The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1884-01-05
Current Literature,

James B. Gable is not the writer that George
W. Gable is, and his every production confirms
the fact. At present he is writing a series of
very forid and sophomore sketches for the Chi
cago Current, under the title Of Southern Sill
houettes." His second silhouette is entitled
Bayou Manchac." He essays wealth of de
scription that his resources will not sustain. He
is profuse at the expense of lucidity, and the
machinery of his compositions is painfully con
spicuous. Take for example, the second para
graph of the article under consideration. 1t
reads:
Where the great gulf turns from the ocean
of the tropics as though marching for her mad
lover, the mighty Mississippi he frets and
beats against the confines that feebly thrust
him back from her into whose bosom he at
last languidly falls, that land lies. 1t is a land
of verdure incessant; a land where flowers
bloom without season. waters ripple all theyear
and birds sing sing, sing songs of melodlous
gladness that never die. In the heart of that
land away from the parent stream, silly one
by devious ways went forth, essaying to win a
love already given the great Mississippi In the
impetuousnesS of folly he broke away. only to
be Intercepted, thwarted and cheated of accom-
plishment by another, rill-born and contempt
ible. Turning again to the giver of his being,
the hand of man has shut him out forever, none
but shallow dismal lake will confess him a
Gus, is the turbd bayou, impotent and purpose
less of good"
Again he makes the waters of this verdure-
framed bayou ''imbecile." Waters, like almost
all inanimate objects in nature, may be persona
fed but to speak of imbecile water is hardly in
correct taste. Sluggish, although trite, would
be much better word here, for if we allowed
this thing to pass, Mr.. Cable would probably
waters" or something equally as Objectionable.
He would better write more simply and not
strain and crush the beautiful, even under an
overload of verbal wreaths, made up of pretty
words that have little meaning in the connection
used.
The Current has admitted to its pages some
very ''imbecile' poetry that might, with reason,
have been sent to a literary hospital or dropped
at once to the picking vat" The one on ''If,
by Frank Daniel Blish is particularly bad; and it
is difficult to conceive how it found entrance.
Here it is: i fteas
Shall all our being rest frft A
When, down the hills high halls
From out the tawny West, ati. E=
silence falls rt ~,
Adown the hills high hallsl ,.. r.
These doubts reach none below
If far-off palms are blest,
They, wrapt in calm. would know;
Haught dead would rest
If far-of palms blest.
The dead who rest in peace
So easy is their task
Did they desire release
The dead would ask;
So easy is their task
1t is for they, not you,
To ask the future: ''Giver'
Bid dreams and doubts adieu.
Be true and live;
Nor ask the future "Giive"
The most charitable criticism of these four
stanzas is that they are slush. The grammati-
cal error in the last stanza may have been a
typographical one merely, and not blunder of
the author The editors of the Current are
capable of better work than the present number
shows. They can hardly afford to admit inferior
matter just at this juncture, when it is on dress
parade bliss