St. Johnsbury Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1867-1919, 1895-10-18
A PAINFUL SITUATION.

A PAINFUL SlIUAllUN.
Petersen" said |, this is an age
of mediocrity-a dead level of trash
is this latter end of the nineteenth
century. Nobody is any wiser than
the rest of his poor miserable fellow
creatures. We all are honest up to
certain point! No use trying to deny
facts. Our literary men, and their
name is legion, are all infected with
the mercantile spirit, and they spread
their butter very very thin indeed on
hunks of bread that sell only because
the market Offers nothing better.
And the worst Of it all is that we
don't see how deadly commonplace
we are; or if we do sc it, we are
afraid to mention it. Our duck
quacks and all the other ducks ex-
claim: What lovely music' And
why? Because pot-boiIers are the
order OF the day, and we must all
praise each other so that our pot.
boiler may be looked upon leniently
when we put it forth. It's too bad,
Petersen, but soup is what we are
furnishing the world now for littra-
ture, aud very thin soup at that,
The occasional oyster OF the country
church fair is more than we get now
adays in our literary BROTH
Now, confess that spoke in an
extreme manner, and made myself as
unpleasant as could. No wonder he
looked sorrowiully at me, for he is
one of the kindest hearted men alive,
and dare say he thought such cyni-
cism an indication OF mental disorder.
But the fact is, had a purpose in so
speaking; meant to point moral,
to lead him if possible to pertinent
and personal application. For Pet
ersen wife has lately taken up liter
ature; and, since | thoroughly like
Petersen, and besides used to admire
his wife greatly (but that is a good
many years ago., | am concerned as
friend to see the change, the deteri-
Grafton, the vanity it is developing
in both Of them.
Mrs. Petersen has taken up litera-
ture, lust as, some ten years ago,
soon after she was married, she took
up embroidery as pursuit and
pastime. thought the embroidery
beautiful. Her white hands and the
graceful turn of her wrist were never
more noticeable than when her needle,
carving some delicate thread OF silk,
gradually painted on the cloth she
held a rose or lily. So feminine 1t
was. the tint of the rose so matched
that fair, sweet color in her cheek,
that would come and 60 il read
aloud TO her-I used sometimes to
submit my poems to her in those
davs-that | thought Petersen a
lucky fellow indeed; and though
had never spoken of love to her, and
have no doubt she considered me
even tEen only bachelor to whom
her criticism was valuable Heaven
help meD, yet once or twice, know
| have cursed that fate that snatched
her away and gave her into Peter
sens arms before | had had time to
know what | had lost.
We'll, after that she took up art
That was pretty bad, because she
always showed me her results and
asked my opinion of "Moonllght on
the Lake." and "Tis But a Little
Faded Flower" knew enough to
praise unreservedly, but it got to be
monotonous, and l felt that tate
after all had not been so unkind tc
me, for Petersen liked her pictures
saw that he was not putting on
Of course this sort OF thing was
dreary enough. And yet one coulo
escape. But now she had taken &c
literature And here was Peterson
asking me to help her on in the publ
cation OF book, and perhaps hi
would want me not only to revie"
it, but "go over it," which meant
rewrite it. Hence the opening para
graph, and if it seems severe ane