In this day when the world is fairly teeming with books—good books, books written with a motive, books inculcating morals, books teaching lessons—it seems almost a piece of presumption too great for endurance to foist another upon the market. There is scarcely room in the literary world for amateurs and maiden efforts; the very worthiest are sometimes poorly repaid for their best efforts. Yet, another one is offered the public, a maiden effort—a little thing with absolutely nothing to commend it, that seeks to do nothing more than amuse.
Many of these sketches and verses have appeared in print before, in newspapers and a magazine or two; many are seeing the light of day for the first time. If perchance this collection of idle thoughts may serve to while away an hour or two, or lift for a brief space the load of care from someone's mind, their purpose has been served—the author is satisfied.
A. R. M.
These fugitive pieces are launched upon the tide of public opinion to
sink or swim upon their merit. They will float for a while, but whether
they will reach the haven of popularity depends upon their enduring
qualities. Some will surely perish, many will reach some port, but time
alone will tell if any shall successfully breast the ocean of thought
and plant its standard upon the summit of fame.
When one enters the domain of authorship, she places herself at the
mercy of critics. Were she as sure of being commended by the best and
most intelligent of her readers, as she is sure of being condemned by
the worst and most ignorant, there would still be a thrill of pleasure
in all criticism, for the satisfaction of having received the praise of
the first would compensate for the harshness of the latter. Just
criticism is wholesome and never wounds the sensibilities of the true
author, for it saves her from the danger of an excess of pride which is
the greatest foe to individual progress, while it spurs her on to
loftier flights and nobler deeds. A poor writer is bad, but a poor
critic is worse, therefore, unjust criticism should never ruffle the
temper of its victim. The author of these pages belongs to that type of
the "brave new woman who scorns to sigh," but feels that she has
something to say, and says it to the best of her ability, and leaves the
verdict in the hands of the public. She gives to the reader her best
thoughts and leaves him to accept or reject as merit may manifest
itself. No author is under contract to please her readers at all times,
nor can she hope to control the sentiments of all of them at any time,
therefore, the obligation is reciprocal, for the fame she receives is
due to the pleasure she affords.
The author of these fugitive pieces is young, just on the threshold of
life, and with the daring audacity of youth makes assertions and gives
decisions which she may reverse as time mellows her opinions, and the
realities of life force aside the theories of youth, and prosy facts
obscure the memory of that happy time when the heart overflowing
with----
"The joy
Of young ideas painted on the mind,
In the warm glowing colors Fancy spreads
On objects, not yet known, when all is new,
And all is lovely."
There is much in this book that is good; much that is crude; some that
is poor: but all give that assurance of something great and noble when
the bud of promise, now unfolding its petals in the morning glow of
light, will have matured into that fuller growth of blossoming flower
ere the noonday sun passes its zenith. May the hope thus engendered by
this first attempt reach its fruition, and may the energy displayed by
one so young meet the reward it merits from an approving public.
SYLVANIE F. WILLIAMS.
"And she tied a bunch of violets with a tress of her pretty brown hair."
She sat in the yellow glow of the lamplight softly humming these words. It was Easter evening, and the newly risen spring world was slowly sinking to a gentle, rosy, opalescent slumber, sweetly tired of the joy which had pervaded it all day. For in the dawn of the perfect morn, it had arisen, stretched out its arms in glorious happiness to greet the Saviour and said its hallelujahs, merrily trilling out carols of bird, and organ and flower-song. But the evening had come, and rest.
There was a letter lying on the table, it read:
"Dear, I send you this little bunch of flowers as my Easter token. Perhaps you may not be able to read their meaning, so I'll tell you. Violets, you know, are my favorite flowers. Dear, little, human-faced things! They seem always as if about to whisper a love-word; and then they signify that thought which passes always between you and me. The orange blossoms--you know their meaning; the little pinks are the flowers you love; the evergreen leaf is the symbol of the endurance of our affection; the tube-roses I put in, because once when you kissed and pressed me close in your arms, I had a bunch of tube-roses on my bosom, and the heavy fragrance of their crushed loveliness has always lived in my memory. The violets and pinks are from a bunch I wore to-day, and when kneeling at the altar, during communion, did I sin, dear, when I thought of you? The tube-roses and orange-blossoms I wore Friday night; you always wished for a lock of my hair, so I'll tie these flowers with them--but there, it is not stable enough; let me wrap them with a bit of ribbon, pale blue, from that little dress I wore last winter to the dance, when we had such a long, sweet talk in that forgotten nook. You always loved that dress, it fell in such soft ruffles away from the throat and bosom,--you called me your little forget-me-not, that night. I laid the flowers away for awhile in our favorite book,--Byron--just at the poem we loved best, and now I send them to you. Keep them always in remembrance of me, and if aught should occur to separate us, press these flowers to your lips, and I will be with you in spirit, permeating your heart with unutterable love and happiness."
It is Easter again. As of old, the joyous bells clang out the glad news of the resurrection. The giddy, dancing sunbeams laugh riotously in field and street; birds carol their sweet twitterings everywhere, and the heavy perfume of flowers scents the golden atmosphere with inspiring fragrance. One long, golden sunbeam steals silently into the white-curtained window of a quiet room, and lay athwart a sleeping face. Cold, pale, still, its fair, young face pressed against the satin-lined casket. Slender, white fingers, idle now, they that had never known rest; locked softly over a bunch of violets; violets and tube-roses in her soft, brown hair, violets in the bosom of her long, white gown; violets and tube-roses and orange-blossoms banked everywhere, until the air was filled with the ascending souls of the human flowers. Some whispered that a broken heart had ceased to flutter in that still, young form, and that it was a mercy for the soul to ascend on the slender sunbeam. To-day she kneels at the throne of heaven, where one year ago she had communed at an earthly altar.
Far away in a distant city, a man, carelessly looking among some papers, turned over a faded bunch of flowers tied with a blue ribbon and a lock of hair. He paused meditatively awhile, then turning to the regal-looking woman lounging before the fire, he asked:
"Wife, did you ever send me these?"
She raised her great, black eyes to his with a gesture of ineffable disdain, and replied languidly:
"You know very well I can't bear flowers. How could I ever send such sentimental trash to any one? Throw them into the fire."
And the Easter bells chimed a solemn requiem as the flames slowly licked up the faded violets. Was it merely fancy on the wife's part, or did the husband really sigh,--a long, quivering breath of remembrance?
How few of us
In all the world's great, ceaseless struggling strife,
Go to our work with gladsome, buoyant step,
And love it for its sake, whate'er it be.
Because it is a labor, or, mayhap,
Some sweet, peculiar art of God's own gift;
And not the promise of the world's slow smile
of recognition, or of mammon's gilded grasp.
Alas, how few, in inspiration's dazzling flash,
Or spiritual sense of world's beyond the dome
Of circling blue around this weary earth,
Can bask, and know the God-given grace
Of genius' fire that flows and permeates
The virgin mind alone; the soul in which
The love of earth hath tainted not.
The love of art and art alone.
"Who dares stand forth?" the monarch cried,
"Amid the throng, and dare to give
Their aid, and bid this wretch to live?
I pledge my faith and crown beside,
A woeful plight, a sorry sight,
This outcast from all God-given grace.
What, ho! in all, no friendly face,
No helping hand to stay his plight?
St. Peter's name be pledged for aye,
The man's accursed, that is true;
But ho, he suffers. None of you
Will mercy show, or pity sigh?"
Strong men drew back, and lordly train
Did slowly file from monarch's look,
Whose lips curled scorn. But from a nook
A voice cried out, "Though he has slain
That which I loved the best on earth,
Yet will I tend him till he dies,
I can be brave." A woman's eyes
Gazed fearlessly into his own.
When all the world has grown full cold to thee,
And man--proud pygmy--shrugs all scornfully,
And bitter, blinding tears flow gushing forth,
Because of thine own sorrows and poor plight,
Then turn ye swift to nature's page,
And read there passions, immeasurably far
Greater than thine own in all their littleness.
For nature has her sorrows and her joys,
As all the piled-up mountains and low vales
Will silently attest--and hang thy head
In dire confusion, for having dared
To moan at thine own miseries
When God and nature suffer silently.
The literary manager of the club arose, cleared his throat, adjusted his cravat, fixed his eyes sternly upon the young man, and in a sonorous voice, a little marred by his habitual lisp, asked: "Mr. ——, will you please tell us your opinion upon the question, whether woman's chances for matrimony are increased or decreased when she becomes man's equal as a wage earner?"
The secretary adjusted her eye-glass, and held her pencil alertly poised above her book, ready to note which side Mr. ——took. Mr. ——fidgeted, pulled himself together with a violent jerk, and finally spoke his mind. Someone else did likewise, also someone else, then the women interposed, and jumped on the men, the men retaliated, a wordy war ensued, and the whole matter ended by nothing being decided, pro or con—generally the case in wordy discussions. Moi? Well, I sawed wood and said nothing, but all the while there was forming in my mind, no, I won't say forming, it was there already. It was this, Why should well-salaried women marry? Take the average working-woman of to-day. She works from five to ten hours a day, doing extra night work, sometimes, of course. Her work over, she goes home or to her boarding-house, as the case may be. Her meals are prepared for her, she has no household cares upon her shoulders, no troublesome dinners to prepare for a fault-finding husband, no fretful children to try her patience, no petty bread and meat economies to adjust. She has her cares, her money-troubles, her debts, and her scrimpings, it is true, but they only make her independent, instead of reducing her to a dead level of despair. Her day's work ends at the office, school, factory or store; the rest of the time is hers, undisturbed by the restless going to and fro of housewifely cares, and she can employ it in mental or social diversions. She does not incessantly rely upon the whims of a cross man to take her to such amusements as she desires. In this nineteenth century she is free to go where she pleases—provided it be in a moral atmosphere—without comment. Theatres, concerts, lectures, and the lighter amusements of social affairs among her associates, are open to her, and there she can go, see, and be seen, admire and be admired, enjoy and be enjoyed, without a single harrowing thought of the baby's milk or the husband's coffee.