The Anaconda standard. [volume] (Anaconda, Mont.) 1889-1970, 1898-09-04
A DweLLeR IN LONDON BOHEMIA
The Death of Richard Bowling Removes
"A Picturesque Literary Figure.

"a Picturesque Literary Figure.
a picturesque IL not very important
figure disappears from the London
world Of letters and from London "Bo-
hemia" in the death of Richard Dowl-
ing news of which comes with the En-
glish mail. Mr.. Bowling. who was born
some so years ago in what he always
called "swate Clonmel." was one of
those men of whom everybody says.
II will do great things yet" until
the end comes, when everybody laments,
What great things he ought to have
done" As a matter of fact, he was a
prolific writer and put out novels and
short stories and articles on all conceiv-
able subjects with amazing fertility.
But there was always something lack
ing about his work. He had either an
utter want of the critical faculty or a
culpable Indifference to artistic p~erfec-
ton. "A Titanic Imagination, the de-
scriptiVe force of a Victor Hugo, alter
mating with the slovenliness and ineffi-
cheney of a schoolboy author" so a dis
tinguished English reviewer character
lied his powers and methods.
Mr.. Bowling loved to keep up the old
bohemian traditions Of authorship, the
velvet coat, the unconventional hat, the
persistent, unabashed clay pipe. He
cultivated extinct mannerisms, the au-
thOr's ~irritability, for example, and he
used to declare that good literature
could never be produced by daylight.
When there was hurry for his work
and he prided himself on unpunctuality
so that he had to work by day, he
would pull down his Blinds, draw the
heavy red curtains of his study. and,
pipe i'm mouth, grind out copy by AN
delight. Woe was to the rash individ-
ual who dared to interrupt him then.
His eye, with fine frenzy rolling, would
glare and glow like a red-hot coal, and
from his lips would pour forth a tor
rent of vituperative ~eloquence clothed
i'm the broadcast brogue of his beloved
CO. Tip. with many a scathing Gaelic
adjective thrown in TO d force to the
whole.
He was a great rambler % nights.
knew London through and through, and
delighted i'm exploring alone at the
weirdest hours places which hardened
London policemen preferred to leave un-
visited. When i'm festive mood there
was no livelier companion. He hated
select society" fashionable authors
and s~ilk-hatted journalists were an
abomination to him. But in certain
bohemian gatherings held in little courts
off the Strand or Fleet street he was
the prince of reVelry, the leade Of joke
and song n brilliant talk. Politically,
he had a fine hatred of the English ma
ton; practically. he was hail fellow
well met" with any one who, like the
Jap in Gilbert's opera, a IA song to
sing. OH" And of certain E"nglishmen
he had a great veneration-of Shakes
peare, because he created Falstaff; of
Ben Johnson, because he was a fine
combination of scholar and dramatist
and good fellow; of Kit Marlowe, be-
cause he was killed i'm q pothouse brawl.
He loved to talk Of the days when poets
and authors were unpretentious. easy
going fellows. who heard the chimes of
midnight. He did not initiate them in
their excuses. but he loved their menu
Dry none the less. Many will miss him
now that he is dead. for what his busy
right hand plentifully earned his left
hand scattered with p~rofuse generosity,
and more than that, he was au fond the
largest hearted of men.