Part 3

As it is with dancing, so it is with art. The poster insanity has hardly passed away and we are already overwhelmed with a horde of symbolists of one sort or another, who appear to agree upon one point only--that pictures should not in any way resemble nature. These ambitious daubers, Sir--I can not bring myself to call them artists--have the impertinence to assume that they can express life more fully and clearly upon their hideous canvases than the Author of the Universe has expressed it in nature. As to the absurdity of their pretensions, I need say nothing; it is apparent to all who can lay claim to even the most ordinary degree of intelligence. But as to the effect this nonsense has upon the weak, the easily impressed, I could never say enough. This insanity has spread like a plague from painting to poetry, and from poetry to all the arts that are known. Originality, like charity, is made to cover a multitude of sins. The creative artist who has not the strength or the patience to win distinction along recognized lines produces something that is grotesque and defies us to criticize his work, saying, “There is no standard by which you can measure this, for it is absolutely new. Nobody ever did anything just like this before.” The obvious retort to this would be that nobody ever wanted to do anything like it before, but this would be lost upon the artist, for the “original” of to-day is as impervious to ridicule as he is to criticism.

That music is better for being original, I do not believe. Such an assumption is without warrant in nature. There is no purer sweeter melody than that of the birds. What says the poet?

“Hark! that’s the nightingale, Telling the self-same tale Her song told when this ancient earth was young: So echoes answered when her song was sung In the first wooded vale.”

Year after year, century after century, these natural musicians continue to ravish and delight all mankind with those same songs they warbled on creation morn. It is no care of theirs to mingle melody with horrid sounds; to weld their notes into a dagger of discord wherewith to stab men through the ear. They do not strive to produce those damnable gratings, shriekings and rumblings which so often pass for music in these days. Where, Sir, is the originality of the nightingale, or of the mocking-bird? Sir, all music may be noise, but that all noise is music I do deny with all my heart. That a noise is new does not recommend it to my ear.

Sir, I lay it down as a proposition not to be refuted, that a good imitation is better than a poor original, and while many men may create passable imitations, very few can produce anything which is both original and good. I do not hold it against an author that he is not wholly original. On the contrary, if he imitate good models, I regard his imitation as an evidence of sound sense. And, what is more, Sir, I believe that most people are no more enamored of originality than I am.

Here is a secret, Mr. _Idler_, known to only a few: We never grow tired of the things we really like, but only of the things which have appealed to us momentarily because of their novelty. When we really like an author, we like another author who is like him. When we really like a melody, we like another melody which is like it. When we really like a place, we have no desire to leave it. Early in life we form attachments for certain things--our homes, our parents, _Mother Goose_ and the like. This fondness we never entirely outgrow. We like the books we used to like, the pictures, the songs and the places. I am speaking now, Sir, of normal human beings. There are some, ever seeking new things, who never learn to like anything. To them, old books are wearisome, old pictures are uninteresting, old tunes insipid. To them, all places are places to go from or go to, but never to stay in. For them, the past is closed and history is out of date.

“Beware of imitations!” say the advertisements. “Beware of originality!” say I. If we were all original, there would be no living with us. The original genius is well enough when we wish to be entertained, but it is the old-fashioned reliable imitator who makes this world the pleasant place it is. And let us not forget, Sir, that the most original thing in the world is sin.

I am, Sir, DAVID DUPLEX.

A FLATTERING TRIBUTE

_To the Editor of The Idler._

DEAR SIR: Some months ago I read in your magazine an article in which you advocated the keeping of a journal or diary, saying that by this means one might always keep one’s self well informed as to what progress one might be making spiritually, morally and mentally upon the journey through life. This suggestion struck me very forcibly; so much so, indeed, that I straightway determined to act upon your advice and to begin forthwith such a record of my intimate life as would enable me, at any time when the spirit moved me, to inform myself in this respect. Up to the time when I read the article of which I speak, I had always considered the writing of a diary as rather a senseless occupation, since I could not see why one need put down that which was already well known to one’s self; but when I had read your advice upon the subject, I soon came to see that there is much which will inevitably escape, not only the memory, but the attention as well, unless committed to paper.

Convinced, then, of the usefulness of such an intimate record, I set myself to writing down with great particularity all that I saw, heard, said, did or read; so that I may now look back at the end of the year and review each day in all its details. As you may suppose, I was much surprised to find myself given to habits of which I had formerly been quite unaware. I discovered that much of my reading, for instance, was of a decidedly frivolous and unprofitable sort. After considering this for some time, I have come to the conclusion that it is time for me to mend my ways and to abandon my habit of indiscriminate and idle reading, and I therefore request that you will cancel my subscription to _The Idler_.

Thanking you for the article on diaries, which will, I am sure, prove a most valuable suggestion to me, I am, Sir,

Truly yours, LUCY LACKWIT.

THE RIDDLE OF A DREAM

“Set a beggar on horseback and he will ride a gallop.” --_Shakespeare._

_To the Editor of The Idler._

DEAR SIR: I have had a curious dream and I am at a loss to account for it. I have consulted an old dream book, which I have in my possession, and which was formerly the property of my old nurse, Aunt Betty S., but for all my diligent searching therein, I have failed utterly to find anything which might serve as an interpretation of my vision. I called at the public library of our village and asked for the latest and most up-to-date work of this character, but the librarian only laughed at my request and assured me that she possessed no such work and that as far as she knew there had never been any such work upon her shelves. To my protest that no library could be complete without at least a few volumes of this character, she retorted that only fools and old fogies any longer had any faith in the meaning of dreams, and that if I was troubled with nightmare the best thing I could do would be to stop lying on my back or be more careful of what I ate before going to bed.

It would seem that I am a bit old-fashioned in my faith in the meaning of dreams, though I do not see how any one who pretends to a belief in the Christian faith can scoff at the interpretation and significance of them in the face of the many notable instances cited in the Bible, as, for example, the vision of Jacob and the dream which caused Joseph to flee into Egypt. I suppose, however, that I should not be surprised at the light and irreverent fashion in which the young people of to-day treat this subject, when I reflect that a Christian clergyman has recently suggested a revision of the Ten Commandments. Notwithstanding the apparently widespread heresy concerning the futility and emptiness of dreams, I trust that I am not the only Christian gentleman now living who clings to the faith of his fathers and who has sufficient faith in the inspiration of the Gospels to believe that a dream is something more than a result of injudicious eating. It is in the hope that some such person may be a reader of your journal and that the result may be a correct interpretation of my own dream, that I am writing this to you. I observe that your journal is somewhat behind the times in many respects and therefore I assume that some of your readers are likely to be as old-fashioned and as “superstitious” as myself.

The dream which I am about to relate came to me in the following circumstances. I had been out rather late the night before and had partaken of a number of fancy dishes such as I am not in the habit of eating at my own table, but which my daughter, who is just back from a young ladies’ finishing school, assures me are much more pleasing if not more nourishing than the ham and eggs which I was upon the point of ordering for our supper after the theater. It was in the morning of the next day and we were out in our new automobile which had only come from the factory the day before. The automobile, or “car” as my daughter calls it, is of rather expensive make and luxurious to a degree. Being somewhat fagged by my unaccustomed dissipation of the night before, I leaned back upon the cushions and presently I fell asleep.

It appeared to me that I was no longer in the automobile, but trudging along the road as I was in the habit of doing in my younger years. As I came to a turn in the road I was confronted with a troop of horsemen, who were by all odds the strangest company it has ever been my lot to behold. All of them were splendidly mounted on magnificent horses which were caparisoned like the mounts of the knights in some rich and gorgeous medieval tapestry. Their bridles were of chased leather with bits and buckles of solid gold; their stirrups were of platinum and silver, and their saddles were of silver and gold, upholstered in plush and velvet. Silk and satin ribbons floated from the bridles of the horses and flaunted in the wind in gay and beautiful streamers. But with the horses and their trappings the magnificence came to a sudden end. The riders themselves were the most incongruous riders for such noble animals that one could imagine. They were, without exception, tattered and bedraggled to the last degree of unkempt frowsiness. Their faces were gaunt and drawn as with hunger and their hair hung unbrushed and uncombed upon their frayed collars. In more than one instance a foot was thrust through a silver stirrup while the toes of the rider came peeping through the broken ends of his boot. A more wretched company mounted upon more beautiful chargers it would be difficult to imagine.

At sight of me the whole company came to a sudden halt, checking their mounts as at the command of a leader, though no word was spoken. The leader of the cavalcade, who bestrode a handsome gelding, rode out a little in advance of his fellows, and removing his crownless hat, swept me a bow, leaning low over the pommel of his saddle. And when I had returned his salutation, he addressed me in these words: “I give you good morrow, gentle sir, and I beg you in the name of Christ and this our company that you spare us a few coins of silver or of gold that we may partake of food and drink, for the way is long and weary and we can not travel without meat and wine to sustain us on our journey.”

Now this speech greatly astonished me, as I had never seen so large a company of beggars journeying together, and I was the more astounded that men mounted in such splendid fashion should be asking alms.

“What!” I cried in amazement, “are you begging then, while you ride upon such fine horses, and your bridles and saddles are worth a king’s ransom?”

“Even so,” replied the leader, “and much as I loathe discourtesy, I must remind you that our time is short, so pray give us what funds you can spare and let us be on our way, for we hope to reach our destination by nightfall.”

“And what is your destination?” I asked.

“The City of Vain Display,” he replied. “But we dally.”

“But if you need money,” I protested, “why do you not sell your horses and trappings?”

At this the whole company cried out in protest, and the leader answered: “Sell our mounts? Never! Look at them. Are they not beautiful?”

And truly they were. And as I looked at them I was seized with a great desire to feel a horse of like magnificence between my knees, and I cried, “I wish that I, too, had a horse like that!”

“Give me all the money that you have,” said the leader, “and you shall have one.”

So I gave him the money. Presently I found myself riding with them and my clothes were as tattered and torn as the clothes of the others. And we set off at a furious pace, faster and faster, until the horses panted with exertion, and after a time one stumbled and fell, sending his rider over his head to the hard road. But nobody stopped, and looking back, I saw the unfortunate fellow sprawling in the roadway with his neck broken. On, on we went, one horse after another giving a final gasp and falling down in the road, and as each one fell we who were left urged our mounts to greater exertions, plying whip and spur without ceasing, until finally only the leader and I were riding on. Then his horse stumbled to its knees and rolled over on its side, and I rode on alone. Lashing my horse I strained onward till the poor beast came crashing down with a jar that threw me headlong upon the highway, where I fell so heavily that I woke.

I have pondered over this dream ever since, but I confess I can make nothing of it. I must draw this letter to a close now, for my daughter informs me that the automobile is waiting, and I have not mortgaged my house to secure the thing for the purpose of letting it stand idle.

I hope, Sir, that if you or any of your readers can read me the riddle of this dream they will be good enough to forward the solution to

Your humble servant, TIMOTHY TINSELTOP.

BLUFFTOWN, NEW YORK.

BEDS FOR THE BAD

_To the Editor of The Idler._

DEAR SIR: It was Sancho Panza, if my memory serves me right, who invoked a blessing upon the head of the man who first invented sleep; I think he had done better to bestow his blessings upon the man who first invented beds. I think it extremely doubtful if sleep can be classed as an invention of man; it is, rather, a function, like breathing, and I doubt not that Adam fell a-nodding before ever he knew the meaning of sleep at all. The bed, upon the contrary, is without question of human origin, for no other living thing has constructed anything resembling it except the bird, who makes his nest serve him as both bed and house, and certainly no deity could have occasion to use such an article, seeing that eternal wakefulness is a necessary attribute of godhood.

The bed, in my opinion, is the greatest of all human inventions, without which sleep were robbed of half its pleasure. Nowhere do we enjoy such delicious refreshing repose as when snugly ensconced in a proper bed, and for my part, there is no other luxury which I could not spare better than my bed. Napkins, tablecloths, knives, forks, spoons--even the table, I could forego without great loss of appetite, but I can rest nowhere else than in a bed, and I can rest well in no bed but my own. So strong is my regard for this article of household furniture, that, were I a poet, I should ask no greater glory than to be the author of those beautiful lines of Thomas Hood--

“O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head!”

No truer words were ever spoken than those of Isaac De Benserade when he said:

“In bed we laugh, in bed we cry, And, born in bed, in bed we die; The near approach a bed may show Of human bliss to human woe.”

A man may be without land or money and still be happy; he may endure the loss of friends and fortune, and he may preserve his courage even in the face of shame and disgrace; but, Sir, a man who has not a good bed is no more than half a man. Without this refuge from the trials and troubles of the world, a man is robbed of the one consolation which it should be the right of every man to enjoy. Without a bed, his vitality is sapped, his courage is broken down and his moral sense is impaired. I maintain, Sir, that no man can go bedless without becoming a menace to the community, and this brings me to the subject I had in mind when I sat down to write this letter.

I have observed, Mr. _Idler_, that though a great many people of excellent intentions devote themselves to the task of reforming and reclaiming members of the criminal class, the result of their labors is very far from being satisfactory. In spite of the great number of reformatories, prisons and houses of refuge erected in all parts of the world; in spite of numberless soup kitchens, missions, free sanatoriums and the like, men continue to break the laws and all our efforts to eradicate crime appear to go for little or nothing. Now I am convinced that there is a very good reason why this is true, and it is my conviction that our failure to abolish crime is directly due to our stupidity and block-headedness in attacking the problem from the wrong angle. Instead of trying to reform our criminals by the fear of punishment, we should prevent crime by diverting their minds from evil-doing and direct them into proper paths by the simple expedient which I am about to lay before you.

There is nothing in the world which is more likely to put a man into a good humor with himself, with other men and with existing conditions, than a good night’s rest. As I have said before, every man who lacks a bed is a potential criminal and there are a number of reasons why this is so. To lack repose naturally wears upon the nerves and reduces a man to a condition bordering upon insanity. It is conducive to cynicism, self-pity, a feeling of resentment against all other men and a strong sense of injustice. No matter what the cause of his bedless condition may be, no man can preserve an even temper when he wants to go to bed and has no bed to which he may go. Again, being out of bed and out of temper, he is ripe for various sorts of evil deeds from which he would turn in loathing after a good night’s rest. He is driven for shelter and divertisement into the haunts of vice and the dens of iniquity. He beguiles his sleepless hours in the company of vicious and dissolute persons. He regards the world from an entirely different point of view from the man who has just passed seven or eight pleasant hours in restful slumber. Sleeplessness and crime are as closely related as insomnia and insanity. Crime leads to sleeplessness and sleeplessness leads to crime.

Now, Sir, what I propose is just this: let us put the criminals to bed. Instead of offering the outcast a cold plate of soup or an inane tract, let us offer him a warm comfortable bed where he may lie down and pass at least eight hours of the twenty-four in dreaming that he is John D. Rockefeller or some other such harmless illusion. Let us offer him an opportunity to recover his strength, his courage and his moral balance in innocent sleep. I do not believe that the perfect social state can ever be brought about until such time as every person in the world shall own his own bed; until such time as beds shall be assigned by law to all those who can not purchase them upon their own account; until such time as a man’s bed shall be sacred to his own use, exempt from taxation or seizure by writ or other legal process and as inviolate as the clothes upon his back. I do not believe a perfect social state will ever be attained until it shall be a crime for a chambermaid to make a bed improperly or for a merchant to sell an imperfect spring or a lumpy mattress. I do not believe a perfect social state can ever be reached until every man in the world, and every woman and child, is guaranteed a good night’s rest every night in the year.

But as we have not yet advanced to a state of civilization where it would be practicable to provide every human being with a personal bed of his own, let us do what we can. Do you believe, Sir, that any but the most callow of youthful roisterers prefer the disgusting atmosphere of the all-night saloon or the bleak cheerlessness of a park bench to the heavenly comforts of a good bed? If you do, Sir, you are vastly mistaken. Throw open to these men an absolutely free lodging-house filled with clean comfortable beds, where all may come and go unquestioned as long as they enter at a certain hour and remain a stipulated time, and I warrant you that lodging-house will be filled to its capacity every night in the year. Let every community erect as many of these lodging-houses as its financial condition will permit. Let the vast sums that are now being wasted upon futile missions and piffling soup-kitchens be diverted to this legitimate end. Once we have our criminals and our outcasts in bed, we shall have them out of the streets, out of the parks, out of the gambling hells, out of the brothels and out of mischief!

The state plays the father in chastising disobedient citizens; let the state also play the mother in tucking them into bed. Go look upon them when every face is wiped clean of frown and leer; go look upon them when every face is smooth and quiet as the resting soul within

“And on their lids The baby Sleep is pillowed ...”

and I warrant you, you shall find them, not outcasts and outlaws, but poor tired children whom you can not forbear to wish, as I now wish you,

Good night, and happy dreams! CADWALLADER COVERLET.

IS CHESTERTON A MAN ALIVE?

_To the Editor of The Idler._

DEAR SIR: If I were a writer of biographical sketches, I should begin these remarks with the statement that Gilbert Keith Chesterton was born in the year 1874; but I am not a writer of biographical sketches. On the contrary, Sir, I am one who aims to tell the truth as often as it is possible to tell the truth without appearing eccentric. I do not begin these remarks in the fashion I have suggested because I am restrained by scruples which would never trouble a writer of biographies. The fact of the matter is, I do not know that Gilbert Keith Chesterton was born in 1874. I do not know that he was ever born at all--at most I only suspect it. I suspect it because I never knew a man who had never been born to attract so much attention. His books may be urged as evidence of his birth, but they are by no means conclusive evidence. So far as my personal information goes, he may be nothing more than a name, like _Bertha M. Clay_. Perhaps he is only a creature of the imagination, like _Innocent Smith_, created by some author who chooses to write under the name, “Gilbert Chesterton.” I do not suggest these things as probabilities, but only as possibilities. And yet, what could be more improbable than Chesterton himself? Is it not, after all, more probable that he has been evolved from pen and ink, than from the clay of Adam?

We come now to the question which I borrow from the title of this paper: Is Gilbert Keith Chesterton a man alive? Is he not, rather, a very amusing conception of what a man might be? Let us consider the matter.