The herald. [microfilm reel] (Los Angeles [Calif.]) 1893-1900, 1895-10-27

M, for example. Other people seem
to read to talk, but never see HIM across
drawing room without wild impulse
of buoyant barbarism, and | always get
him of into corner as soon as / can,
Just to rest myself, and feel that l have
Il right not to have read everything. He
always proves to me something that | can
get along without. He Is full of the most
choice, picturesque bits of ignorance.
He is creatively ignorant. He displaces
book every time | see him which is a
deal better in these days than writing
one. He goes about with mis- thinking
lace. and kind OF nlmbus over him OF
rot needing to read at all. Everybody
loves him and everybody listens to him,
but he has pothing whatever to give but
himself, and that is why be does it, and
that is why he knows how. | mad rather
have one of his questions about a book
| had read than all the other opinions
and subtle distinctions in the rvom- or
the book itself"
y = r
Culture is belonging to oneself, and
belonging to oneself is the first con-
dition Of being worth giving to other
people. One longs for Ella. People know
too much, and there doesn't seem to be
man living who can charm. them from
the error OF their way. OF course 'knowl-
edge is power but it is so powerful
that it seems to take the place of every
thing else, and all that one can do as he
reads the reviews and goes to mis- club is
to look forward with a tired heart to the
prophecy of scripture, knowledge shall
pass away. Where do we see the old and
sweet co2tent of loving thing for itself?
Now there are flowers. The only way
to delight in flower at your feet in
these days is to watch with it all alone or
keep still! about it. The moment you
speak of it, it becomes botany. It's a
rare man that will not tell all he knows
about it. Love isn't worth anything
we have any flowers left at all. Why,
half the charm of flower is that it looks
de mure and just talks perfume and keeps
its name so gently to itself.
The man who always enjoys view
by picking out the places he knows, is a
sym Dol OF our intellectual life. One can
glory in great cliff down in the depths
of his ignorant heart, but if you men,
ton it, it is geology-and an argument.
Even :the birds sing zoologioally, and
as for the sky, it has become mere
blue and gold science, and all the won
der seems to be confined to ones not
knowing the name of the planets. | W as
brought up wistfully on
Twinkle twinkle little star,
How | wonder what you are.
But now it is become
Twinkle, twinkle little star,
70 Teachers told me what you are.
Even babies won't wonder very aeon.
That is to say, they won't wonder out
loud. Nobody does. Another of my
poems was
Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into here.
l thought of it the other day when I
stepped into the library with the list of
the books I had to have an opinion
about, before Mrs. VS. Thursday After
noon. felt like literary infant.
Where did you come from, baby fair?
Out of the here into-everywhere.
And the bookcases stared at me-"
"One of the delights of going fishing
or hunting is that one gets himself,
whether he gets anything else or not,
and that he learns how small place the
world is, and he finds other people, too,
or comes across SO many well-preserved
characters preserved by not having a
place in the world-people who osn be
interesting because they have not been