Chapter III: Part 3

As I say, Sir, I was as sentimental as any; I had my girlish dreams of home and fireside, of husband and little ones, but I was not obsessed with this pleasant dreaming. I took all that for granted as my natural birthright, and a career which was guaranteed to me by virtue of my very womanhood. I was cheerful, a capable housekeeper, possessed of a clear complexion, good eyes, sound teeth, a fair figure--in short, I was passably good-looking. Why should not I be married in due time, as my mother was before me, and as the girls of my native village had always been? I was not hump-backed, bow-legged, nor squint-eyed. I was neither a shrew nor a prude. I could manage a house and (I had no doubt) I could manage a husband; how could I fail to get him?

Alas! Sir, my youthful optimism was my undoing. I delayed my choice and I lost my opportunity. I refused one or two offers of marriage that came to me in the first flush of my womanhood--and I have never since received another! The young men of our town had always married our home girls. With the exception of a few prodigals who left home to see the world and who never returned, some going to jail and some to congress, none of our young men sought their wives among strangers. They were well content with what they found at home. How, then, could I anticipate a sudden exodus of eligible young men? An exodus, I say! For an exodus it was, and an exodus it has continued, year by year, ever since that fatal day when Willie Titheridge Talbott went over to Ithaca and married Minna Meyerbeer who won the Tompkins County beauty contest!

No sooner do our young men arrive at that age when they can don a fuzzy hat and coax a mustache without exciting the ridicule of their little brothers, than they shake the dust of this town from their feet and set out to find a wife among those vampire beauties whose portraits decorate the pages of our Sunday papers. As for our girls, they are left as I was, to choose between frank spinsterhood at home, or to follow the young men out into the world, there to become chorus girls, manicures, stenographers--or to engage in some other similar profession which exerts such a glamour and fascination over the men as to make up for their lack of classical beauty.

And who, Sir, is to blame for this lamentable state of affairs? The beauties? No, not altogether, for if they were not so exploited by the newspapers, our young men would never suspect that they existed. For, Sir, even if he were to meet her face to face, the ordinary young man is so lacking in sentiment, so matter-of-fact, that he would never suspect one of those beauties of being anything extraordinary if her beauty were not vouched for by some newspaper. The young man who has not been corrupted in this way, and who has not had fostered in him by these newspapers the silly notion that he is a knight errant searching the world for beauty in distress, is a docile creature, easily captured and easily managed. He treats matrimony as he treats his meals, he takes what is set before him and afterward grumbles as a matter of course, but deep down in his heart he is very well satisfied. It is the editors, Sir, who have caused all of the trouble; the editors with their silly beauty contests and their simpering half-tone, half-world women of the stage flaunting their coquettish graces and flirting with our young men from the pages of the Sunday papers.

Now, Sir, I hope that you will not dismiss this letter as a matter of no consequence and the peevish complaint of a disappointed spinster, for I assure you the roots of this evil go deeper than appears at first glance. Our magazines are asking, “Why do young men leave the farm?” Our sociologists are asking why are our villages becoming depopulated? Superficial observers often reply that the young men go to the city for the sake of money-making. But I, Sir, know better. The young men are leaving the farms and the villages to hunt for wives because the newspapers, with their photographs, have made them dissatisfied with what they find at home. And now that you know the cause of it, Mr. _Idler_, is there no hope that you may devise some way to put a stop to it?

I am, Sir,
SARAH SHELFWORN.

FROM ANNA PEST

_To the Editor of The Idler._

DEAR SIR: Doubtless you are familiar with some of the newer schools of poetry, as for instance, that one which has abandoned rhyme for assonance, which has led an ignorant and prejudiced critic to say of it that its poetry may be rich in assonance, but that he finds in it more of asininity. Such is the treatment accorded all independent artists by the hidebound adherents of outworn ideals!

Now, Mr. _Idler_, nobody is more convinced than I am that we need new forms of poetry. I have been writing poems for a number of years and I feel that I speak with authority when I say that the old classical forms are entirely inadequate for modern poetic expression. I have tried them all and I have found them all wanting, for though I have written poems in the form of sonnets, lyrics, triolets, quatrains, couplets, rondels--and even in blank verse--I was never able to produce a decent poem in any of them. I therefore conclude that what every modern poet needs is to shake off the shackles of poetic convention and follow a form suited to his nature. I have been greatly encouraged by the introduction of the _vers libre_ in France and I am heartily in accord with the aims of those pioneers of the new poetry who are laboring to educate the public taste to modern ideals, but I fear that in one or two instances they have overshot the mark.

Much as I admire the courage of Monsieur Alexandre Mercereau, who has, with splendid audacity, forsaken verse altogether and determined to write all of his poetry in prose, I do not believe it advisable to attempt to accomplish the poetic revolution at one step. I am more in sympathy with those who have abandoned rhyme, but retained rhythm.

For my own part, I have invented a form which I think better than either. I believe that this form is as superior to the sonnet as the sonnet is to the limerick. I call this form the _duocapet_ because it is, in a sense, double-headed, having two rhyming words in every line--one at each end. I have discarded rhythm but retained rhyme. I had good reasons for adopting this course. I regard meter as a useless encumbrance. It is meter, not rhyme, which hampers the true poet. The poet should be free--free as the air--free as the birds. It is a crime against art to bind him with silly meaningless meters and rhythms which distract his attention from his theme and serve only to furnish critics with an excuse for picking flaws. I hope that the happy day will soon arrive when laymen will leave to the poets the settling of all questions of form, but in the present state of public ignorance and prejudice I think it advisable to concede them something in order that they may realize that we are writing poetry. Later, when the public is sufficiently educated to recognize poetry without any of its ancient ear-marks, I may discard rhyme also.

For the present I think the _duocapet_ is the most logical and artistic of existing forms. Writing in the _duocapet_, the poet has only one rule to observe--that the first word of every line shall rhyme with the last. I have, in fact, reduced the couplet to a single line, making the two rhyming words come one at each end of that line, where they logically belong, one opening and one closing the line, instead of placing them one under the other in the manner of Pope. Standing in this position they may be likened to two sentries that guard the thought of the poet. It is as if the rhyme at the first end of the line called out, “Who goes there?” and the other responds, “A friend!” In the _duocapet_ the poet may make his lines short or long as best pleases him without regard for the length of lines that go before or that follow.

This poetry is produced as all true poetry should be produced, a line at a time. No whole can be perfect which is defective in any part. In the _duocapet_ every line is a perfect poem, complete in itself, every line contains a distinct thought, and though the sentence may sometimes extend from one line to another, this is never necessary and rests with the discretion of the poet. Should he choose, he might write a whole poem consisting of nothing but complete sentences, a sentence a line, with a period at the end of each. The poem can be made ten lines in length or ten thousand, and asterisks and italics can be introduced at will. With the exception of the rhyme, the poet is as free in this form as in any form of _vers libre_. I append an example of _duocapet_ which should give you a good idea of the possibilities of this form:

MIDNIGHT

Gone is the day and I look out upon
Night bathed in Luna’s sad illusive light ...
Dark are the shadows out in Central Park;
Hushed are the streets through which the traffic rushed ...
_See! Underneath that weeping-willow tree
Prone lies a figure on a bench alone!_
Why should he lie there ’neath the sky?
Is there no home he can call his?
Creeps now the moonlight where he sleeps ...
Shakes then the outcast as he wakes,
Chill with the bitter winds that fill
All of the Park from wall to wall.
Slinks then away in search of drinks.
Soon he will be in a saloon.
Still as I lean upon the sill
And see the sky on every hand
Sprinkled with those same stars that twinkled
Bright on that blessed Christmas night
When angels sang good-will to men ...
Sore is my heart unto the core!
Sick is my soul unto the quick!
Sick is my soul ... my soul ... how sick!

I hope that you will publish this poem and letter in the interest of Poetic Art, and in order that the world may know that we poets of America are almost, if not quite, as progressive as those of France.

I am, Sir,
ANNA PEST.

FROM SETH SHIRTLESS

_To the Editor of The Idler._

DEAR SIR: I am the victim of a most peculiar affliction. I am suffering from what appears to be a sort of disease and which can not be classified. As I am not able to find the true explanation of this matter myself and as physicians seem to be equally at a loss in regard to it, I have decided to appeal to the public at large in the hope that some one who reads my communication will be able to suggest a cure or at least some method of alleviation.

There is an old saying, Mr. _Idler_, borrowed from some author, if I mistake not, that “the apparel oft proclaims the man.” This I consider a true saying aptly put; but I believe, Sir, that apparel sometimes does more than proclaim the man--that it sometimes actually _makes_ the man. It is well known that men are often affected by the clothes they wear. Good clothing has a tendency to inspire confidence in the breast of the wearer, while poor clothing robs a man of his assurance, if not of his self-respect. That all men are more or less subject to the influence of their garments, there can be no doubt, but I, Sir, am peculiarly susceptible to it. It has been so all my life. Even in childhood I became supercilious and insolent with pride when clad in my best, and most envious and depressed the moment I had changed to my every-day wear.

Since I have come to manhood, I have felt this weakness growing upon me despite my most earnest efforts to resist it, until now, Mr. _Idler_, my character and my wardrobe are so inextricably mixed together that I may be said to change my nature with my clothing. When I am richly dressed I _feel_ rich, and my thoughts and sentiments are those of a wealthy person. At such times I am a firm believer in all measures for the protection of property and vested rights. I am a hearty adherent of the established order and I am distinctly suspicious of all so-called reforms and innovations in governmental machinery. When, on the other hand, I am dressed shabbily, my views and my feelings undergo a complete change. I am no longer a believer in the sacredness of property rights. Indeed, I look upon all rich men as so many robbers who have seized upon the land and the natural resources which should, of right, be the common property of all mankind. I feel that I have been defrauded of everything they have which I have not. Their insolence vexes me and their display drives me into a very fury of rage which is partly inspired by just indignation and partly by simple envy. At these times I am fiercely radical in politics. No measure of reform can be too revolutionary for my taste. My dearest wish is that the whole social fabric may be rent to shreds and rewoven in a pattern after my democratic heart.

To such extremes of sentiment do my clothes carry me. When I am fashionably clad a Socialistic pamphlet irritates me as a red rag enrages a bull. But when I am poorly dressed and shod, _I write such pamphlets_. Write them, and, Sir, incredible as it may seem, leave them lying about my quarters for the very purpose of irritating myself, and well knowing that when my eyes light on them while in my conservative frame of mind I shall fall upon them and tear them to tatters. I, Sir, am as a house divided against itself--I am a man at war with his own soul!

You have heard, I doubt not, of the celebrated case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and of other instances of double personality, where men, by reason of contending spirits within them, have been forced to lead double lives. I do not hesitate to say that such are blessed when their lot is compared to my own unhappy state, for I lead, not a double, but a _treble_ existence. In addition to these two personalities, which I term for want of a better nomenclature my Aristocratic and my Proletarian selves, I am also possessed of a Normal self which is in evidence only when I am completely disrobed.

Can you fancy, Sir, what this means to me? Can you imagine in what straits a man must be who can think clearly and logically only when he is naked, and who, before he can decide upon any matter of importance, must hurry home and throw off his clothes lest he be led astray by rabid prejudice or blind enthusiasm? That, Sir, is precisely my situation. When I awake in the morning I am compelled to make a choice between my two antagonistic personalities. My wardrobe stares me in the face as if asking the eternal question, “Which is it to be to-day--Aristocrat or Proletariat?” Always, upon falling asleep at night, I am haunted by the specter of the ordeal which awaits me in the morning.

In addition to this, my Aristocratic and my Proletarian selves have recently conceived a violent dislike for each other and they have begun to vent their spite in many petty ways, much to the disgust of my Normal self who has small use for either of them. For example, about a fortnight ago, my Proletarian self indulged himself freely in gin, a drink which is loathsome to my Aristocratic self. He stayed in this condition for a matter of four days and upon his return to my--perhaps I should say _our_ chambers, he wantonly destroyed a new top hat which my Aristocratic self had carelessly left lying upon the hall table. By way of retaliation, my Aristocratic self seized some overalls belonging to my Proletarian self and flung them into the ash-barrel. Altogether, they behave, Sir, in a fashion to make me thoroughly ashamed of them both.

Possibly you are wondering how it comes that I am in the habit of changing my clothing so frequently and varying the quality of my dress in this way. I may as well tell you that for many years I was a professional politician, much in demand as an orator, and that I was called to speak before audiences of widely different character, so that I sometimes found it expedient to dress in evening clothes and at other times it was necessary for me to appear a workingman. My constantly changing political convictions made it impossible for me to continue in this work, but by the time I gave it up I had come to know these two personalities so well that I was unwilling to trust myself for long in the hands of either of them. I have thought of purchasing a decent outfit of ready-to-wear clothing, but I realize that the result of such a step would be to render me hopelessly middle-class, a condition I have hitherto escaped. I have no desire to add a fourth personality to those I already possess.

I have consulted my tailor without good result, and the best that my physician has been able to do for me was to suggest a period of rest in the country. I am now very comfortably lodged in a quiet house in the suburbs, where I came upon the advice of my doctor and two of his colleagues with whom I discussed my trouble.

I am very well content here for a man who is virtually a prisoner. Not that I am confined by force, Sir, but I have determined never to put on another suit of clothes until I have solved the problem which confronts me, and I can not leave my room without dressing; the landlord of this place objects to my doing so. Here, then, I expect to remain until I hit upon some solution of my difficulty or until some other person is good enough to suggest a way out of my dilemma. I am, Sir,

SETH SHIRTLESS.

SARTOR-PSYCHOLOGY

_To the Editor of The Idler._

DEAR SIR: I am a social worker, and it is in this capacity that I address you upon a subject which appears to me to be of vital importance to all classes of society. I have, Sir, hit upon a plan which will, if generally adopted, work the greatest reform that has ever been effected, and which will, I am convinced, completely do away with the necessity for long-term sentences to imprisonment. In simple honesty I must admit that this idea is not entirely my own. It was suggested to me by the extraordinary and very interesting communication from Mr. Seth Shirtless which appeared in your January issue.

The influence of clothing upon character has long been recognized, but I do not remember ever to have heard of another case so well illustrating that influence as the case of Mr. Shirtless. His story of his experiences was profoundly interesting from a psychological point of view, and while reading it I conceived the plan of which I spoke just now. It occurred to me that the influence of dress might be of great use in reforming men of evil habit and temperament. It is well known to all social workers that many criminals cherish a spirit of bitter animosity toward society at large, and that not a few habitual criminals have embarked upon a career of crime urged on by the mistaken belief that the hand of every man was against them. Having once plunged into evil ways, these misguided creatures come to be more and more of the opinion that they are not as other men; that they have lost for all time to come any hope of being treated with respect and that they must live and die outside the pale of respectability.

It must be confessed that the treatment now accorded them, both in jail and after their release, lends some color of truth to this conviction. To win these men back to a useful way of life it is only necessary to show them that they are wrong; that a temporary fall from grace does not involve an eternal and perpetual atonement. They must be made to feel that they are still members of the Brotherhood of Man and that they may again become members in good standing. Once they are convinced of this, they will certainly mend their ways and gladly conform to right standards of living. Society is coming to realize, as it never did before, that the true purpose of imprisonment is to reform, and not to punish; that our criminals and law-breakers are susceptible to the same methods as our children, and that our proceedings against them should be corrective, rather than retaliatory. These men are sick, sick in mind if not in body, and it is the duty of the state to reclaim them.

In consequence of this awakening to the real purpose of imprisonment, many of our prisons have given up the hideous practise of dressing convicts in the degrading and brutalizing uniforms which were formerly so common as to be almost universal in penal institutions. Men have pretty generally come to see that the use of the striped zebra-like suit for prisoners was a mistake; an added infamy which served no good purpose, but only deepened the convict’s sense of shame and resentment. But though the old garb for prisoners is rapidly becoming obsolete, all reform of this character has, so far, been negative in its nature. The method which I propose is positive. Why should we be content with relieving the convicts of their shameful uniforms? Why not go a step further and institute a constructive reform in their dress? Why not array them in such a fashion that their self-respect must be reawakened and their sense of responsibility quickened into life? Why not bring to bear upon their characters the influence of clean linen and a respectable wardrobe?

What I propose, Mr. _Idler_, is just this: Let every convict and prisoner be clad in clothing suitable for a substantial citizen and a respected member of the community. Let every inmate of our prisons and penitentiaries be supplied each week with a liberal allowance of clean linen and underwear. Let every man of them be furnished with a decent wardrobe; say, two or three business suits of good quality and correct cut, a walking-coat or frock for afternoon wear, evening dress, a silk hat and a dinner coat. We already provide for them good books to elevate their minds; let us now give them such attire as will increase their respect for their persons.

Now, there is no denying that a well-dressed man makes a better impression upon strangers than a sloven; and if this is true of strangers, what shall we say of the effect upon the man himself? While few of us are so strongly affected as Mr. Shirtless, yet we are all of us, I think, affected in some degree. A pleasing image in a mirror increases our self-respect, but when we see ourselves unkempt and ill-clad we are ashamed. When we have made our prisoners presentable, I believe we should give them the satisfaction of seeing how much they are improved, and I therefore suggest that a mirror be placed in each cell where the inmate can see himself at full length. Thus, if in spite of his new outfit he occasionally feels a disposition to backslide, he has only to glance into the glass to be restored to respectability. In this way he can be led to see the possibilities within him. Let a man look into a looking-glass and see there a reflection which might well be that of a statesman, and his subconsciousness will at once inquire _why not_? The inspiring sight will reawaken his ambition.

Though it will be a great step forward to dress these convicts like decent citizens, yet this is hardly enough. There must be a corresponding reform in their occupations and employments. There is certainly something incongruous in the thought of a man clad in a frock coat and silk hat breaking stones with a hammer. Such a thing must appear bizarre even to the dullest of these unfortunates. To keep them at such labor would seem as if we were making sport of them. It will therefore be advisable to devise for each inmate of our prisons some employment which will be in keeping with his clothes and, at the same time, congenial and respectable. Here is a man, let us say, who has been convicted of larceny. We will make a promoter of him. Here is another who has been sentenced for gambling. He would make a good broker. A third, who has been an anarchist, will make a good magazine editor. A fourth, confined for highway robbery, can be transformed into a hotel proprietor. And so on down the list.

Of course it will be necessary to release some of them upon parole when the time comes for them to begin the practise of their professions, but by the time they have mastered the details of their new callings this will probably be safe enough. If a carpenter has been sent to prison for burglary, it is not reasonable to keep him employed at the same trade while in confinement, for then he is released knowing no more--and no better off--than he was when incarcerated. Perhaps it was carpentry which drove him to crime. No, Mr. _Idler_, we should elevate him.

As for those who are merely dissolute and idle, we will make gentlemen of them. We will dress them in the latest fashion and establish for them a club where they may follow their natural bent and continue in their usual habits, only now with the sanction of society.

If the system I have outlined should be adopted in all of our prisons, Sir, I see no reason why our convicts should not soon be a credit to the community.

I am, Sir,
AL. TRUIST.

MR. BODY PROTESTS

_To the Editor of The Idler._

DEAR SIR: It is with a feeling of dismay--nay, I may even say terror--that I read in my morning paper the statement that during last year there were made and sold in the United States no less than 8,644,537,090 cigarettes! Nearly nine billion of these devil’s torches, or almost one hundred of them for every man, woman and child throughout the country. And not only that, but an increase of 150,000,000 cigars and 15,000,000 pounds of manufactured tobacco over the production of the preceding year.

To what, Sir, is this country coming, when such things are possible? Can it be that the whole nation is bent upon suicide? I have read that a single drop of the pure essense of nicotine dropped upon the back of a healthy and robust flea will cause the unfortunate beast to fall into convulsions, frequently terminating in a partial paralysis or total dissolution. Now, it is well known to all who make the slightest pretense to any knowledge of entomology that the flea, or _Pulex irritans_, is one of the most hardy insects known to man and is extremely hard to kill. Indeed, it is a matter of record that the fleas of Mexico encountered the army of Bonaparte and Maximilian and gave such a good account of themselves that the French soldiers were more in awe of the fleas than of the natives. If nicotine, then, has such a disastrous effect upon such a hearty and well-protected beast as the flea, what must be the effect of its poison upon man, who is, perhaps, the most easily killed of all living creatures? It is too horrible to contemplate! I have, by most careful calculations, proved to my entire satisfaction that the American people have already been totally exterminated through their persistence in this evil habit of using tobacco; and if, as may be said, the facts do not seem to fit in with my figures, I can only say that I am convinced that their survival is in nowise due either to their hardiness or to the innocuous character of the herb, but solely to the kindly interposition of Providence, who, unwilling to see so young and so promising a nation perish by reason of this folly, has deliberately set at naught the wiles of the Devil and robbed him of his prey by fortifying and strengthening the constitutions of this people to withstand the dread effects of this evil practise. But how long can people given over to this wicked practise look to Providence for patience and protection?

I have but now spoken of the American people as a promising nation, but I am not sure but that I should amend this to “a once promising nation.” I believe that this nation can never become truly great until it has become a nation of non-smokers. Did the Greeks smoke? No. Did the Romans smoke? No, again. Not in the history of any of the great nations of antiquity do I find a single reference to tobacco smoking. The Boers are reputed to be great smokers, and it is to this that I attribute their defeat at the hands of the English. I have heard that the Boers even went into battle with their pipes alight, and I have no doubt that it was due to their distraction and lack of attention caused by their habit of scratching matches to keep their pipes burning, that they lost many important engagements. Do you imagine, Sir, that Troy could have withstood the assault of the Greeks for ten long years, had Hector and his fellow warriors lolled upon the battlements puffing on cigarettes? Can you fancy, Sir, the grave and dignified Cicero pausing in the midst of one of his philippics to expectorate tobacco juice? Yet I am told upon good authority that this may be witnessed among the learned justices of our own Supreme Court.

The almost total destruction of the American Indian, I attribute chiefly to the debilitating effects of this narcotic. Of all of the American Indians, the Peruvians attained the highest state of civilization. And why? Because, Sir, they alone used tobacco only as a medicine and in the form of snuff. Had they forborne the use of snuff, it might well have been that the Incas had conquered the Spanish and colonized the coast of Europe. Snuff, I consider the least harmful of all forms of tobacco; but only because it is the least frequently used. There is a lady of my acquaintance, in all other respects a most estimable woman, who so far forgets her duty as a mother as to permit her offspring to utilize as a plaything a handsome silver snuff-box which she inherited from her grandfather. I, Sir, should as soon think of giving my children a whisky-flask for a toy. I am well aware that many who have been termed “gentlemen” have been addicted to the use of snuff; nay, that it was even at one time a fashion among men and women of the mode to partake of it. But I think none the better of it for that. As much might be said for rum.

Lord Chesterfield said that he was enabled to get through the last five or six books of Virgil by having frequent recourse to his snuff-box; but I say, if the taking of snuff is necessary to the enjoyment of Virgil, why then, it were better never to read that poet. I had rather fall asleep over Virgil than to inhale culture tainted with snuff. I had rather, indeed, snore over the classics, than sneeze at them. _Trahit sua quemque voluptas_--I suspect that his Lordship did not so much find snuff an aid to Virgil as Virgil an excuse for snuff.

Tobacco, Sir, won its way into Europe by a ruse--a pretense. It wormed its way into the confidence of the European peoples masquerading as a medicine--a panacea. Introduced by Francesco Fernandez, himself a renowned physician, and endorsed by many other men supposed to be learned in _materia medica_, it was taken on faith and retained through weakness. At the very outset some of the wiser heads saw the danger of it. Burton sounded a note of warning in his _Anatomy of Melancholy_: “Tobacco, divine, rare, super-excellent tobacco, which goes far beyond all the panaceas, potable gold, and philosopher’s stones, is a sovereign remedy in all disease. A good vomit, I confess, a virtuous herb if it be well qualified, opportunely taken, and medically used; but, as it is commonly abused by most men, which take it as tinkers do ale, ’tis a plague, a mischief, a violent purge of goods, lands, health,--hellish, devilish, and damned tobacco, the ruin and overthrow of body and soul.”

King James, of blessed memory, was not deceived by the fictitious virtues of this plant, and he condemned it in his noble work, _The Counterblaste_. Would that more had been so blessed with wisdom!

The absurdity of the extravagant claims made for the curative powers of this herb is well illustrated in the words of Master Nicholas Culpepper, author of _The English Physitian_, published so late as 1671:

“It is a Martial plant (governed by Mars). It is found by good experience to be available to expectorate tough Flegm from the Stomach, Chest and Lungs.... The seed hereof is very effectual to expel the toothach, & the ashes of the burnt herb, to cleanse the Gums and make the Teeth white. The herb bruised and applied to the place grieved by the Kings-Evil, helpeth it in nine or ten days effectually. _Manardus_, faith, it is a Counter-Poyson against the biting of any Venomous Creatures; the Herb also being outwardly applyd to the hurt place. The Distilled Water is often given with some Sugar before the fit of Ague to lessen it, and take it away in three or four times using.”

Such vaporings were, indeed, as little worthy of credence as the empty chatter of Ben Jonson’s Bobadil: “Signor, believe me (upon my relation) for what I tell you, the world shall not improve. I have been in the Indies (where this herb grows), where neither myself nor a dozen gentlemen more (of my knowledge) have received the taste of any other nutriment in the world, for the space of one and twenty weeks, but tobacco only. Therefore it can not be but ’tis most divine. Further, take it in the nature, in the true kind, so, it makes an antidote, that had you taken the most deadly poisonous simple in all Florence it should expel it, and clarify you with as much ease as I speak.... I do hold it, and will affirm it (before any Prince in Europe) to be the most sovereign and precious herb that ever the earth tendered to the use of man.”

Such were the absurd claims of those who held tobacco to be a medicine. But I contend, Sir, that tobacco has never been proven of any real medical value whatever; that it is a poison and not a blessing. I have been told, indeed, that it sometimes destroys the toothache; but for my own part I had rather taste the toothache than tobacco; and as for deadening the pain, so, for that matter, will opium or prussic acid.

I contend, Sir, that tobacco will eventually bring to grief every nation which makes use of it. Who can contemplate the present distressing state of Portugal without recalling that it was from Jean Nicot, a Portuguese, that the poison, nicotine, received its name?

Tobacco destroys all that is noble in man. There is no more noble sentiment than chivalry; and tobacco has destroyed the chivalry of man. How else could we applaud that English poet who sang,

“A thousand surplus Maggies are waiting to bear the yoke;
And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke”?

Tobacco is offensive to all high-minded people of delicate sensibilities; it is offensive to me. Nay, the smoker himself sometimes involuntarily recoils from his slavery and feels disgust for the vile weed, as is shown by the cry of the modern poet, whose name for the moment escapes me, in that line--

“Then, as you love me, take the stubs away!”

Oh, Sir, it is now high time for all men of sound judgment and unselfish nature to unite in stamping out this nefarious traffic! Let every state pass laws forbidding the manufacture, sale _and use_ of tobacco in any form. Let the government suppress with stringent law and heavy penalty that wicked and seductive book of J. M. Barrie’s called _My Lady Nicotine_; that work which has, without doubt, led many young men to contract this evil habit and confirmed many older men in it against their own better judgment. Let all books in praise of tobacco be destroyed publicly, as is befitting a public menace.

For my own part, having suffered all my life from a quinsy which I contracted early in youth, and which my family physician assured me would be greatly aggravated by the use of tobacco, I have been saved from the vile effects of even the slightest contact with that noxious plant. But, Sir, being a man of tender sensibilities and imbued with an almost paternal love of humanity, it has grieved me to the heart to see my fellow men falling ever deeper and deeper into the clutches of this sinful practise. Owing to the distress I suffer from the fumes of tobacco, I have often been compelled practically to abstain from the company of men, otherwise estimable citizens, who have contracted this habit. Everywhere I go I see young and old blowing out their brains with every puff of smoke, until I am sometimes tempted to blow out my own in sheer despair of ever making them see the evil of their ways. And they smoke, Sir, with such an air of innocent enjoyment as is enough to fair madden one whose counsel they scorn and at whose warnings they scoff.

I have been told, Sir, that you are, yourself, a victim of this evil habit of tobacco using, and I have been warned that you will refuse, with the infatuation of a confirmed smoker, to grant me space in your publication for these honest and unprejudiced expressions of opinion upon this subject. I have refused, however, to credit these scandalous reflections upon your character, and I hope that you will refute them and cause the utter confusion of your calumniators, as well as help enlighten an ignorant and misguided people, by printing this communication in full.

I am, Sir, very truly yours,
B. Z. BODY.

ON A CERTAIN CONDESCENSION IN FASHION WRITERS

_To the Editor of The Idler._

DEAR SIR: Some writers have an unhappy faculty of adopting a superior tone which is very offensive to most readers. Even in a writer of acknowledged excellence this dictatorial style is a blemish, and, moreover, it is an impertinence. Not only does the writer assume to be superior to the majority of his readers, but, by implication, to all the world, since his book is addressed to mankind at large. And if this air of condescension is hard to bear from men of parts, how much more galling it is when we suffer it at the hands of insolent nobodies--writers who seek to hide their obscurity behind the shield of an imposing pseudonym. I have in mind, Sir, that pestiferous crew who mar the pages of our theater programs with their uninvited discourses upon men’s fashions.

It may be that I am confessing to an unmanly weakness when I confess that I invariably peruse that column in my program which is signed _Beau Nash_, _Beau Brummel_, or something equally ridiculous; but if it is a weakness, I am convinced that it is one which is shared by nine out of ten men in the audience. I say I am convinced, because, suspecting that I might be alone in it, I took the trouble to observe the men about me upon several occasions, and I always caught them at it at some time during the intermissions. They read it furtively, to be sure, but they read it none the less. Of course, I can not be sure what effect these essays upon sartorial matters have upon others, but I fancy they are affected much as I am, and for my part they distress me exceedingly.

In the first place, I am not overly pleased that some unknown hack writer has assumed to instruct me in such a personal matter as the clothes which I put upon my back, and in the second place, I strongly resent the implication that I am interested in such foppish literature. But, what is worse than all else, these anonymous arbiters of dress are continually putting me out of countenance by criticizing explicitly and in detail the very clothes that I have on! It seems to me that these fellows have a devilish faculty of knowing beforehand just what I shall be wearing every season.

Now, Mr. _Idler_, you must not suppose that I am one of those silly fellows who aspire to lead the fashion or to play the dandy, for, indeed, I am nothing of the sort. I do not believe there is a man living who more heartily despises those empty-headed creatures who are variously known as fops, dudes and dandies. It has never been my ambition to be the introducer of a new style of neckwear or footgear; indeed, I fear my very indifference to such matters lays me open to the vexation caused by these miserable scribblers who prey upon my peace of mind. Were I in the habit of consulting long and earnestly with my tailor and haberdasher, no doubt I should be fortified with a sound and sure confidence in the appropriateness of my apparel. But the fact is, I leave these things largely to the men who make a business of them, and content myself with choosing what seems to me to be sufficiently modish and yet in good taste.

And yet, Sir, though I am no macaroni, I am not utterly indifferent to my personal appearance. If I am not a fop, neither am I a sloven. I am one of those who have faith in the old saying, _In medio tutissimus ibis_. I would not be

“The first by whom the new are tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.”

Like most practical men, I have a positive horror of appearing queer. I shun eccentricity in dress as assiduously as I shun eccentricity in manners. I sometimes envy poets and artists, not for their poetry or their art, but for that sublime egotism which enables them to take pleasure in making themselves ridiculous. This seems to me a vanity which is almost beautiful, a self-confidence which is a greater blessing than personal bravery. Many a man, otherwise not extraordinary, may prove himself a hero of physical courage when the occasion offers, but few there are who can deliberately challenge attention by their freakish appearance and go out among their fellow men with an air which seems to say, “I know I look like the devil and I am proud of it.”

Now I, Sir--I should not be proud of it. I should be miserably ashamed. And so I am ashamed when I read in my program that which brands me as a man of no taste or discrimination. I am horribly humiliated when I discover in the column of Beau Nash that I have brazenly shattered every commandment in the sartorial decalogue. I give you my word, Sir, I break into a cold perspiration whenever I recall the harrowing experience I had last Saturday-week. It so happened that when I prepared to go to the play, I found no fresh white waistcoats. This did not greatly trouble me at the time, for I am a resourceful man, and I at once recalled that I possessed a black waistcoat which my tailor had made for me at the same time he had made my dress suit. This I donned in blissful ignorance of my impending ordeal. I arrived at the theater rather late and had no opportunity of reading the program before the curtain rose. That first act is the one bright memory I have of that awful evening. I enjoyed the first act. But, Sir, I did not long remain in ignorance of my disgrace. In the first intermission my eyes were drawn by an irresistible fascination to the column headed, “What Men Wear,” and in letters which seemed fairly to jump out of the page I read, “_The black waistcoat worn with evening dress is the height of vulgarity and is not tolerated._”

Sir, you can imagine with what a sudden shock my care-free contentment dropped from me. There I sat in the full glare of the electric light, conscious that I was surrounded by hundreds of men who had read that damning paragraph which stamped me as an ignorant underbred boor, who had attempted evening dress without knowing the very rudiments of the art. I cast a hasty glance about the theater, and the fleeting hope which had sprung up died within my breast. _There was not another black waistcoat in sight._

How I lived through the rest of that intermission I can not say. I only know that I could feel the contemptuous eyes of the audience upon that dreadful black waistcoat, like so many hot augurs boring holes in the pit of my stomach. Hastily hiding my face behind my program, I slumped down in my seat in the vain hope of hiding my disgrace, while drops of anguish trickled down my brow and fell splashing upon the cruel words which had rendered me an object for pity and contempt. When the curtain rose upon the second act, I crept out of the auditorium under cover of the kindly darkness and slunk away home to hide my shame.

I do not think I shall ever attend the theater in this city again. In vain I argue and seek to persuade myself that what I read in the program was only the opinion of one man, and a man at that who, in all probability, never owned a dress suit in his life. Whoever he may be, whatever his knowledge or ignorance of dress may be, he writes with such a saucy assumption of omniscient authority that my reason stands abashed before his insolence. As aloof and austere as the Olympian gods, he crushes my spirit and fills my soul with humility. No, Mr. _Idler_, I do not believe I shall ever attend the theater here again. The mental suffering these fashion writers inflict upon me is too great a price to pay for the pleasure I extract from the drama.

I am, Sir,
MAURICE MUFTI.

OF LOOKING BACKWARD

_To the Editor of The Idler._

DEAR SIR: It is a constant source of surprise to me that men continue, at all ages but the earliest, to look back upon the past with a wistful eye, recalling, with many expressions of regret, the days that are no more. Thus, while still in the twenties, the youth begins to feel the burden of worldly cares already pressing heavily upon his shoulders and sighs when he thinks of the irresponsible school-days of his teens. At thirty, he is convinced that he has missed the best part of his youth and would fain be a youngster of twenty once more, his greatest care the sprouting down upon his upper lip. Come to forty, he is sure that he should have been most happy when thirty, over the first rawness of youth, but not yet sensible of any physical deterioration and quite unmarked by the passage of time. At fifty, he envies the lustihood of forty, and at sixty he longs for the activity and the muscular ease which he enjoyed at fifty. And so it goes on, so that we can readily imagine a patriarch of ancient days exclaiming, “Oh, if I were but two-hundred-and-twenty once more! How I should enjoy life!”

Now, to me, Mr. _Idler_, things do not appear in this light at all. I can not conceive that had I been Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France, I should have longed to be an obscure youth in Corsica. It is easier, of course, to understand why he might, at St. Helena, regret the departed glories of St. Cloud; but for myself, I do not believe I should ever, whatever my former station might have been, wish to lay down the present for the past. I have, it is true, some hope for the future (I am now but fifty), but even if this were denied me, and I were assured that my condition ten years hence would be no more enviable than it is at present, yet I think I should not care to reassume my youthful aspect, or to take up my life where I left it long ago.

There is, in truth, no period of my past life upon which I can look back with complete complacency. I was, at all times, very well satisfied with myself, barring occasional and inevitable spasms of self-reproach. I am, to say the truth, well enough satisfied with myself as I am to-day. But experience has taught me that the time will come when I shall look back upon to-day and will not be pleased with my present self at all. At thirty I remembered the Me of twenty as a callow and conceited boy. At forty I beheld in the Me of ten years gone a lazy careless idler. At fifty I recollected the man of forty as a pompous and affected ass. Now, while the most careful scrutiny of my person and character fails to reveal to me, at this time, any serious flaw or defect, yet I doubt not that the future Me, the Me of Sixty, will have grave fault to find with the individual who is inhabiting my skin at the present moment.

“We live and learn,” says the proverb, and since we do, it is unnatural if we do not feel a sort of shame in the ignorance of our former selves. I feel no shame for my present ignorance because I do not know wherein that ignorance consists, but be assured I shall, as soon as I have found myself out.

It is, I like to think, one of the wisest provisions of a merciful God that no man is ever permitted to see what a consummate simpleton he is, but only what a simpleton _he has been_. A complete and certain revelation of a man’s folly to himself would, without a doubt, result in an immediate and lasting loss of self-respect. And to lose one’s self-respect is to lose one’s identity and become a stranger to one’s self. The inmost mind, however the outward actions of the body may seem to contradict it, still clings to the noblest principles, so that no man can be truly said to be _unprincipled_. He may be debauched and depraved, but he is not without principle so long as his subconscious personality has the power to arise and accuse his conscious person. Where there is no such accusation there can be no loss of self-respect, for surely a man must possess a thing before he can lose it. As some say of another, “He is his own worst enemy,” so it may be said that every man should be his own best friend. None other is empowered so to befriend him. His life and his character must be, to a very great extent, of his own making, for every man truly lives to himself. He is the central character of the drama in which he is both actor and spectator. Others may come and go, but he alone remains throughout the play.