The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1901-11-17

brief in distance and duration, because of
his infirmity. The boy who used to regard
a forty-mile tramp as a gala days endeav-
or finds half a mile or a mile quite enough
for the man in his sixties.
He knows every flower that blooms in the
mountains round about his home, every
rush and every grass that bringeth forth
It's seed in the marsh that stretches far
of creek TO hold Ii together as it were. To
all OF them. and to all the birds that live
among them, he pays visits, not of formal
obligations, but of love. He knows every
nook in the hills, every bend in the creek,
and to most of them he has given fitting
names of his own devising.
But mainly his walks are within the lit
tie, loving neighborhood of his home. He
loves to wander among the cottages that
neighbor him closely and to sit in their
piazzas, in intimate and affectionate con-
verse with those who are nearest and dear
est to him.
He goes bareheaded, of course. Every
body in that region does. But his bare
head is covered with an aureole of shock
lily abundant white hair which submits
itself TO no restraint of comb or brush,
but riots as the ~neighboring pines and
chestnuts do in a liberty of growth that
knows no lay or limit. He walks about
III rubber-soled "~sneaks," of course. How
else should he get over the great smooth,
outcropping rocks, covered as they are with
CLASSY pine needles?
his house stands upon the border line
between a grassy lawn, studded with richly
teem1ng fruit trees, and an aboriginal for
est of giant pines, and "murmuring hem
locks" The fruit trees lusciously tempt
you as you look out of his windows to the
south. The huge chestnuts shower their
froSt-rlpened fruitage in your face as you
look to the north, while the pines and oaks
and hemlocks beyond remind you that ma
ture is older than man, and UNNECESSARILY
more dignifed.
SOMETIMES HE LoAFS.
Edward Eggleston works in the morning,
when he works at all. Often he doesn't
work at all. In the afternoon he walks and
potters. He used to go out on the lake.
He was a famous sailor in those days, but
he has dismantled his sailboat, and now
rarely cares even to ply the oars. HI still
keeps some good boats, mainly for the en-
joyment of his friends. Now and then he
fishes. What wholesome-souled man does
not? And when he hooks a black bass or
that gamiest OF game fishes, a perch weigh
ing more than a pound, all there ever was
OF youth in him comes back, and the en-
thusiasm of that play of rod and reel and
line recalls the time when he was a boy
On the Ohio river and divided his time
about equally between boyish enjoyment
of life as it is and premature philosophical
speculation as to life as it ought to be.
His house is everywhere full of open
wood freplaces, and these are usually blaz-
ing with understanding logs. There are
furnaces and the like to keep the house
warm, but the open fires are quite indie
pendent Of these modern inconvenience
When it is cool he likes to sit before an
open wood fire for the sake of it's genial
heat. When ii isn't cool he likes to sit be-
fore In open wood fire for the sake of the
ventilation 1t brings in through the open
windows. In any case he has the open wood
fire, and his young grandsons. who purvey
the wood for that indulgence, have fat per-
sonal purses as a consequence when they
go back to Cornell TO resume their studies
In the autumn.
The dominant trait of the man is a limit
less generosity. He is generous of such
money as he possesses, but that is the very
least of IT. He is even more proitably gen.
erous to others of helpful influence, OF SYM
athy, Of Inspiration and of that good will
that counts for so much more than merely
material help.
A CAREFUL WRITER.
In his literary work he revises %intoler-
ably. His manuscript. when it leaves his
hand, is a Chinese puzzle. It is crossed out
and "stetted" and interlined to the border
land of MADNESS. Often the nterlineations
extend themselves up and down the pages,
and in and out such vacant spaces as the
author finds in his manuscript, until he who
| reads has sore need of a surveyor, with all
his instruments. to guide him in the unrav-
cling of it all. The handwriting is cramped
and almost microscopic, and the task OF
setting" the matter from such copy
would be the despair OF a printer dependent
for his livelihood upon the number OF ems
| ne cOUlQ set IN a Gay. But EuhdTQ ESSle-
ston recognizes all this. He sends his
copy TO a typewriter trained to interpret
| the intricacies of his interlineations She
makes a fair and clear copy of it all. Then
he interlines and distorts that clear copy
nearly as badly as he did the original, and
when the printers have managed TO make
out his meaning he sets 10 work upon the
| proofs and treats them as badly as he did
his own original manuscript
In old days, so long ago that i refuse TO
reckon the lapse of time, he wrote novels
for a periodical OF which I was editor. In
order 10 get the paper out on time l used
to find il necessary sometimes TO suppress
his second proofs entirely. l wonder, now
and then, what the angels will do when he
sends in the final reviseS of his life's work.
Perhaps they will say, as | used 10 say To
the printers: Let ii go at that. 1t is
good enough as it is"
Now a word of personal explanation
not at all OF apology. l feel under no OBJ
legation whatever to apologize for having
written thus of my brother. at the request
Of the editor of the New York Times Sat
urday Review. Edward Eggleston is one
man. / am another. l have tried 10 tell
the readers OF this Saturday Review what
the accomplished and judicious editor Of
this periodical thinks they want TO hear
about a subject that / know more about
than does any other writer whose services
he could invoke. l have done so. / do not
understand that i am under obligations to
ask anybody's pardon for the discharge of
q duty.
Paid the Sixty Cents.