Who Wrote That?: Little-Known, Overlooked or Ignored Writings of Literary Greats

Copyright © 2020 by John Bowman.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2019920752

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-7960-7664-6

                Softcover        978-1-7960-7663-9

                eBook             978-1-7960-7662-2

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Rev. date: 01/08/2020

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Our Confidential Vacation Guide And Condensing The Classics

On Capital Punishment

The American Invasion

The Paradise Of Bachelors

Edgar Allan Poe

The Man That Was Used Up

Remarks Concerning The Savages Of North America

The Unpara’lleled Invasion

Why?

Review Of The Letters Of Ulysses Grant, Walt Whitman, And Richard Harding Davis

A Tradition Of Eighteen Hundred And Four

The Story Of An Hour

Woman

Killing His Bear

The Man Who Kept His Money In A Box

Social Usages And Scandals

Carnival Time In Italy

Swept And Garnished

The Stupendous Procession

English And French Character

Earth’s Holocaust

Poetry Today In America: Shakespere—The Future

Sweethearts

Selected Fables

On The Poor Man’s Contentment

Nature Inc.

The Flying Spider

Ruminations

Mr. Andrews

The History Of England From The Reign Of Henry The 4 th To The Death Of Charles The 1 st

Books For Holidays In The Open

Aristocracy And Literature

Cultivated Motor Automatism

Voyage Outwards

Afterwords/Authors Identifications

Sources And For Further Reading

INTRODUCTION

This anthology is based on three premises: (1) that there are still countless people out there who enjoy an old-fashioned good read; (2) that there are lots of fascinating texts by well- known writers that have slipped into oblivion–effectively become lost; and (3) if (1) and (2) are brought together in a sort of intellectual challenge format, the result should be a most enjoyable book.

If you are reading this Introduction, you’re probably one who thinks as I do: Not that we’ve read everything written by the traditional canon of writers (in this instance, limited to American and British)–far from it–but that we think we are at least (dimly) aware of everything these authors wrote that is worth reading, We may not have ever found the time to read Stephan Crane’s The Open Boat or Samuel Johnson’s Rasselas or Hemingway’s Nick Adams stories or Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Grey, but we know of them, we know of their reputations, we believe we would recognize their authors if set before us. We know our writers, we have heard of all their worthwhile writings, we recognize their voices.

This anthology both challenges that premise and satisfies not only all such knowing readers but also those who are a bit more modest about their knowledge. It is a selection of (for the most part, complete shorter) works by well-known, familiar, admired authors (again, limited to American and British—no translations), works that have effectively been lost in the sense of overlooked, ignored, forgotten, un-anthologized. As it is aimed at the legendary general reader–and by the converse, not at academic specialists–most of the selections will unashamedly be full of old fashioned elements such as plot, character, atmosphere, suspense, twists, or–in the case of non-fiction, explicit information, opinions, judgements. But whatever the intrinsic qualities and pleasures of these works, they are intended to reward the reader, to make them feel over and over again, Who would have thought that so-and-so wrote that!

To be clear. I’m not claiming that by promoting these works I am positioning them as unappre-ciated masterpieces: I’m simply saying they can provide pleasure, stimulation, insights. Likewise, I am not claiming that these long-forgotten works—which, as stated, are intended to differ from the works generally associated with these writers– should force some reappraisal of these writers. No. Again, I am asking only that the reader appreciate that these writers were capable of writing these unexpected works.

Apropos this last point, I hope that one effect of this book will be to inspire some readers to look into more of the lesser known works of these writers. This may be one of the unintended consequences of my anthology: for some years now, typical non- academic readers have been made to feel that they can’t understand their favorite canon writers unless they have taken courses in structuralism, deconstruction- ism, semiology and other Continental philosophies. My selections should show that you can still read serious authors and enjoy and understand them–even works looked down upon by Yale professors!

Yet although in general, I have selected works probably not favored by modern critics and scholars, this is not what has governed the selection process. Rather, I shall be happy to recognize that, in at least a few instances, I have ended up with selections that those very specialists have in fact rescued from oblivion in recent years– works that the rest of us have never been aware of. So I insist: I am not out to fight these academics. In these occasional instances, we join them, and with thanks for having found these otherwise obscure and forgotten and lost works.

Beyond the sheer pleasure that I hope readers take from the individual works– the inherent qualities of the selection, independent of any named writer—the book is set up to provide a challenge: each work is preceded with a Foreword with no identification of the author, although usually with some comments or hints that might be at least potentially limit the choice. Also. I have left British spellings and punctuation that will easily limit the choices.

Readers are then invited to try to guess who wrote it, testing their sense of writers they think they know. For in most instances I have deliberately sought out texts that go against the grain of the writer. Thus, a writer best known for fiction might be represented by a non-fiction piece. Vice versa. Writers known for being very serious might have a humorous piece; and vice versa. This practice is not enforced to the absolute limit, but in general, I have looked for the offbeat.

By the way—what with Google and other search sites, it would probably be possible to identify the authors by searching with little more than the titles. But like cheating at solitaire, that is ruled out as it would take all the fun out of the game. Anyway, the author is identified at the end of this volume so there’s no need for googling!

For one of the pleasures of this anthology should be the surprise element, when the reader turns to the later identification and discovers who did write it–and in many instances learns of some unusual circumstances surrounding the work. Perhaps the word that best describes the element I am looking for is the unexpected–in type (fiction vs. non-fiction), genre, subject matter, style, tone, opinions, moral, etc. That said, this is not one of those collections of bad writings (or otherwise have anything to do with these annual Bulwer-Lytton or Hemingway parody competitions); but yes, here and there, I may have selected something that runs so counter to the author’s usual high standards that there may be a chuckle or two

One other important point. There may be a misleading impression that all readers are expected to know most if not all the writers whose works are here. Not so. But I do believe that the book’s appeal is by no means limited to an elite circle of readers. Even those who have no background in literary history should enjoy this book. After readers have read the forewords to each selection, they can at least enjoy the game of trying to decide whether the author is British or American, male or female, and 20th, 19th, or 18th century. And once they have gone that far, they may be surprised at how well they can do in assigning the selection to the correct author.

One other pleasure that all readers should get from this anthology: seeing how writers in past times confronted many of the same human situations and struggled with many of the same issues that we–and our contemporary writers–are still concerned with. Capital punishment, racial prejudice, maintaining a marriage, social snobbery—they’re all here, and much more. For all cracks about academic specialists aside, I think that each of these works will have some element that appeals to a modern reader. Not necessarily modernists or post-modernists. But it is almost inherent in everything I say about my selection criteria that these works continue to have something about them that appeals to readers at the start of a new millennium. This is not an anthology for antiquarians. So yes, there will be irony, there will be playfulness, there will be the self-referential, and there will be ambiguity.

There are, then, a few ground rules. As stated, only American and British authors are included. No text here dates from earlier than c 1720 so that no specialized knowledge of English vocabulary or syntax is required. And—with one notable exception, to be explained at that location– no text later than 1923, due to copyright issues. In the case of really obscure terms or allusions that might hinder a reader from understanding a text, I provide explanations in the forewords. Works may be fiction or non-fiction–essays, short stories, character sketches, book reviews, etc.–but no poetry and no plays. There are no excerpts from longer works of fiction— that is, from novels; with a few exceptions, no excerpts from longer non-fiction; also in this last genre, on very rare occasions I have eliminated some text (clearly indicated) that seems extraneous and does not either help or hinder identification.

For the most part, the texts included do not show up in other anthologies—or at least not in the more popular anthologies. However, to the extent that these works are going to have been published in some kind of an edition, they have not been scrounged from primary sources of totally undiscovered works, lost works in the literal sense. (With one exception, all works published before 1923-to avoid costly permission fees that would drive up the price of this book.)

As mentioned, each selection will be preceded by a very brief introduction designed as a sort of teaser. It provides any information necessary to comprehend the story and possibly a few hints or clues. Then in the back of the volume—printed on the reverse side of pages so that the reader cannot stumble on it—each excerpt gets its own afterword, where the author is identified; this brief paragraph will locate the work in the career of the author and discuss any relevant details and trivia surrounding it. You are directed to this afterword by the page at the end of the selection itself.

And now, let the reading begin!

OUR CONFIDENTIAL VACATION GUIDE AND CONDENSING THE CLASSICS

Arguably this may be the most difficult to assign selection in this whole anthology. Indeed, probably impossible for all except scholars and true aficionados of this author’s work. For there is no reason for anyone to expect this author to have composed such pieces and few grounds within the pieces to suggest the author. True, after the fact, we may be able to point out a few clues, anticipations, but they are so subtle that it will be the rare reader who will recognize them here. The only hint we might give is to remind you that, as all selections are in the public domain, nothing here was published after 1923, so this is admittedly one of this author’s early efforts. All we can say, then, is enjoy this first selection and take a wild guess!

Our Confidential Vacation Guide

Any steady reader of obituaries is familiar with the phrase He had not taken a vacation in twenty years. Of course there is no ironbound rule about the period. It may be that the dead man had not taken a vacation in ten years, in thirty years, during all the time he was mayor, or during his entire lifetime. It all points toward the same false moral. It seems obvious that if the poor chap had only accepted the vacation his employers kept forcing on him, he might be alive today.

This is very wrong. The trouble is that newspapers do not make a practice of printing as a cause of death this statement: He spent every summer at Lake Milkitossup, or, The deceased was in the habit of spending the month of August at Lake Wah.

A few statements like these would clear up matters. Newspaper readers would then realize that the reason the first man lived twenty years was because he had carefully preserved his health through abstaining from vacations. The reason that the other splendid fellows had dropped like ripened grapefruit at the end of their thirty years, mayoralty terms or lifetimes was the fact that they had never visited such places as Lake Screaming Water or picturesque Bum View. Just a few seasons at Giggling Perch Inn or the New Nokomis, American plan, would have cut them off like flies in the pride of their young manhood.

If you must take a vacation, read this confidential guide on places to avoid. It has been compiled at great labor and is available here for the first time. It means a longer life and happier to stay away from the following:

POACHDALE INN, ONTARIO

How to reach Poachdale Inn—this is not important.

How to get away from Poachdale Inn—Bounce in a hurdling Ford through five miles of mud. Wait at the railway until the train comes. There is no train on Sunday. Try not to be hysterical when the train comes in sight.

BEAUTIFUL LAKE FLYBLOW

Beautiful Lake Flyblow nestles like a plague spot in the heart of the great north woods. All around it rise the majestic hills. Above it towers the majestic sky. On every side of it is the majestic shore. The shore is lined with majestic dead fish—dead of loneliness.

SMILING LAKE WAH WAH

Smiling Lake Wah Wah is always smiling. It is smiling at the people who stalk along its shores, grim and unsmiling. Smiling Wah Wah knows that the people are from Giggling Perch Inn. Wah Wah sees that the people are undernourished. She sees their gaunt faces and the feverish eager light in their eyes as they wave off the clouds of mosquitoes. Smiling Wah Wah knows what is in their minds as they walk along her shores. They are waiting for the two weeks to end.

BEAUTIFUL BOZO BEACH

Beautiful Bozo Beach nestles next to the largest inland body of fresh water on the American continent. Arm yourself with a boat hook and Bozo Beach is an ideal place for the little ones. They can play in the sands of Beautiful Bozo Beach to their little hearts’ content. After their little hearts are contented they will rub the sand in their eyes and chase one another screaming into the largest inland body of fresh water on the American continent. You can usually bring the little ones back from the largest inland body of fresh water with the boat hooks.

PICTURESQUE BUM VIEW

Bum View is one of the quieter resorts in the States on Lake Erie, where you go for a good solid rest. That’s the big thing about Bum View, the solid comfort and the quiet. It is run by S. A. Jarvis. Every morning at 3 a.m. the Jarvis’s rooster announces that it will soon be daylight. All the other roosters give him their endorsement. Then the Jarvis’s rooster announces that it is daylight. Thousands of other roosters bear him out. There is a great clattering in the kitchen as the hired help start the day. The pump squeaks as Jim, the hired man, pumps the water. The Putnam twins are up early and their childish voices rise above the sound of the phonograph they start playing. By this time the sun is shining so hotly on the wall of your room that it is becoming as hot as a bake oven. The rosin begins to melt in the knots in the hemlock boarding of the room walls. You had no sleep the first part of the night—mosquitoes. Your head begins to ache with the heat. You dress and come downstairs to breakfast. There is a pale green hard slice of melon on the plate. The eggs are brought in, fried to a cold rubber consistency. There are white spots in the bacon. The toast is cold and rancid. The beautiful day is before you.

It is too hot at Bum View to do anything except read. The heat beats down and forces every one into the shade of the porch. That is all the shade there is. Facilities have been provided for reading. There are: a hammock—a large weak hammock which someone is occupying—and several uncomfortable chairs. A library of books including Hall Caine and Marie Corelli, an illustrated history of the Japanese-Russian War, the Canadian Almanac for 1919, a small red set of volumes of the world’s best short stories arranged according to nationality and an illustrated book on the wild flowers of Palestine.

It is too hot in the house. It is too hot anywhere but on the porch. In the afternoon it is too hot on the porch. When it is too hot on the porch the guest goes to the back of the house where a shadow is beginning to start and lies down on the grass. In a short time he is asleep. Thousands of weird-shaped insects climb carefully down from the grass stems and up on the sleeper. He sleeps on. More insects abandon the grass stems to come and climb on him. He still sleeps. He will sleep all afternoon—then he will lie awake all night. Then the Jarvis’s rooster will crow again and it will be another day. He has thirteen more to go till he gets back to his office.

Will he last it? Or will the vacation kill him?

*********************************

Condensing the Classics

They have nearly finished with their job of condensing the classics. They are a little group of earnest condensers, said to be endowed by Andrew Carnegie, who have been laboring for the last five years at reducing the literature of the world into palatable morsels for the tired businessman’s consumption.

Les Miserables has been cut to ten pages. Don Quixote is said to run to about a column and a half. Shakespeare’s plays would be cut to eight hundred words each. The Iliad and the Odyssey might reduce to about a stick and a half apiece.

It is a splendid thing to bring the classics within range of the tired or retired businessman, even though it casts a stigma on the attempt of the colleges and universities to bring the businessman within range of the classics. But there is a quicker way to present the matter to those who must run while reading: reduce all literature to newspaper headlines, with a short news dispatch following, to give the gist of the matter.

Take Don Quixote for example:

CRAZED KNIGHT IN WEIRD TILT

Madrid, Spain (By Classic News Service) (Special). War hysteria is blamed for the queer actions of Don Quixote, a local knight who was arrested early yesterday morning when engaged in the act of tilting with a windmill. Quixote could give no explanation of his actions.

William Blake would reduce well.

BIG CAT IN FLAMES

Heat-maddened brute terrorizes jungle

Rajputana, India, June 15 (By Classic News Service) (Special). William Blake, widely known English poet, arrived here today in a state of nervous collapse after a series of nerve-racking adventures in the Rajputana jungle. Blake was lost without food or clothing for eleven days.

Blake, still delirious, cries, Tiger, tiger, burning bright in the forest of the night.

Local hunters have gone out in search of the beast. The forest of the night is believed to refer to the Nite River, a stream near Rajputana.

Then there is Coleridge:

ALBATROSS-SLAYER FLAYS PROHIBITION

Ancient Mariner in bitter assault

on bone-dry enforcement

Cardiff, Wales, June 21 (By Classic News Service) (Delayed). Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink is the way John J. (Ancient) Mariner characterized the present Prohibition regime in an address before the United Preparatory Schools here yesterday. Mariner was mobbed at the end of his address by a committee from the Ornithological Aid Society.

Operas are much too long—there’s Pagliacci—it doesn’t even merit a large headline.

RIOT IN SICILY, 2 DEAD, 12 WOUNDED

Palermo, Sicily, June 25 (By Classic News Service). Two are dead and half a score wounded as the result of a brawl started in the local opera house here last night. Giuseppe Canio, a ringleader of the rioters, committed suicide.

Shakespeare was obviously verbose and his plots are too sensational. Here’s the gist of Othello:

SLAYS HIS WHITE BRIDE

Society girl, wed to African war hero,

found strangled in bed

Hoboken, New Jersey, November 13 (By Classic News Service). Jealousy, fanned into fury by primitive jungle rage, is believed by the police to have caused the death of Mrs. Desdemona Othello of 2345 Ogden Avenue.

It was just a little over two years ago that Captain Frank Othello stepped off the transport at Hoboken. On his breast glittered the decorations bestowed by an admiring sovereign. His dark face gleamed with pleasure as he saw the lithe figure.

There would be more—much more—perhaps. Shakespeare wasn’t so verbose after all. The Othello case would fill almost as much space in the newspapers as the Stillman case. Special articles, psychoanalysts’ reports, discussions of intermarriage by women feature writers would flood the papers. Perhaps Shakespeare is pretty well condensed as he is.

For Author’s Identification,

ON CAPITAL PUNISHMENT

Here’s another of those writers whose voice is so distinctive–and consistent–that it’s virtually impossible to find a selection that does not cry out its author’s name. More of a hint than that will not be offered, except to say that most readers may be surprised to find this writer weighing in on the side of the progressives. And if you find it a bit heavy going at first, simply slow down your regular reading speed and give it the attention it deserves.

Power and superiority are so flattering and delightful that, fraught with temptation and exposed to danger as they are, scarcely any virtue is so cautious, or any prudence so timorous, as to decline them. Even those that have most reverence for the laws of right are pleased with showing that not fear, but choice, regulates their behavior; and would be thought to comply, rather than obey. We love to overlook the boundaries which we do not wish to pass; and, as the Roman satirist remarks, he that has no design to take the life of another is yet glad to have it in his hands.

From the same principle, tending yet more to degeneracy and corruption, proceeds the desire of investing lawful authority with terror, and governing by force rather than persuasion. Pride is unwilling to believe the necessity of assigning any other reason than her own will; and would rather maintain the most equitable claims by violence and penalties, than descend from the dignity of command to dispute and expostulation.

It may, I think, be suspected that this political arrogance has sometimes found its way into legislative assemblies, and mingled with deliberations upon property and life. A slight perusal of the laws by which the measures of vindictive and coercive justice are established will discover so many disproportions between crimes and punishments, such capricious distinctions of guilt, and such confusion of remissness and severity, as can scarcely be believed to have been produced by public wisdom sincerely and calmly studious of public happiness.

The learned, the judicious, the pious Boerhaave relates that he never saw a criminal dragged to execution without asking himself, Who knows whether this man is not less culpable than me? On the days when the prisons of this city are emptied into the grave, let every spectator of the dreadful procession put the same question to his own heart. Few among those that crowd in thousands to the legal massacre, and look with carelessness, perhaps with triumph, on the utmost exacerbations of human misery, would then be able to return without horror and dejection. For who can congratulate himself upon a life passed without some act more mischievous to the peace or prosperity of others than the theft of a piece of money?

It has been always the practice, when any particular species of robbery becomes prevalent and common, to endeavor its suppression by capital denunciations. Thus, one generation of malefactors is commonly cut off, and their successors are frighted into new expedients; the art of thievery is augmented with greater variety of fraud, and subtilized to higher degrees of dexterity, and more occult methods of conveyance. The law then renews the pursuit in the heat of anger, and overtakes the offender again with death. By this practice, capital inflictions are multiplied, and crimes very different in their degrees of enormity are equally subjected to the severest punishment that man has the power of exercising upon man.

The lawgiver is undoubtedly allowed to estimate the malignity of an offence, not merely by the loss or pain which single acts may produce, but by the general alarm and anxiety arising from the fear of mischief, and insecurity of possession: he therefore exercises the right which societies are supposed to have over the lives of those that compose them, not simply to punish a transgression, but to maintain order, and preserve quiet; he enforces those laws with severity that are most in danger of violation, as the commander of a garrison doubles the guard on that side which is threatened by the enemy.

This method has been long tried, but tried with so little success that rapine and violence are hourly increasing; yet few seem willing to despair of its efficacy, and of those who employ their speculations upon the present corruption of the people, some propose the introduction of more horrid, lingering and terrific punishments; some are inclined to accelerate the executions; some to discourage pardons; and all seem to think that lenity has given confidence to wickedness, and that we can only be rescued from the talons of robbery by inflexible rigor, and sanguinary justice. Yet since the right of setting an uncertain and arbitrary value upon life has been disputed, and since experience of past times gives us little reason to hope that any reformation will be effected by a periodical can be justly doomed to the same punishment; nor is the necessity of submitting the conscience to human laws so plainly evinced, so clearly stated, or so generally allowed, but that the pious, the tender, and the just will always scruple to concur with the community in an act which their private judgment cannot approve.

He who knows not how often rigorous laws produce total impunity, and how many crimes are concealed and forgotten for fear of hurrying the offender to that state in which there is no repentance, has conversed very little with mankind. And whatever epithets of reproach or contempt this compassion may incur from those who confound cruelty with firmness, I know not whether any wise man would wish it less powerful, or less extensive.

If those whom the wisdom of our laws has condemned to die had been detected in their rudiments of robbery, they might by proper discipline and useful labor have been disentangled from their habits, they might have escaped all the temptations to subsequent crimes, and passed their days in reparation and penitence; and detected they might all have been, had the prosecutors been certain that their lives would have been spared. I believe every thief will confess that he has been more than once seized and dismissed; and that he has sometimes ventured upon capital crimes because he knew that those whom he injured would rather connive at his escape than cloud their minds with the horrors of his death.

All laws against wickedness are ineffectual unless some will inform, and some will prosecute; but till we mitigate the penalties for mere violations of property, information will always be hated, and prosecution dreaded. The heart of a good man cannot but recoil at the thought of punishing a slight injury with death; especially when he remembers that the thief might have procured safety by another crime, from which he was restrained only by his remaining virtue.

The obligations to assist the exercise of public justice are indeed strong; but they will certainly be overpowered by tenderness for life. What is punished with severity contrary to our ideas of adequate retribution will be seldom discovered; and multitudes will be suffered to advance from crime to crime till they deserve death, because if they had been sooner prosecuted, they would have suffered death before they deserved it.

This scheme of invigorating the laws by relaxation, and extirpating wickedness by lenity, is so remote from common practice that I might reasonably fear to expose it to the public, could it be supported only by my own observations: I shall, therefore, by ascribing it to its author, Sir Thomas More, endeavor to procure it that attention which I wish always paid to prudence, to justice, and to mercy.

For Author’s Identification,

THE AMERICAN INVASION

What needs to be said about a piece like this? Clearly it dates from a certain period and one’s enjoyment is only enhanced by knowing that this is the late 19th century. The Mrs. Brown-Potter at the outset is an actual American actress who was beginning her career in the London theater at this time: Cora Urquhart Brown-Potter created a sensation by leaving her husband and daughter to take to the stage. The author’s voice is so clearly exposed in certain phrasings that many should be able to assign it. In any case, be prepared for a light laugh.

A terrible danger is hanging over the Americans in London. Their future and their reputation this season depend entirely on the success of Buffalo Bill and Mrs. Brown-Potter. The former is certain to draw; for English people are far more interested in American barbarism than they are in American civilization. When they sight Sandy Hook they look to their rifles and ammunition; and, after dining once at Delmonico’s, start off for Colorado or California, for Montana or the Yellow Stone Park. Rocky Mountains charm them more than riotous millionaires; they have been known to prefer buffaloes to Boston. Why should they not? The cities of America are inexpressibly tedious. The Bostonians take their learning too sadly; culture with them is an accomplishment rather than an atmosphere; their Hub, as they call it, is the paradise of prigs. Chicago is a sort of monster-shop, full of bustle and bores. Political life at Washington is like political life in a suburban vestry. Baltimore is amusing for a week, but Philadelphia is dreadfully provincial; and though one can dine in New York one could not dwell there. Better the Far West with its grizzly bears and its untamed cowboys, its free open-air life and its free open- air manners, its boundless prairie and its boundless mendacity! This is what Buffalo Bill is going to bring to London; and we have no doubt that London will fully appreciate his show.

With regard to Mrs. Brown-Potter, as acting is no longer considered absolutely essential for success on the English stage, there is really no reason why the pretty bright-eyed lady who charmed us all last June by her merry laugh and her nonchalant ways, should not—to borrow an expression from her native language—make a big boom and paint the town red. We sincerely hope she will; for, on the whole, the American invasion has done English society a great deal of good. The American women are bright, clever, and wonderfully cosmopolitan. Their patriotic feelings are limited to an admiration for Niagara and a regret for the Elevated Railway; and, unlike the men, they never bore us with Bunker Hill. They take their dresses from Paris and their manners from Piccadilly, and wear both charmingly. They have a quaint pertness, a delightful conceit, a native self-assertion. They insist on being paid compliments and have almost succeeded in making Englishmen eloquent. For our aristocracy they have an ardent admiration; they adore titles and are a permanent blow to republican principles. In the art of amusing men, they are adepts, both by nature and education, and can actually tell a story without forgetting the point— an accomplishment that is extremely rare among the women of other countries. It is true that they lack repose and that their voices are somewhat harsh and strident when they land first at Liverpool; but after a time one gets to love these pretty whirlwinds in petticoats that sweep so recklessly through society and are so agitating to all duchesses who have daughters. There is something fascinating in their funny, exaggerated gestures and their petulant way of tossing the head. Their eyes have no magic nor mystery in them, but they challenge us for combat; and when we engage we are always worsted. Their lips seem made for laughter and yet they never grimace. As for their voices, they soon get them into tune. Some of them have been known to acquire a fashionable drawl in two seasons; and after they have been presented to Royalty they all roll their R’s as vigorously as a young equerry or an old lady-in-waiting. Still, they never really lose their accent; it keeps peeping out here and there, and when they chatter together they are like a bevy of peacocks. Nothing is more amusing than to watch two American girls greeting each other in a drawing-room or in the Row. They are like children with their shrill staccato cries of wonder, their odd little exclamations. Their conversation sounds like a series of exploding firecrackers; they are exquisitely incoherent and use a sort of primitive, emotional language. After five minutes they are left beautifully breathless and look at each other half in amusement and half in affection. If a stolid young Englishman is fortunate enough to be introduced to them he is amazed at their extraordinary vivacity, their electric quickness of repartee, their inexhaustible store of curious catchwords. He never really understands them, for their thoughts flutter about with the sweet irresponsibility of butterflies; but he is pleased and amused and feels as if he were in an aviary. On the whole, American girls have a wonderful charm and perhaps the chief secret of their charm is that they never talk seriously except about amusements. They have, however, one grave fault— their mothers. Dreary as were those old Pilgrim Fathers who left our shores more than two centuries ago to found a New England beyond seas, the Pilgrim Mothers who have returned to us in the nineteenth century are drearier still.

Here and there, of course, there are exceptions, but as a class they are either dull, dowdy or dyspeptic. It is only fair to the rising generation of America to state that they are not to blame for this. Indeed, they spare no pains at all to bring up their parents properly and to give them a suitable, if somewhat late, education. From its earliest years every American child spends most of its time in correcting the faults of its father and mother; and no one who has had the opportunity of watching an American family on the deck of an Atlantic steamer, or in the refined seclusion of a New York boarding-house, can fail to have been struck by this characteristic of their civilization. In America the young are always ready to give to those who are older than themselves the full benefits of their inexperience. A boy of only eleven or twelve years of age will firmly but kindly point out to his father his defects of manner or temper; will never weary of warning him against extravagance, idleness, late hours, unpunctuality, and the other temptations to which the aged are so particularly exposed; and sometimes, should he fancy that he is monopolizing too much of the conversation at dinner, will remind him, across the table, of the new child’s adage, Parents should be seen, not heard. Nor does any mistaken idea of kindness prevent the little American girl from censuring her mother whenever it is necessary. Often, indeed, feeling that a rebuke conveyed in the presence of others is more truly efficacious than one merely whispered in the quiet of the nursery, she will call the attention of perfect strangers to her mother’s general untidiness, her want of intellectual Boston conversation, immoderate love of iced water and green corn, stinginess in the matter of candy, ignorance of the usages of the best Baltimore society, bodily ailments and the like. In fact, it may be truly said that no American child is ever blind to the deficiencies of its parents, no matter how much it may love them.

Yet, somehow, this educational system has not been so successful as it deserved. In many cases, no doubt, the material with which the children had to deal was crude and incapable of real development; but the fact remains that the American mother is a tedious person. The American father is better, for he is never seen in London. He passes his life entirely in Wall Street and communicates with his family once a month by means of a telegram in cipher. The mother, however, is always with us, and, lacking the quick imitative faculty of the younger generation, remains uninteresting and provincial to the last. In spite of her, however, the American girl is always welcome. She brightens our dull dinner parties for us and makes life go pleasantly by for a season. In the race for coronets she often carries off the prize; but, once she has gained the victory, she is generous and forgives her English rivals everything, even their beauty.

Warned by the example of her mother that American women do not grow old gracefully, she tries not to grow old at all and often succeeds. She has exquisite feet and hands, is always bien chaussé et bien ganté and can talk brilliantly upon any subject, provided that she knows nothing about it.

Her sense of humor keeps her from the tragedy of a grande passion, and, as there is neither romance nor humility in her love, she makes an excellent wife. What her ultimate influence on English life will be it is difficult to estimate at present; but there can be no doubt that, of all the factors that have contributed to the social revolution of London, there are few more important, and none more delightful, than the American Invasion.

For Author’s Identification,

THE PARADISE OF BACHELORS

This is in fact only one half of a sort of diptych by this author, but