The daily morning journal and courier., 1905-10-13
October Days.

To Editor of the Journal and Courier:
 It is a wise child that knoweth his own father. Selah. But these October days, even a fool may enjoy them. Such a one, whose mother had been alright ed by a drunken man, We saw leering and smiling and staggering in the liv ing October sunshine. These days smite alike the wicked and the righteous, the wise and the fool, and it is source of constant wonder to us that our teeming American life, passed amid so many fieeting changing scenes of beauty, does not more often produce that picturesque gallant whose tongue God hath loosed, that universal figure, the poet.
 The pulpit-from it the glory has de- parted. With pathos indescribable we no longer open our windows toward Je- rusalem in prayer. No longer do we bury our dead with feet to the East that they may see the glorious return of their Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, with the holy angels of Heaven. The Holy Scriptures, in which we caught the words of eternal life, have ranged themselves beside the legends of old.
 To the press and the drama we turn. In the field of English literature the American commoner finds his pure delights. The time has gone when our lust was satisfied on the field of arms. Now the pen is mightier than the sword. Even in warlike, ancient, nis toric Israel more of glory crowns the pensman than the swordsman. Who remembers the sword Of Joshua, of | Gideon, of burning Jewish patriots. but Who can forget the story of Ruth. the prayer of Moses, the Psalms of David? How many great figures in literature are to-day above the sod? Beginning With Tolstoi, how many can we count or on our fingers who have the aroma Of immortality about them? Keats and Shelley-who are their successors? |? Samuel Johnson, who talks like him ? Happy go lucky Oliver Goldsmith. who pens like him? What fools these mor- tals be, even as in the Elizabethan poets time. The country church ward survives, as in Gray's youth. Lovers meet by the wayside as in Burns time ! Comedy and tragedy, splendor and sqalor lie all about us as in Shakes peare's days. But who
 Tho his artless songs he rude1v sines Ana throws his hand uncouthly oe' the
 strings, Glows with all the spirit of the bard; fame, honest fame, his great, his dear
 Lonsfellow and Lowell, Whittier and Emerson are fled. The glory has also departed from Literature.
 Must we wait for some great novelist comedfst or poet, and perhaps wait in vain? Or in this scientific age cannot the .1mmortals be bred the same as other cattle? How better could some vagabond Thoreau, free from family care. from labor free employ his time? His genius should discover the strains that produced a Goethe, a Don Ouixote. a Wordsworth, Burns, an Artenna s Ward. a Daniel Webster. Having formed his conclusions he should catch the necessary individuals. male and female, and put them together. No harm could result. For in any event : the Anglo-Saxon stock would be re- plenished, and if fire from Heaven , should fall on the offspring then would the Almighty for our country
 "The patriot and the patriot bard In bright succession raise her orpa ment and guard"
 THURSTON I. BONNEY.
 W'httneyville, Conn. October il, 1905.