The National tribune. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1877-1917, 1893-04-06

meteoric journal that was then in my editorial
control. He wrote beautifully, like an artist
indeed, not us an artiZm, and his copy was al
ways printed. Sometimes il was society verse.
sometimes an exquisite short story, satire. an
art comment Bat lie was no more to be de-
pended on than the quicksands. The only way
| to get nything ont of him was TO let him hand
| in what matter he pleased and when. think
| If he had essayed newspaper reporting he
| would have driven his city editor insane III
two days.
The manner of our meeting again. after the
night in Bohemia, was this: L WAS running
the blue pencil over verbiage-rank STORY"
when Blenheim came i'll softly and took the
chair st my side. j knew him at once-who,
indeed, could ever forget that mobile mouth,
those scnsuOus eyes?
"If / should hand you story" he began
abruptly, " u close chiseled thing like one of
de Maupssssnt's would you use it?"
The mans egotism was admirable. Ger
tainly, would Mr.. Blenheim," replied; "but
/ fear your novel will hardly give you time,
will it, to-
He looked up at me with quick almost
humorous gleam in his gray eyes. I" Ah you
were at the Peterhof the other night. Strange
i never saw you. But there was much smoke.
Well, will admit, the novel will suffer Bat
/ am so versatile, my dear sir, that TO chain
my talents in single channel means-why, 1t
means Stlg0atlOD. however, L ulStHID YOU
The blue pencil waits impatently. The edito-
rial eye calculates columns and pages. / will
bring you the story in day or So"
And he was gone again, soft-footed and grace
full.
1t was three weeks ere / saw him again.
The story was really gem, aud paid him
well for it. After that ] saw MIN more or less
frequently and always his childish egotism,
his careless assumption of marvellous talents,
a,ad tha insI uaf of f1if
occompLs made me study and love him the
more. he was an exotic in this age of materi-
alism.
At last there came day when he invited
me up to his room for an evening. 81 have
some few things" he said. that you may like
TO see." OF course | accepted the invitation.
There was not another man in all Bohemia who
had ever been there, and | knew now that
Blenheim and / were as dear friends as men
ever get to be. When a man of that kind
ushers you into the presence of his lares and
penates. you may know that he trusts you.
For man is one man when he is out in the
world, another when he is at home, chez tui
Blenheim's room What an old curiosity
shop of useless things it was! But picturesque
oh, yes, extremely artistic, indeed. Pictures
pen -and-ink sketches by Unknown illustrs-
tors, photographs OF beautiful women, books
and books. There were books everywhere
on the tables the chairs, the mantel, window
sills. The floor was covered with the skins of
noun tain lions, given him. as he explained, by
Texan ep-herder, for whom Blen helm
had once. in his wanderings, composed poem
about dead child.
But there wa. something In the room far
more interesting than these accessories-the
man himself. He flung himself down on a
low couch, by the window, where he could see
the passersby outside
Here" he said. 81 dream, and work, and
dream. Here / write" lie paused and
looked dreamily round the book covered room.
"Oh." he went oil, 1.-The Joy of it, of writing
The luxury Of expression; the swift search for
the right word ; tho impetuous flow Of deep
felt idcasi And the knowledge that it is an art
of perpetuation that, too, is glorious thought.
In the after years. when people read my work,
they will say, thus and thus were men and
things in that time-ffty years ago. Nothing
is lost to the writer. The quick turn of q
curved eyelash. the roguish black eye beneath;
the taste of the rain coming over the hills (;
the sound OF mob clam oring violence; these
things all produce certain impressions, call
forth distinct words, apt language. The sight
of beautiful face, the thought Of dramatic
climax, the perfume of . jasmine flower.
the
And so he rambled on, mellfuent and music
al. Ii was delightful to listen. As he spoke
his eye shone with passionate love OF his art,
his whole face talked. From time to time he
got up and paced the room, the rhapsody fow-
ing on as clear as crystal.
But neither then nor at any time thereafter
did / see from Rlenheim's pen anything that
was more than fugitive, light and inconsequen
though always polished. Never did the novel,
the epic. the play, the essays appear.
In little while, also, Donald Blenheim dis.
| appeared.