The White Pine news. [volume] (Treasure City, Nev.) 1868-1906, 1902-04-10

Characters Why the Book Will Live
Humanity Likes sad Stories.
How can | say which Is my fayorlte
novel; | can only ask myself which
lives cloarest IN my memory, which Is
the book run to more often than TO
another IN that pleasant half hour be
fore the dinner bell. when. with all
apologies to good Mr. Smiles, it is use
less to think of work.
find, or examination, that my 'Da
yid Coppcrtield" is more dllapldated
than any other novel upon my shelves.
As | turn its dog cared pages, reading
the familiar headlines: Mr.. Micaw-
Der in difficulties" MT. Mlcawber in
prison" II fall in love with Dora" MIR.
Barkis goes cut with the tide" MY
child wife" "Traddles In nest of
roses, pages of my own life recur to
NE, so many of my sorrows, so many
of my joys, are woven In my mind with
this chapter or the other.
Old friends, all of you, how many
times have not slipped away from my
worries into your pleasant company.
Peggotty, you dear soul, the sight of
your kind eyes is so good to me.
know you well, with your big heart,
your quick temper, your homely. hui
man ways of thought. You yourself
will never guess your worth-how
much the world Is better for such as
you! You think OF yourself as of
commonplace person, useful only for
the making of pastry, the darnlng of
stockings and If man-not young
man, with only dim. half opened eyes,
but man whom life had made keen
to see the beauty that lies hidden be-
hind plain faees-were to kneel and
kiss your red, coarse hand, you would
be much astonished. But he would be
wise man, Peggotty. knowing what
things a man should take carelessly,
and for what things he should thank
God, who has fashioned fairness In
many shapes.
Mr.. wilkins Micawber, and you,
most excellent Of faithful wives, Mrs.
Emma Micawber, 10 you | also raise
my hat How often has the example
Of your philosophy saved me. when /,
likewise, have suffered under the tenn
porary pressure Of pecuniary liabilities;
when the sun of my prosperity, too, has
sunk beneath the dark horizon of the
world-in short, when /. also, have
found myself In tight cornerl
And you, sweet Dora, let me confess
| love you, though sensible friends
deem you foolish. Gallant Traddles, of
the strong heart and the unruly hair;
Sophy, dearest of girls Betsy Trot-
wood, with your gentlemanly manners
and your woman's heart, you have
come 10 me In shabby rooms, making
the dismal place seem bright In dark
hours your kindly faces have looked
out at me from the shadows, your kind
ly voices have chcered me.
To sum up, David Copperfeldp is
plain tale, simply told; and such are
all books that live. Eccentricltles of
style, artistic trickery. may please the
critic of day. but literature is n story
that interests us. boys and girls, men
and women.
1t IL sad book, too and that, again,
gives II an added charm In the sad later
days. Humanity is nearing Its old age,
and we have come to love sadness, as
the friend who has been longest with
us. In the young days of our ylgor we
were merry. With Ulysses boatmen,
we took alike the sunshine and the
thunder Of life with a frolie welcome.
The red blood flowed in our veins. and
we laughed, and our tales were of
strength and hope. Now we sitlike old
men, watching faces In the fire; and the
stories that we love are sad stories
like the stories that we ourselves have
liyed.-Jerome X. Jerome, In New York
News.