The San Francisco call., 1904-09-18

THIS IcpOlL ID NY LOl
American women is already very great,
but it would go up several points
higher if 1 were made quite sure that
their objection to this form Of theatri-
cal enterprise was genuine, permanent
and unconquerable. 1 like Mr.. Barrie
very much, and his Scottish stories de-
light me as they delight everybody,
but 1 want him to draw the line at the
unbeautiful details of dyspepsia PeO-
pie are already too fond Of talking
about the various diseases affecting
various parts of their bodies to need
any spur in that way from the ro-
mantle drama
All homage to- the booksellers who
draw the line at printed garbage! One
must needs admire and respect them
for refusing to take percentages on the
sale of corruDt matter. For business
is always business-and when business
men see that the tendency cf a certain
portion of the reading public, notably
the upper classes, is toward prurienS
literature. they might, were they less
honorable and conscientious than they
are, avail themselves financially OF
this morbid and depraved taste Es-
pecially as there are a large number Of
self-called "stylists" who write reviews
Of books and who can always be relied
upon to praise the indecent in litera-
ture. They call it strong" or
'virile," and reck nothing Of the fact
that the strong" stencil Of it may
poison previously healthy minds and
corrupt otherwise innocent souls
Prurient literature is always a never
failing accompaniment of social
blight" The fancy for it arises when
wholesome literary fare has become too
simple for the diseased and capricious
moral appetite, and when the ideal con-
ceptions Of great imaginative minds,
such as the romances of Scott and
Dickens. are voted as too long and
boresome!-there's really no time to
read such stories nowadaysl" No
there is no time. There's plenty Of time
to play bridge, though!
Poetry-the greatest OF the arts-is
absolutely neglected in our present
period, because nobody will read 1t.
Among the most highly educated"
persons many can be met who prattle
glibly about Shakespeare, but who
neither know the names Of his plays
nor have read a line of his work With
the decline of pCesy comes as a mat
ter of course the decline of sculpture,
painting, architecture and music. Poesy
is the parent stem from which all these
arts have sprung The proofs Of their
decline are Visible enough among US
to-day. Neither Great Britain, nor Eu-
rope, nor America can show really
great poet. England's last great poet
was Tennyson-since his death we
have had no other. Equally there is no
great sculptor, no great painter, no
great architect, no great musician. 1
use the word great" of course, in It's
largest sense, in the sense whereof we
speak CT Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, or
Beethoven. There are plenty Of clever
'sketchy'' artists "impressionist"
painters, "rococo'' sculptors. and melo-
dious drawing-room g-writers-but
we wait in vain for a new grand
opera, a nobly inspired statue, or a
cathedral such as the devout old monks
designed. in the intervals between
prayer and praise. The beautiful and
divine ideals that made such work pos
sible are, If not quite dead, slowly dy-
ing, under the influence of the "blight"
which infects the social atmosphere
the blight which is thick with self and
sensuality-which looms between man
and his Maker, shutting out every
hopeful glimpse Of the sun OF faith,
whose ife-giving rays invigorate the
soul And these who see 1t slowly
darkening-those who have been and
are students Of history, and are there
by able to recognize it's appearance, its
meaning and it's mission. and who
know the mischief wrought by the
poison it exhales, will surely pray for
q storm!
Come but the direst storm and stress that
Fate
Can bring upon in its darkest hour.
Then will the realm awake. however late,
From the warm sloth in which we yawn and
cover,
And pass our sordid lives in greed, mate
With animal delights In luxurys bower;
Then will the ancient virtues bloom anew,
And love OF country quench the love or gold;
Then will the mocking spirits that imbue
Our daily converse fade like misty cold,
When the clear sunshine permeates the blue
And men be manly in the days OF old,
And scorn the base delights that sink them
down
Into the languid waters where they drown!
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