is self fishness justified."
"Ah, yeß; it is the only delusion in which
we touch the spirit and realize the bond of
mind in the greater game of life. But a man
in this real world of circumstance has no right
to drag a woman down."
"Unless—"
"Unless what?"
There was a note of eagerness In his voice,
and his eyes sought hers, but she avoided the
gaze.
"Unless they both have some refuge in spirit
from the mere chance of circumstance — the ups
and downs of chance. They need a little phi
losophy to live, life as life untroubled by out
ward things."
"And you? Have you so much philosophy?"
"I hope so. Love is all the philosophy a
woman needs."
"Ah. Then love is the cure of enthusiasm.
That is my creed too."
"I do not think it is the cure of enthusiasm.
It should be a refuge of enchantment for both
man and woman, and so it may rather quicken
than cure enthusiasm."
"I mean it is the cure of disillusion, disap
pointment, thwarted ambition — the escape
from the philosophy that leaves life a mere
scramble for bread."
"Yes, but this illusion, to last and Dring
peace, must be sustained by philosophy. For
we women, mostly by faith in the goodness of
GOd." :
" Do you think I am enough of a philosopher
for such a blessing as a woman's love, if one
would share my poor fortune?"
" Don't call it philosopher; that is the wrong
word — and such a cold one. A man must not
be a philosopher in love — only a lover with
enough philosophy to keep loveintact, in spite
of the pinch of circumstance."
"Abby!"
•' Oh, I think you are too philosophic for
love," hurriedly. "The greater game of life is
too much in your thoughts. One must shut
that out and live in a fool's paradise to get hap
piness from loving."
"No, no. Let us live our lives in a corner
and I shall find & cure of enthusiasm in some
thing sweeter and nobler than what it cher
ishea. Abby, would you play the rest of the
game with me?"
She looked up at him with swimming eyes.
"As lovers, Henry — not mere philosophers."
He seized her hands.
"You know I have loved you all along. Ab
lovers, of course. Ah, Abbv, life looks as if it
held something precious after all. Ambition,
thought, misfortune, poverty, all these are un
real in the retrospect, but love — "
"I believe the birds are actually twittering
for us, Henry, although I know you will say
they are entirely wrapped up in themselves.
Ah, I am so "happy— and I believe you will
write poetry again, after all."
"Well, well: if we can't give the devil the
slip we will at least make merry with him.
Anyway, we shall always have each other— and
let the world slide; love is the cure of enthu
siasm." .
THE SATURDAY POPS
They Will Be Given Again in
the Latter Part of Sep
tember.
Sigmund Beel Arranging: for the
Production of a Series of
Four Concerts.
The "Saturday Pops," which for the past
four and a half seasons have entertained
the musical element of San Francisco, are
to be revived again this autumn. Tnere
will be new faces in the orchestra and en
tirely new programmes, and in the series
of four concerts to be given some works
which have never yet received correct
orchestral interpretation will be presented.
As formerly, Sigmund Beel, the violinist,
is managing the concerts, assisted by Mrs.
Carmichael Carr. They are organized upon
a subscription basis, and the artists are only
waiting until 250 subscriptions have been
taken to commence active work. It is ex-
pected that the tirst concert will be givep
in the latter part of September.
The new people Who have been engaged
bo far for the regular orchestra are Heine,
Jauleus and Solomon. Solomon will be
second violin, Heine 'celloist and Jauleua
will play the viola. These with Beel and
Mrs. Carr and perhaps one or two more
instruments will compose the regular
orchestra. For special numbers several
additions will be made.
Among the new works which will be
presented will be Baalim's sextet for two
violins, two 'cellea and two violas,
Dvorak's sextet for the same, Beethoven's
septet for two violins, 'cello, horn, clarionet
and double bass, Svendsen's octet, a quar
tet of Semtana and others. The vocal
feature will also be given some promi
nence, but the solo voices have not yet been
selected.
These concerts have always been ex
tremely popular with the music-loving
folk of San Francisco, and they have been
the means of introducing many worka
which have since been produced" all over
the Union. They have always been purely
local, so far as talent was concerned, and
local music has always been a prominent
feature of the programmes. This year
there will be a series of four concerts given
this fall, which will bring the total num
ber given up to forty-ei^ht. It is Mr. Beel's
desire to give a round hfty, and the other
two necessary will probably be given later
on. The concerts are founded on the same
lines as the "Monday Pops" of London,
and they have undoubtedly paved the way
for the symphony concerts whicn proved
so popular here some time ago. They have
also been the means of developing many
of the. local singers, among them O.I).
O'Sullivan and also local composer.s
17