Title: The Fly Leaf, No. 3, Vol. 1, February 1896
Author: Various
Language: English
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  THE FLY LEAF is distinctive among all the Bibelots.
    --FOOTLIGHTS, PHILADELPHIA.


  The Fly Leaf

  A Pamphlet Periodical of
  the New--the New Man,
  New Woman, New Ideas,
  Whimsies and Things.

  [Illustration]

  CONDUCTED BY WALTER BLACKBURN HARTE.

  WITH PICTURE NOTES BY
  H. MARMADUKE RUSSELL.


  Published Monthly by the Fly Leaf Publishing Co.,
  Boston, Mass. Subscription One Dollar a Year.
  Single Copies 10 Cents. February, 1896. Number
  Three.



Unique and Distinctive in Bibelot Literature.

THE CRITICS AGREE IN SAYING THE FLY LEAF FILLS A FIELD OF ITS OWN.


THE FLY LEAF is distinctive among all the Bibelots.--FOOTLIGHTS,
PHILADELPHIA.

It is a delightfully keen little swashbuckler.--THE ECHO, Chicago.

The latest of the Bibelots. In my opinion it is the only one of the
lot, including the “Chap-Book,” “Philistine,” etc., which knows what it
is driving at. The editor of the “Chap-Book” toddles along, following
or attempting to follow, the twists and turns of the public taste--at
least that is what he wrote in a Note not long ago--and the editor of
the “Philistine” curses and swears, and devastates the atmosphere,
trying his best to kill everything. “THE FLY LEAF” at once impressed me
that Mr. Harte knows what he wants, and seriously intends to have it. I
hope he will.--THE NORTH AMERICAN, Philadelphia.

It will pay any one who wishes to keep up with the literary procession
to peruse this sprightly little periodical.--THE EXAMINER, San
Francisco, Cal.

That bright little bundle of anecdote, comment, essay, poetry and
fiction, “THE FLY LEAF,” of Boston, comes out in particularly good
style. It gives rich promise of many good things to come.--THE
COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER, New York.

Number two of Walter Blackburn Harte’s dainty monthly “THE FLY LEAF,”
is out, and filled with the spirit of youth and beauty in literature,
and zealous with culture, taste and faith toward higher ideals, it is
going about doing good.

Mr. Harte is strong, brilliant and brave as an essayist of the
movement, and is making friends everywhere. The poetry and prose is all
of high merit.--THE BOSTON GLOBE.

The thing I like about Mr. Harte is his splendid spirit of Americanism,
his optimistic belief in native literature and native writers; his
hatred of all things bordering on toadyism or servile flattery of
foreign gods to the exclusion of home talent. This is the key-note of
THE FLY LEAF, and Mr. Harte will be apt to say some trenchant, candid
and always interesting things in its pages.--THE UNION AND ADVERTISER,
Rochester, N. Y.

These are a few criticisms of the first two numbers, selected from
a great heap of enthusiastic notices. THE FLY LEAF is promoting a
Campaign for the Young Man in Literature. All the young men and women
in America are discussing its unique and original literature, and
spreading its fame.



The Fly Leaf

  No. 3.      February, 1896.      Vol. 1.



QUATRAINS.


TOLSTOI.

  He calls, from the hot road to us, who stray
    In shady pleasant woods abroad,--
    Yes, Tolstoi, your path leads to God,
  But through the forest there _may_ be a way.


IBSEN.

  A cannon shot, not fired to kill,
    But to dislodge and make to rise
    The decomposing corpse that lies
  Beneath life’s surface, smooth and still.

                         CLAUDE F. BRAGDON.


SUCCESS.

  Without one thought in his wide, empty brain
    (For Reason never sowed a seed to grow),
  He sits and writes page after page--no strain;
  Why? Chaff is cheap and sometimes looks like grain.


EUMENIDES.

  All kindred gods have crumbled into dust
    Though latest born of that once teeming womb.
    Ye yet abide who shall not taste a tomb--
  Of passion, gold, and fame the lashing lust.

                             PHILIP BECKER GOETZ.



A MODEST PROPOSAL FOR THE REHABILITATION OF LETTERS IN THE LITERARY
SHOW.


We may take it that the old story of the Tower of Babel symbolizes the
failure of the human mind to transcend the limits of natural knowledge.
It is some old poet’s picture of the aspiring race lifting its bold
head to steal God’s secrets from Heaven, stricken down into the dust,
whence it came and to which it must return, foiled and despairing. But
the babble of a million futile, unprovable human speculations continues
to sway and mock generation after generation of men, wrapt in the
ironies of the world of sense and necessity. So all human thought runs
in cycles, and the latest heir of all the ages but gains the wisdom of
increased doubt.

Our age raises its Babel of philosophies and creeds, as did the
civilizations that have gone before, and left us but the fantasy of
great and moving names. So our most cherished realities, for which we
all suffer so much, and for which so many heretics suffer the rack
and martyrdom, fade away into the gibes and bogies of tradition.
Ah, how sad is the fantasy of names our freed tongues troll over so
lightly! Let established wisdom learn tolerance in this levity of
today’s knowledge. For those who hold to any idea or ideal, know
the days of martyrdom are not yet over. The old Hebrew picture is as
true of today as when first written. We, too, shall pass away into
the fantasy of history. We, too, shall leave but the grinning skulls
and bare bones of once vital but finally unbelievable religions and
philosophies--precious, priceless scraps of rubbish and litter in the
catacombs of decayed and buried cities.

But the times show a certain change in spirit. Our Babel of today does
not assail God’s security, for our babble builders do not seek to play
the prophet or the sage so much as to play the clown successfully.
The seer who gives us words of fire and folly in his futile attempt
to cleave body and soul with the sword of thought, at least contrives
to show us that life here can be sweet and beautiful and grand. Those
whose fearful content with the life of sense and show drags us all to
the level of our necessities, make life even more of an irony; for they
deny the intellect and spirit their right of unfettered freedom in the
domain of thought. And when thought is fettered with the appetites,
life, indeed, becomes a very slavery. And half our writers are in
servitude to the Egyptians. Only a few _thinkers_ lie sullen and
idle in the sun--profitless vagabonds, who can only work by whim and
inspiration.

[Illustration]

At this end of the century our Babel lacks the genuine inspiration of
ancient prophecy and poetry. It is taken for granted, seemingly, that
as we cannot reach God, it is not worth while to rise in thought above
the mere show of life, and so all the mystery of man is swept out of
our literature and philosophy. We are deafened with a million small
noises of small, soulless, unreal persons. The old stirring voices that
thrilled us with the clamor and sternness of life, are, for the most
part, silenced or muffled, because those who grow fat on the partial
enlightenment of the masses, will not allow any sort of literature to
prosper which, in the words of the Areopagitica, contains “views or
sentiments at all above the level of the vulgar superstition.” The
literature that sprang from the marrow of the intellect, the core of
the heart and life, is out of fashion, is a drug in the market. This
is a day in which mere noise and notoriety completely ousts and worsts
any real thought in every joust of letters. In fact, literature is read
less as letters, in the old sense, than as autobiography of scandalous
and notorious people. Only the sensational in literature can attract
attention. There are lots of good books published every year, but
they steal quietly into the world, and no one knows about them. They
burden the bookseller’s shelves for awhile, and their only chance of
circulation is finally that some whimsical crank may pick them out
of the “remainder” boxes, when their one brief season of undisturbed
respectability on the shelves is over.

It is with the idea of partially remedying this state of affairs, in
which the odds are so uneven, that I venture to offer a few suggestions
on the advisability of adopting an old and picturesque institution from
a totally different Trade, and adapting it to the needs of contemporary
Literature. This is the explanation of the caption of this paper, which
may be a little perplexing to some unsophisticated readers. I propose
to borrow the main features of the old clothing Fair, which is held
among the Hebrews every Sunday morning in Petticoat Lane, London,--one
of the most picturesque Babels in the world.

This would even up matters a little. I do not propose any reform, and
I should not dare to mention any of the remarkable modern instances of
success in literature by persons who produce much fiction which is not
literature. They are sufficiently glaring to advertise themselves among
book lovers. But I do want to lead a forlorn hope to re-establish some
sort of social and moral, if not intellectual, equilibrium between poor
handicapped brains and overwhelming _brass_. At the present moment the
calling of literature is the caravan or the refuge of the charlatan,
the demagogue, the weakminded, the social fop, the hysterical and the
notorious. My aim in this modest proposal is simply to remove a few
obsolete superstitions and traditions of literary dignity that, once
swept away, will leave all competitors for fame on the same footing.
Perhaps we may then hope to see the few writers who are marred with a
simple equipment of inspiration and talent enjoy some sort of equality
with those who bring to the conquest of literature the overwhelming
advantages of sex, brass, social authority and money.

Let us first touch upon certain aspects of criticism and publicity
in the Literary Show. It will then be perfectly clear to the most
prejudiced reader--and I expect prejudice in this wicked world--that
my suggestion of a Sunday Fair for Literature is the most feasible
and dignified expedient that can now be adopted, if any of us are to
continue the struggle for some literary achievement and standard and
some genuine thought in our modern Babel.

It has always been a question in the mind of the present writer whether
most men, that is, sane men, do not actually know, in their own hearts,
just about what they stand for _absolutely_ in life, or whether saints
and rogues, wise and unwise, we are all deluded about ourselves.
Heine, who wrote with so much charm about himself, and could scarcely
have found a more interesting subject, was of the opinion that one
cannot tell the truth about one’s self; and, since the greater portion
of mankind is of this opinion, autobiography is the most irresistible
form of literature.

[Illustration]

But it is unfortunate there is not more division of opinion on
the subject, because, while this view may add to the interest of
autobiography, it weakens its weight and authority; and there are
good reasons for supposing that one of the necessary “short cuts” of
contemporary literature of the near future will be the brief critical
autobiography.

There is not a mother’s son of us in the whole scribbling guild,
great or small, puffed or starved, can get his fill of praise; for
there are too many of us scribbling in these latter years, and that
man is fortunate who is famous for a whole season. There are but few
who can reasonably hope for a life in the memory of mankind as long
as Mumm’s champagne. It may be there are but few of us deserve it.
Such scraps of comfort as occasionally fall to our lot are almost
invariably disappointing, for our friends are perversely addicted to
flattering us in good, round, general terms, which save thought and
lack positiveness, or else they appreciate us for the very qualities it
is perfectly evident we do not possess in the least degree. But this is
the inevitable result of the production of literature by lightning-like
machinery working day and night.

All these sugared things which authors crave can only be supplied by
other writers who, aside from the necessity of earning a livelihood,
are plagued with private personal ambitions of their own; and if there
is any sort of drudgery more tedious than the reviewing of other
people’s literature, I should like to know what it is. Those who have
to earn precarious bread by the pen, somehow or other, are so busy
reviewing and scribbling on topical matters that they have absolutely
no time for reading, and so very few writers out of the great multitude
receive more than a few perfunctory words of praise or indifferent
comment, and are then straightway forgotten. With the ever increasing
tide of books, literary criticism tends to become more and more a
mere matter of description and catalogueing, and as this is obviously
inadequate to satisfy all the demands of those who would live in the
public eye, we have latterly seen the development of that interesting
personage, the psychological interviewer.

Even this does not meet the exigencies of an overcrowded market. The
psychological interviewer is only occupied with those whose names
will help to sell _his_ wares. The secret charm of the psychological
interview, when it is at all well done, is that it enables an author to
supplement the necessarily perfunctory reviewing of the day with his
own keener critical insight into the less obvious excellent qualities
of his work. This done with a fine conscientious egotism and some show
of candor, carries as much weight with liberal and unprejudiced minds
as rare and subtle criticism. In fact, it is autobiography, which the
interviewer breaks up into more or less dramatic dialogue.

There are still thousands of us who are so obscure and unfortunate as
to be untroubled by the interviewers, and, to make matters worse, are
often tabooed by the critics. But since the calling of letters is no
more restricted to the “deserving” and the “good” than any other, these
also desire that publicity which helps to solve the problem of bread
and butter. And so I predict that the pressure of competition in the
Literary Show, and the exigencies of critical writing, often colored,
if not inspired, by counting-house interests, will soon bring into
current literature what I have here termed the critical autobiography.
In this way we may get much good literature, for the dullest man is
at his best when writing about himself. A man can then be perfectly
independent, and still be heralded in print as one of the potent forces
and geniuses of his day. The plan has some advantages over log-rolling,
which sometimes involves unavoidable and ludicrous derogatory offices,
that embarrass one’s reputation as a wit and a critic of discernment.

It is also really time that the writers of books learned to take
something of the same vulgar view of them which those who make their
living in dealing in them do, and that is to regard them when finally
out of the brain and put into material shape merely as _merchandise_.
It is this looking upon them as “children” that has made the poets the
spoil of cunning men, and kept them daft and poor.

The writer’s problem is to reach his fellows, his generation. He is
not, under modern conditions, concerned with posterity any more than
the lawyer or the merchant. As for that, probably few books of this era
will be known by name a hundred years hence; but every man should have
a fair chance of getting a hearing in his own generation. As things
are at present constituted, a thousand obstacles are placed in the way
by other writers in the holy name of morality, style, literary ideals,
and every other ingenious trick one writer can devise as a critic
and literary tipstaff to keep others from dimming the effulgence of
his golden beams. But, pouf! all this anxiety is unnecessary. At
least one-half of our contemporary literature, though it is “boomed”
and bought at impressive figures, is only passable journalism, and,
perhaps, will be thrown aside and forgotten as unreliable data when the
journals of today (such as not being printed on wood pulp paper may
perchance survive) are treasured as the mirror of our semi-barbaric
times.

[Illustration]

We are fairly deluged now with cheap Brummagem “literature.” And so I
think my Modest Proposal will appeal to all fair minded persons. Let
us have an open market in literature, and let the best peddler win.
The game of literature as carried on today, is, with a few glorious
exceptions, a purely commercial speculation, an enterprise in trade;
and there is no need to confuse the issues with a lot of babble about
“literary ideals,” and all the rest of it. That is but an artful trick
to embarrass rivals in trade. The howl about morality is another old
trick, but one--thanks to the beauties of human nature--which only
helps to swell the sales of a rival. Literature is now produced to meet
the demands of different markets, on the same principle that governs
the manufacture of other luxuries and commodities. What is the use of
waiting for your rival in trade to announce your excellencies to the
world? Human nature works the same in all trades. Ambition preys upon
and harasses ambition. Only the cynics of Grub Street, who have no
hopes and no ambitions, can be just and impartial critics, and they are
in the pinch of necessity. Log-rolling, too, is an imperfect art; some
fellows’ logs are so _heavy_!

Let it once be understood that there is no ideal aim or dignity in the
literary market of our day other than to find quick buyers and win the
bubble reputation, and why should any man hesitate to use the methods
of ordinary commerce to advance his own interests? It is a matter of
common sense.

I suggest in all seriousness this idea of a literary Petticoat-Lane
Sunday Fair as the best way to develop a national literature in
America. And let every man be his own critic, prophet and publisher. It
could be held somewhere off the Bowery--a picturesque and appropriate
place.

The critical autobiographies on the market would be genuine human
documents and great fun. A collection of them would give our epoch
everlasting fame. With every man peddling his own wares, like the
chapmen of old, the law of the survival of the fittest would probably
operate as effectively, and more convincingly, than under existing
conditions.

                                                 WALTER BLACKBURN HARTE.



TO M’LLE BOHEMIA.


  It were not well if long you tarried
    Here in my “Bungalow,”
  For I’m a man sedate and married;--
    Pick up your skirts and go.

  But stay, I’ll smoke another pipe.
    Give you a cigarette?
  Well, yes, for lips are cherry-ripe
    And with honey dew are wet.

  Are you, my dear, the Yellow Girl
    Of all our author folks,
  At whom we decent people hurl
    Anathemas--and jokes?

  You are a poem or a song--
    A wicked one, they say--
  A bit of color thrown along
    A drab old world and gray.

  And every well-turned ankle, dear,
    Is joy to all the earth,
  Except to us good folks who fear
    The smile or dance of mirth.

  But ’twere not well if long you tarried
    Here in my den, you know,
  For I’m a man sedate and married;--
    Pick up your skirts and go.

                            WAITMAN BARBE.



THE GAMBLERS.


The rain splashed in his face, soaked through his garments, ran down
his back and trickled through his wide sleeves in an almost vindictive
manner. But he shambled on indifferently, slowly and heavily,
apparently totally unconscious of physical discomfort. Looking into
that bald face one could not penetrate its placidity, and even the
eyes seemed expressionless. The small, well-shaped hands did not look
as if they were accustomed to manual labor; nevertheless his clothing
consisted of the ordinary blue blouse and pantaloons of a working
Chinaman, and it was a very dilapidated Yankee hat around which he had
wound his queue. The peculiar means by which he prevented the last
mentioned part of his costume from being blown off by the wind and rain
attracted some little attention from the passers-by; but to jocose
remarks and amused smiles he paid no heed.

Ah Lin was proceeding to a gambling resort, and his thoughts were not
with the scenes and faces about him.

When he reached his destination, he slipped a key from out of his
sleeve and admitted himself into a large low room furnished with a long
table, a couch and some wooden chairs. Two men sat on the couch, and
about a dozen were grouped around the table--all Chinamen. There was
but one small window in the place, and the day being dull, the gloom
of the room seemed to be made palpable and visible by the light of two
oil lamps. On the window ledge was a pipe, a small lamp and a tiny
porcelain cup full of jellified opium.

[Illustration]

One of the Chinamen arose, took the pipe, dipped a pin into the
opium, turned it around until a quantity of the sticky drug adhered
to it, then inserted it into the pipe, held the pipe over the flame
of the lamp, and drew two or three long breaths. Here was peace and a
foretaste of oblivion--a vapor was seen to exhale out of his mouth and
nose.

Ah Lin walked up to the smoker, and the two held a short confab.

“Well,” said Ah Lin at length, “I have fifty cents left; with
twenty-five cents I can draw a lot, and with the balance I will see if
I can win half a dollar on a red cord stick.”

“All right,” returned the smoker, “and I’ll do the same; but first let
us worship the tiger.”

In a corner of the room on a small table stood a wooden image of a
tiger with wings grasping an immense cash between its paws.

Ah Lin and Hom Lock lighted some sticks of incense and bowed themselves
before the image--the Chinaman’s gambling god.

Some one of those who were at the head of the centre table called to Ah
Lin, and tried to prevail upon him to stake some money in a game which
was played by means of a round board with a hole in the centre through
which a slender stick was passed and fastened underneath to a larger
board. The top piece of wood was designed to be moved around like a
wheel; it was marked off into many parts upon which cabalistic figures
were painted. Ah Lin had no inclination to spin the wheel, and turned
to another man who sat near holding three sticks in his hand. Those
three sticks were three lots; three ends projected outwards; three ends
were grasped and hidden by the man’s hand, hanging down from which was
a red tassel or string professedly attached to one of the sticks. The
sport consisted in guessing which stick had the red string.

Ah Lin ventured twenty-five cents on one of the lots or sticks, but
lost. The head gambler pocketed the twenty-five cents and Ah Lin moved
silently away. If he had won he would have received his quarter back
with another quarter added.

At the other end of the table was a deep earthen vessel, and around
it were grouped the major part of the men in the room. One man was
tying up small bundles containing sums of money from one cent up to
twenty-five dollars. Each package was marked with a sign word. When his
task was completed, the man cast all the bundles into the vessel, and
in a loud voice announced that all who wished could cast lots and for
twenty-five cents have the chance of making twenty-five dollars.

A number, including Ah Lin, paid twenty-five cents and marked their
names on a list of signs. Then the vessel and its contents were shaken
up. All in turn were then invited to take at hazard from its portentous
belly, the parcel for which they had staked. As he opened his, Ah Lin’s
face turned grey; it contained but one cent.

[Illustration]

“What have you got?” asked Hom Lock, in an excited whisper, leaning
over Ah Lin’s shoulder. “Just one cent, eh? Well, I have the
twenty-five dollars--the Tiger favors me--he’s a great God.”

There was a crash; the lamps were knocked down and extinguished. Ah Lin
had leapt across the table and was dragging the Gambling God around the
room, striking it repeatedly with a stick.

“It’s a great God, isn’t it,” he yelled. “See how it likes to be
insulted. Oh, it’s a big God.”

“It’s a great God,” shouted Hom Lock; there was a knife in his hand; he
pressed close to Ah Lin.

Ah Lin saw the knife, and something slipped from his sleeve and two
knives gleamed--then disappeared.

Some one struck a light. The owner of the place picked up the fallen
God and placed it on the table. It calmly looked down upon two dead men.

                                                           SUI SEEN FAR.



OUR HERITAGE.


  “Retire within thyself, O mortal Man!”
  Was the grand doctrine of the classic age,
  From whence has come the imperishable page
  Of rarest wisdom that the eye may scan.
  The city that Augustus raised--nay, mighty Pan,
  And all the wonders penned by bard and sage
  Have vanished ’neath the unconquerable rage
  Of rival factions since their doom began.
  But we who live and look with rev’rent gaze
  Across the awful space that marks their course,
  May struggle with great odds to gain perforce
  This heritage of mind from sundered days:
  Or, with hearts athirst, mid barren ways,
  Drink of ennobling life from such unfailing source.

                                       B. F. D. DUNN.



ONE FAILURE TO FORGET.


Two others, both men, had nodded silent assent when Wooler made the
declaration, lightly, that the pleasures of memory must surely pall
before the pleasures of forgetting.

And presently, when the ladies had gone into the drawing-room, these
three men found themselves looking one another over with that calm
scrutiny in which one wonders who the deuce the other man is. As a
matter of fact, however, these three, John Wooler, Andrew Insgate and
Tom Farlough, knew one another fairly well. Each was merely trying to
gauge the other’s sincerity.

“She objected, of course,” Wooler went on, as if there had been no
interruption at all, “but then, I expected nothing else. A woman would
always rather remember than forget.” He sipped thoughtfully at his
port. “With us--it is different.”

At the other end of the table a group of portly, elderly gentlemen were
regaling one another with anecdotal alletria.

“Do we really mean it?” asked Wooler, “or do we take the appearance of
the thought for sake of its unorthodoxy?”

“For my part,” said Farlough, fingering his cravat, “I would give much
of my life if I could forget some of it.”

[Illustration]

Insgate held his wine glass to the light and gazed at the rich tint of
red within. “Leopardi was right,” he said, “no man would live his life
over again. But--I would begin anew tomorrow if I could wipe out all
the yesterday.”

The other men had left the head of the table and joined the ladies in
the drawing-room. The butler moved about silently for a few moments and
then left these three alone with their wine, and their thoughts.

Wooler spoke again. “We are all able to, h’m, take a little for
granted. Our reasons scarcely matter much.” The others nodded. “The
only consideration is that we wish to--forget. Why shouldn’t we try, we
three? We are not bound in any way. Neither wives nor debts stare us in
the face. We have both time and money. Why not try?”

“Why not?” repeated Insgate.

“Gentlemen,” said Farlough, smiling, “I would represent the minority
were I to do else than agree with you. Why not?”

“Very well. From now on, then, we attempt forgetting. Each in his own
way. From time to time we report progress or regress.”

“Each in his own way! Are there so many ways to forgetfulness? I can
only think of two: work and drink.”

“Ah, but there is Woman!”

“True, there is Woman. Strictly speaking, I considered her included
in--however, that is but a quibble! Personally, I have no preference. I
will take what you gentlemen leave.” It was Wooler who said this.

“Would _you put us upon our_ consciences? No; let Dame Chance take a
hand in dealing. We write the names--so!--and we each draw--so! Mine is
work.” That was Farlough’s luck.

Insgate’s slip said “Drink.”

“For me,” said Wooler, “the Woman.” He lifted his glass, laughing
quietly. “I wonder who she is. Well, we shall see.”

“Where shall we meet again?”

“And when?”

“A year from today. In the garden of the Belle-Alliance Theatre in
Berlin. Travel is a necessary obligato.”

Somewhat solemnly, though with cheerful gestures, they pledged one
another in a silently emptied glass of port.

And then they sauntered into the drawing-room.

[Illustration]

       *       *       *       *       *

A year later, Farlough strolled into the Belle-Alliance Theatre. He
looked healthier and stronger; the tired look had left his eyes. He
looked over the theatre lovingly. It had not changed much. Never very
gay, but always cosy.

They were presenting Lortzing’s ever delightful “Zar und Zimmerman,”
and, while it was by no means an adequate performance, it was decidedly
a pleasant one.

When the curtain had come down after the first act, Farlough strolled
out into the garden. The place was brilliant with its hundreds of
crystal-clasped lights overhanging the graveled walks. A throng of
Berliners went chattering about. Only a very occasional Englishman or
American came into evidence.

In the small open air theatre a comedian was giving a lively imitation
of Sarah Bernhardt.

But nowhere was there a sign of either of those two gentlemen, John
Wooler and Andrew Insgate.

Farlough turned his steps toward the box office. He made an inquiry.

The official bowed politely. He handed him two letters. He bowed again
and muttered mechanically, “Gehorsamster Diener!” He was from Vienna.

Putting the letters into his pocket after a quick scrutiny of the
writing upon each envelope, Farlough returned to the theatre.

When the last notes had joined the echoes, he had himself driven over
to the _Hotel D’Angleterre_. There he opened the envelopes and read the
two letters.

The one from Insgate was dated at London. “At this moment,” went the
screed, “I am remembering the matter of our meeting in Berlin. This
is due to unexpected and inexplicable sobriety. As I may not remember
again, I write now. You see, I shall not be there myself. I have
managed to forget nearly all things. I began by trying the liquors of
all civilization. They have succeeded in destroying my memory--except
in such brief lapses as this is. And these are very rare now. By the
time my money and my constitution are gone, I am sure my memory will be
gone also. But as I am a sinner in agony, I swear that God in all his
wisdom and wrath never invented so cruel a torment as this that I have
wrought for myself. I pray that you two may not have succeeded so well.”

Farlough looked at the cold ink mutely. He pictured once again the
scene at that dinner a year ago: Insgate’s nervous, aristocratic face;
Wooler’s smiling cynicism.

[Illustration]

He opened the latter’s missive. This man wrote from San Francisco.
“Absent, John Wooler! Because of a woman. You see, I went the gamut of
the sex. But never succeeded in forgetting until this one came into my
life. When I am with her I forget everything else; when I am away from
her, I remember with tenfold distinctness. So I have found heaven, and
live in hell. For she happens to be another man’s wife.”

Farlough tore up the two letters slowly and burned the pieces of paper
one by one at the candle by his side.

“And so,” he thought, looking straight out in front of him, “they have
found the way and I have not. And yet, I have won while they have lost.
For my work is such a pleasure to me that the past has been atoned for
long ago, and none of my memories are tainted by regrets. I am all in
my work, and in it I find the ecstasy of atonement.”

And then this man who had failed to find the way of forgetfulness,
sought out a railway time table to see how soon he could start back to
his workshop.

                                                       PERCIVAL POLLARD.



THE STAGE AND ITS CULTURE.


Undoubtedly one of the greatest influences of the modern world is the
stage, and one of the problems of modern art is to raise the tone of
the stage. This must of course be done through gaining the sympathy
of the acting profession in intellectual dramatic work. The question
arises in my mind, is this possible? What is the average intellectual
calibre of actors and actresses? I have a suspicion that, as a class,
they are imitative, and but too often destitute of real intellectual
interests. There are a few notable exceptions--Henry Irving, Beerbohm
Tree, Jefferson, Edward S. Willard, Mounet-Sully, Richard Mansfield,
James A. Herne and others. But the ordinary actor and actress, even
the successful and talented ones, so far as I could ever discover,
are too completely absorbed in the narrow world of play-acting, press
criticisms, dresses and the jealousies and cliques of the profession,
to have any leisure or inclination for an interest in the larger and
freer intellectual world outside, to which men in all other callings
have access as the refuge from their occupation.

I confess I never _knew_ any actor or actress who was addicted to
reading--except the newspapers for the criticisms. But I have heard
that Francis Wilson is not only a bookman but a bibliomaniac, and I
have longed to ask him whether he included among his spoils the first
editions of _American_ authors. I have a notion that even the despised
bibelots of today will be treasures tomorrow.

It would be interesting to know if some of our leading ladies and
gentlemen in the dramatic profession really spend much of their time in
gaining that intimate acquaintance with life through literature which
would certainly so greatly help their interpretation of character in
the drama. It is almost impossible for us, who have not free access
to the green room, to tell. It is a pity the average writer is so
little in touch and contact with this mimic life that gives him so
much instruction in his art and observation of life. But from the
quality of the literature provided in our contemporary “Footlights,”
of Philadelphia, it begins to look as if the theatrical profession is
sharing with every other class in modern society in the increasing
interest in printer’s ink. “Footlights” is, however, interesting to
all who love the theatre, as well as to the profession, and it is not
altogether restricted to the affairs and doings of the footlights. It
contains especially good criticism of current literature, written in a
vein of independence and vigor, which is another sign that, with the
recruiting of the younger men in journalism and literature, criticism
will again assume its proper importance and character in America.

                                                          JONATHAN PENN.



ICONOCLASM.


I.

  “When Shakespeare died the Drama died.”
      This cry
  Has echoed down the ages as a truth
  None would gainsay, until, today, forsooth,
  Like weaklings we all fear to make reply,
  But suckle at Tradition’s milkless breast.
  O ART! your name to mingle with the dust
  Of dead men’s bones, and scarred with sordid rust
  Of years, and in a catacomb to rest!
  O YOUTH! throw off the shackles of the Past,
  It is the Present that is yours alone;
  The excellence you seek can never last
  If linked to models that today’s outgrown.


II.

  How long shall we perpetuate untruth
  And teach that Art does not exist today?
  That only idols crumbling with decay
  Are meet as shrines for eager, suppliant youth?
  How long shall we bow down to foreign gods
  And worship them with lips, but not with heart?
  We are ashamed to recognize our art,
  We sneer and call our native writers clods.
  But from the prairies of the grander West--
  Free from the ancient gyves that bind and gall--
  Are men and women rising to the call,
  Intent on only what is new and best.
  The East is dead and buried in the Past,
  The West alone can do what work will last!

                                JOHN NORTHERN HILLIARD.



BUBBLE AND SQUEAK.


There are lots of things I should like to say in this place about some
of my esteemed contemporaries, but, though not by any means diffident
in the expression of my critical opinions, I daren’t unburden my
deepest thoughts about the performances of some villains I have in
mind. It is not that all the things I _think_ are not strictly within
the bounds of severe veracity, but truth is so unpopular in this
world,--and especially in the literary world.


Ex-President Harrison has given damning evidence against himself.
He has publicly declared himself an utterly impossible person for
re-nomination by writing platitudes to the order of “The Ladies Home
Journal” genius. We can enjoy a president who goes off “at half-cock”
on some questions, and we can respect one who goes fishing while the
whole country is anxious about a great national policy, but a president
who writes for “The Ladies Home Journal” is beyond our sense of humor
or pathos. That is the unforgivable sin--to make one’s self supremely
ridiculous.


Alfred Austin, the new poet laureate, is reported to be sitting up
night after night, reading his predecessor in the office, carefully,
critically straining and comparing the text with his own. He is
striving to discover in what this “doosid” difference consists.

It really does strike a person of some sense of humor, and some
tenderness for all human creatures, that at this moment the late Earl
of Dunraven and the newly appointed poet laureate are the two most
pathetic figures in the English-speaking world.


A notable departure in good bookmaking is Percival Pollard’s “Cape of
Storms,” a novel in paper covers, with a cover design in colors by
Will H. Bradley, and a title page by John Sloan, which is printed in
a limited edition and sold at a popular price. This is a new thing in
America. Perhaps, however, we are going to adopt the French fashion
of paper covered literature. It will give all our authors a wider
circulation. Pollard’s story is good, racy reading, which means clever
writing.


What modern love has lost in sentimentality and romance it has gained
in companionship, depth of feeling and intimacy. The latest phase of
courtship is this: When a young man is in love he no longer sends his
heart’s delight a silly sentimental poem, he sends her a symbolical
Poster. Posters hold some hint of the vagaries and fantasies of the
human heart, as sentimental poetry does not.

The triumph of modern love is that both sexes are now allowed to be
_human_, and so the old disparity between carnal humanity and cold
and frigid divinity, has been abridged. The Poster has helped in the
promotion of art feeling in the community. It is also an educational
factor in the problem of establishing an equality of common sense
between the sexes, that shall not destroy the witchery of woman and the
eternal attraction of the sexes.


A lady journalist, who has a decided taste for the belle-lettres, and
considerable faculty of her own in the art of making life picturesque,
has just apprised me of a very novel scheme of hers in the way of book
making.

She once had, as is the custom of so many ladies, an ordinary and
inoffensive autograph album. Asking a certain Impressionistic poet for
his autograph one day, she received her book back with a few lines,
in which the poet thanked Heaven he had had a birthday, so that he
had looked upon her beauty and _lived_, in the deeper sense than mere
living. This date disappeared from the album.

But the incident gave my quick-witted young lady an idea. She bought
a dainty book of manuscript leaves bound in Russia leather. It is now
worth its price in gold, for she has, by flattery and cajolery, and the
fine art of being beautiful, got it filled with sketches from the pens
of some of the leading authors of the day. And the character of the
volume is more unique since the theme of all these fine wits is the
same. The sketches are all prose pastels, inspired by the young lady’s
own personality.


After reading Ian Maclaren’s “Beside the Bonnie Briar Bush,” I feel
like following the precedent of the illustrious Horace Greeley and
giving some advice to ambitious wayfarers. The Drumtochty folk are
so uniformly generous, self sacrificing, unselfish, humane and
philanthropic, that I should advise all young men of unsettled
prospects not to turn their gaze westward, but to cross the seas and
settle in Drumtochty. Intellectual enterprises of the most ambitious
and revolutionary character, I observe, are practically encouraged
and prosper there as in no other place on earth that I ever heard of.
Are you a young and poor boy consumed with a desire to fit yourself
for a scholar’s life and easy fortunes? Then start for Drumtochty
without further ado. The blameless farmer folk there have only to be
approached by the Dominie and they will immediately start you in life
and pay all your expenses to a professorial chair. Are you literary?
There never was such another community with the same keen scent for
true imagination and poetry. Oh, it is an ideal hamlet, truly, for the
intellectuals! There are more philanthropists huddled together there in
one small parish than in the rest of Great Britain and the whole United
States. I think even the FLY LEAF would bring in great returns in such
a community.


An old lady in a hill-top town in New Hampshire has written to her
local newspaper warning the youth against my corrupting influence
and machinations--and so I am evidently in imminent nearness to the
popularity that attends all corrupters of morals.

This good lady does not charge me with any actual breaches of morality,
but she detects an irreverence in my temperament and mind that might
lead me to the commission of all the crimes that moral folk find so
much joy in contemplating. There is, she avers, a flippancy in my
view of some established things that might lead to any perversion of
youth. She is sure I am immoral and should be suppressed, although she
can discover no more heinous offence in me than a certain callousness
in regard to the feelings of witless respectables and old fogies.
She objects to the use of that term of opprobrium, and considers it
_indecent_.

If it could only be proved so--why, hooray! If this rumor of our
immorality can only be carried far and wide enough, it is clear our
fortunes are made. This is the secret of success in contemporary
literature. All the novelists of the day are worrying out this problem:
How to present some new phase of morality that shall contain the
broadest suggestions of immorality.



THE LONDON ACADEMY


  The Leading Critical Literary Journal of London, in a long review of
  “MEDITATIONS IN MOTLEY,” by WALTER BLACKBURN HARTE, says, among other
  things:

“When any book of good criticism comes it should be welcomed and made
known for the benefit of the persons who care for such works. The book
under notice is one of these. It is, so far as I know, the first from
the author’s pen; but his writings are well known, and those who read
his present book will, with some eagerness, await its successor. For it
is a book in which wit and bright, if often satirical, humor are made
the vehicle for no flimsy affectations, but for genuine thought. Mr.
Ruskin has affirmed that the virtue of originality is not newness, but
genuineness.

“In this true sense Mr. Harte’s book is original. Here is his own
thought on several topics, pleasantly displayed, and no mere echo or
second-hand production of the ideas of others. If Mr. Harte continues
to act up to this sentiment, [a long quotation from the book under
consideration] as he does in the present book, he may not achieve the
triumph of twentieth editions, but he will be a power for good--as
every true man of letters is, and must be in the world. If it were
practicable I should be much disposed to let the author recommend
himself by giving copious quotations from these essays. At his
best--that is, in his most characteristic and seemingly unconscious
passages--he reminds one of Montaigne: the charming inconsequence, the
egotism free from arrogance.”

PRICE IN HANDSOME CLOTH, $1.25.

_For sale by all Booksellers, or sent Postpaid on receipt of Price by
the Publishers_,

The Arena Publishing Co.,

Copley Square, Boston, Mass.



Economists and Politicians


Talk and write of the waste of society and the waste of health and the
waste of luxury and poverty. But they never remark upon the equally
disastrous and wanton

WASTE OF WIT

Which has for so long been the result of old-fogyism and timorous
commercialism in periodical Literature. If Statistics could be compiled
of the fine wits and humorists and writers of individual talents and
power whose brains and productions are spoiled or altogether suppressed
under the old regime of the Popular Literature for the weak minded they
would be appalling. There is a ruthless waste of good wit in America,
in behalf of good dullness.

THE FLY LEAF aims to stem this tide of wasted wit. There are ever so
many clever writers in America, though they are seldom heard of. These
Younger Spirits are the backbone of THE FLY LEAF, which will present
the Best and most Individual Literature of the Day--as much as can be
squeezed into a Bibelot.

It is not quantity but quality we seek to provide. THE FLY LEAF
interests all cultivated independent minds, which can recognize “a good
thing” at sight. It appeals to Thoughtful and Bookish People, and it
will never pander to the Mob that buys its Literature by weight.

Every issue is the most amusing and Unexpected little Bundle of
Surprises. It is the only Periodical in America that has Wit to waste.
Others have more Cash but no Wit.

THE FLY LEAF,

269 St. Botolph Street, Boston, Mass.



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Fly Leaf, No. 3, Vol. 1, February 1896" ***

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