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The mirror. (Stillwater, Minn.) 1894-1925, November 22, 1906, Image 4

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Persistent link: https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn90060762/1906-11-22/ed-1/seq-4/

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KTtuldoon on tbe philosophy of
PART 13.
//4WLAPE!” The command
low but forcible waz heard
in ivery siction av the
Lexiugton Opery House,
an’ foorty-six pairs av eyebawls,
glistenin’ an’ dilatin’ under the
tintion av unnatural focus, rolled
upward drawin’ the curtain av
timporary oblivion.
The spaker, a slight young man,
liberally friscoed wid grase paint
an’ accintuated in thinniss be the
dingin’ folds av a full driss soot,
turned triumphantly from a simy
circle av lithargic humanity an
addrissed his southern awydince
in the followin’ worruds:
“Lydies an’ gintlemin. Since
our last visit to yer wondrous city
av beautiful women an’ thorough
brid min, we hov added manny
noo faythers to our somewhat pe
culiar program, notably, the in
terrupted funeral av a resuscitated
cadayver. Unusual as it is fer me
to make an addriss in the midst
av a performance, I fale humane
ly impilled to preface in worruds
the blud-curlin’ shrakes an’ fizzy
cal coolture monstrossyties which
are skidjooled to rampant thim
silves ferninst ye in a few momints.
The scane, grotisquely unake in
character, has all the fiery passion
av Bin Hur; all the ghastly hoor
ors av a haunted house, an’ yit
’tiz intermingled wid jocose comi
calities that wud sphlit an ordinary
fince rail.
“Amoong the two score av inert
masses av fiish on this noble stage,
foorty-foor are rizydint cityzins av
Lexington, an’ ’tiz nadeliss to say
that, to kape thim from iujoory
an’ mesilf out av jail, this caution
is respictfully appindixed.
“Do not under anny considera
tion attimpt to ixtrycate asoobjict
if he shud become tangled wid
the saynery, oorchistra or balcony
railin’s. Anny interfayrince on
the part av spictators may resoolt
in disaster, besides, no payshint is
in danger av tippin’ over his equi
librium if unmolisted. Thankin’
ye fer yer kind attintion we will at
wance procade wid the most sinsa
tional piece av tragic-comidy iver
Conoloodin’ his remarks the
profissor comminced to cut the air
full av cabalistic hieroglyphics,
occasionally prissin’ aich soobjict
betwane the hoorns, or. oorgau av
indyvidjooahty, a ceremony assig
niffvcant to the thrance as straws
are to fashionable cocktails. In
the manetime the oorchistra waz
goin’ into rhapsodical icstasies
wid the Oryintal intermizzo Sa
lome, lindin’ an air av mystery,
harmoniously appropriate to the
remarkable sayne in the foor
The stage, sit in the gorgeous
grandeur av a palace garden, con
trasted strangely wid its silint oc
cupants, while the absince av
border-lights, stringthenin’ the in
tinsyty av the foot-lights in their
concintrated glare on the grane
baize, suggisted manny weird mys
teries av occultism. Suddenly the
oorchistra swerved into the low,
pulsatin’ throbs av a Spanish
waltz, an’ the hypnotist selictin’
wan av the min, procaded to cata
lipse his body simultayneously
ixplainin’ that the man wud rip
resint the mangled remains av a
tragic dith. Draggin’ the rigid
body to the ixtreme right av the
stage he placed a handkerchief
over its face an’ turned to the rist.
“Open yer eyes!” saysheimpay
riously. “Look at me an’ tell me
what yez mane be slapin’ whin
this grotoe av nature’s beauty,
this wilth av hiven’s issince is at
yer disposal!” \
Instantly ivery eyelid raised,
ivery nostral dilated, but wid the
maclianical motion av an awtomy
ton, fer, as yit, the sinses per
sayved nothin’.
“Listen,” he continued; “we are
in the most wondrous garden av
flowers moortal man iver saw, an’
unliss we pick thim up at wance
their precious perfume will be
His worruds wur iffictive, fer
ivery man comminced to pick
imaginary flowers, callin’ thim be
name an’ inhalin’ their fragrance
as naturally as if they ralely ix
isted. Some picked indolently
wid ixprissions av disgust, others
rapturously made bokays ferswate
hearts, while a few trampled on
the bids an’ swiped foorgit-me
nots from the rist; aich an’ ivery
wan acted precisely as he wud in
natural life accordin’ to his tim
Be skilful manoovers the opyra
tor lid thim towards the supposed
did man, droppin’ hints occasion
ally at the absince av their frind
Billy. The oorchistra, taken the
cue, switched into an antake fu
neral march, at the same time the
profissor discovered the did man.
“Hivens!” he ixclaimed, clutch
in’ ahold av his heart an’ stagger
in’ backwards, “’tiz a did man,
an’—good lord! ’tiz Billy kilt be
the cars.”
Imagine a party av picnicists
accydintly stumblin’ across the
stiff remains av a dear frind an’
ye can ridly com prehind the an
guish, dismay an’ fear that tuk
possission av these drame-staped
awtomytons. Afther their sorrow
had somewhat subsided the opy
rator thraosported thim to a frish
grave in an imaginary cimytary.
Carryin’ the corpse shoulder high
six av thim played hearse while
closed carriages, more or lies tear
stained brought up the rear. Ar
rivin’ at the open hole, accompay
nied be oorchistral wails av
anguish an’ lost souls, they depos
ited the corpse long enuff to lit
wan rade the burial service.
I wish to state, in parinthesis,
that this man —a bartinder —rid
the service wid the aise an’ preci
sion av our ordained minister, an’
also, that he cud not in his natural
state repate wan av the command
mints not to mintion annythin’
ilse. These things are common
in hypnosis, they prove the ixist
ince av a dooal mind be showin’
that the subjictive faculty retains
manny things that we are other
wise unconscious av.
Actin’ under suggistion, the
pallbearers now comminced to
gintly lower the corpse into the
clay an’ whin widin a few inches
av the flure the opyrator awakened
him. That waz the beginnin’ av
an uproar which will always sthay
grane in the mimory av Lexing
ton’s thayatrical lovin’ pooblic.
The struggles av the awakened
soobjiot stoopyfied his mourners
stiff, it rooted thim to the spot
shakin’ wid the palsy av unspak
able fear, an’ whin the profissor
yilled ghosts, pandymonium broke
loose. Shrakes, groans an’ curses
filled the air, saynery crashed to
the flure, an’ elictric bulbs popped
wid incissint snapations. Foot
bawl scrimages pale into insig
niffycance whin half a hundred
terror-stricken payple thry to
crawl thru the same hole. Ye
may ask why didn’t he wake thim
an’ prevint this costly wrickage.
H 9 wud hov if he cud, but he
Ye see, he waz at the bottom av
the pile, an' be the time he
squirmed from undernaythe, wid
his coat tails sphlit to the nick,
the tidal wave had lift disolation
in its wake. The interrupted fu-
neral or a resuscitated cadayver
waz reprodooced manny times af
ther, but always wid effimynate
lookin’ min, an’ few av thim at
that. E. E. H.
Poetry—A Throb of
Paper Read Before the Chwtaxuiua Circle.
ONCE upon a time in the dim
and misty past, before the
traditions of a bygone race
became hoary with antiquity,
I had a beautiful dream. I
dreamed I was the poet laureate
of the fairyland of Fantasma. I
am not sure whether it was Fan
tasma; but I will call it that be
cause it sounds nice, poetical —I
might say grandiloquent, and even
mysterious. There seems to be a
glamour of romance thrown around
it; a veil of mystery enshrouding
it, well suited, I thought, to grace
the portals of the fairy realm.
It was peopled with nymphs
and gnomes; traversed by limpid
streams; and dotted with sparkling
fountains, shimmering in the sub
dued light, filtering thru the in
terstices of the emerald foliage;
while the dull murmur of a silvery
cascade, faintly musical, sounded
thru the sylvan glades. Knolls
and terraces, unique and pictur
esque, were all clad in their royal
livery of flowering plants of many
hues. It was simply gorgeous!
A composite picture of the Lakes
of Killarney and the hanging gar
dens of ancient Babylon. Su
premely fascinated, I wandered
about the enchanted dells and fairy
grottoes, oommuning with nature
and the beautiful nymphs I met
in my rambles.
I invaded the sacred precincts
of the great council cavern of the
fairies. It dazzled with myriads
of sparkling gems that encrusted
the walls from pit to dome; it con
tained galleries of ivory and gold
and supported by columns of ala
baster; and stairwayb of the purest
of marble and balustrades of the
richest of bronze. Oh! these fai
ries were certainly up-to-date. It
was plain to be seen that no cap
tain of industry had ever sojourned
in that locality. Reluctantly leav
ing all this magnificence, I pad
died across the ice-cream lake, in
a dainty cut-glass canoe, with a
silver spoon to the cigarette grove.
Here I climbed the rock-candy
mountain and explored the sponge
cake cavern, carrying away with
me a good-sized chunk of the cav
ern for a souvenir. I had a quiet
siesta at the lemonade springs,
then, greatly refreshed, I passed
on, regaling myself at the soda
water fountain, gently murmur
ing between gurgles; “This is the
place for a poet.”
As I passed thru the bower of
melody, where the blue birds sang
their glad refrain, the orb of day,
a golden sphere of molten gran
deur was slowly sinking below the
western horizon, as it always has
done about that time of day for
the last seven million years. I
thought I would mention this fact,
as it is well to keep track of those
things. Soon the cool shades of
evening spread their mantle over
the surroundings; the twittering
of the feathered songsters ceased,
and a deathless silence broods
over the stillness. Again I mum
bled: “This is the place for a
poet.” Here, everything was pro
vided in lavish splendor to delight
the soul of the most fastidious
and poetical poet. The rural sim
plicity of the arrangements was
reassuring. No auto buzzers that
hadn’t ought to; no fire escapes
that don’t escape; no life preserv
ers that don’t preserve; no append
icitis or canned goods to cause
a catastrophe; no dire calamities
to cause one to go about seeking
their loved ones; no intrigues or
conspiracies; no hitting the high
places for Canada or Mexico.
Everything lovely for a poet to
feast his frenzied eyes on.
I have observed in this world
that poetry and money never
travel hand in hand down the
pathway of life. The trne poet
spurns filthy lucre, then goes
hungry for dinner. He often
goes to bed on the city’s scales,
using a ladder for a blanket. But
here in this sylvan retreat no
money was needed, and the duties
were light. Just eat sponge-cake
and ice-cream and write poetry.
But could I write poetry? If so,
the rest would be easy. The
thought made me feel rather sick.
Maybe it grows on trees, but I
hadn’t noticed any. I began to
lose my equipoise. My nerve was
going out of commission. My
self-confidence wanted to resign.
It was poetry or bust. In frantic
haste I searched the confines of
this sylvan-gladed, fairy-grottoed
paradise, but no poet tree could I
find. So I concluded to surround
the caramel patch, fill my pockets,
and then jump the country, for I
was an interloper in this beautiful
land. At the very first jump I
landed against a stone wall which
I had not noticed before; but that
bump caused me to sit up and
take notice. I was awake, very
much so; and the stone wall was
still there.
Of course, all this was a dream;
but it gave me an idea. Poets
occasionally get ideas, and my idea
was to be an expert on poetry, to
insert an ad and make poets by
mail. I therefore began to read
up on poetry. I recited poetry all
day and dreamed about it all night.
I manufactured it in my sleep.
It was good poetry, too, but I
could not get it copyrighted.
Then I proceeded to draft a few
specimens while awake, but it was
not so good as the nooturnal arti
cle. I continued my researches
in this prolifio field of genius,
burning midnight oil, until the oil
gave out. There was a lull in the
proceedings, for the price of oil
had gone up. But, strange to re
late, the price of poetry had gone
However, I persevered in my
ohosen field of endeavor, and not
until I had mastered every detail
did I rest from my labors. I was
now fully competent to hand down
a deoision on the gentle art. I
knew poetry from Dan to Bershe
ba. In the meantime, my day
light poetry flourished like a green
bay tree, and I woke up one
morning to find myself almost,
but not quite, famous. That was
a great surprise to me and to every
one else. I never intended to be
famous, any more than did Poult
nev Bigelow intend to be a canal
boat when he went to Panama. I
just dropped into poetry to write
about it. I must have absorbed
some of the microbes that lay dor
mant between the pages of those
inspired volumes; but I was a
poet, nevertheless. I couldn’t
help it. The honor was thrust
upon me, you might say, by those
germs of genius. The only thing
to do in order to prevent a plague
of poets, was to denaturize those
volumes and protect others from
inoculation. If a huge wave of
the bacillus poelicus went sweeping
over the country, what would be
the result? Why everything would
be made to rhyme, and such
rhymes! It would be something
Yes, I had become a full-fledged
poet, and the proper thing to do
now, was to bring my precious
articles before the public with a
little judicious advertising. But
first, I concluded to try it on the
dog before launching it on the
public in carload lots. The afore-
said dog was a friend I met on a
recent holiday. Without any pre
liminaries, I reeled off about four
yards of good, up-to-date poetry.
“There,” I said, “what do you
think of that?” and I threw out
my chest until my vertebra almost
snapped in two. He would not
commit himself, but walked away,
frowning and shaking his ugly
head. Later on 1 saw this friend
talking to one of the M. D.’s, and
pointing at me. The doctor list
ened very attentively, and then
shook his head as tho it was a
very sad case. Later on I will
give an exhibition of what I can
do as a poet. K.
Synonps-Their Use.
Taken from G. F. Graham’s book on
“English Synonyms.”
To Have —To Possess.
What we have does not always
belong to us, and therefore we
cannot dispose of it according to
our will. We have entire power
over what we possess, and it is con
tinually shifting, as money, which
circulates in all classes of society.
What we possess is permanently
our own, as an estate or a house.
We are masters of what we possess,
but not always of what we have.
To have is the generic term; to
possess is a species of saving. He
who possesses has, but he who has
does not always possess.
A ncient—A ntiquei
Ancient qualities the manners,
institutions, oustoms, etc., of the
nations of antiquity. Antique refers
to the style of their work of art.
Ancient architecture signifies the
abstract science as it existed
among the ancients. Antique
architecture refers to the style of
building among the anoients. We
speak of an antique coin, an an
tique cup, or gem; and of ancient
laws and customs. Ancient is
generic—antique specific; an anci
ent temple is one built in the style
of the ancients. Ancient is not
modern; antique is not new-fash
To Help—To Assist.
To help is the generic term, and
expresses a single act; to assist is
a specific term, and expresses a
mode of helping. A man is helped
at his labor; assisted in any intel
lectual pursuit. Help is more im
mediately wanted than assistance.
Help is wanted in labor, dangers,
difficulties, etc.; assistance is re
quired in the pursuit of some
study, or the performance of some
work. When a man is attacked by
robbers, he calls for help, not for
assistance. He who rescues a man
in this situation from danger helps
him; but if he should do more—
if he should second his endeavors
to put the ruffians to flight, or to
capture some of them, he assists
him. In fine, he who is suffering
is helped; he who is doing is as
To Gain —To Win.
To gain is a general —to win is
a specific term. These words ex
press different modes of acquiring
possession, and are to be distin
guished by the circumstances which
respectively attend them. We
gain with intention, we win by
chanoe. We may reasonably
count upon our gains. Our win
nings depend on fortune. We do
not gain, but win a prize in the
lottery. We do not win, but gain
a fortune by continued attention
to business. A victory may be
both gained and won; gained, as
concerns the endeavors of the vic
tors; won, as far as it was a ques
tion of chance which fortune
decided in their favor. Credit,
friends, power, influence, etc., are
gained. A race, a wager, a prize,
etc., are won.

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