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                <title>Dilettante 1.9 (1898-12)</title>
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                <div type="front"><ab>
                SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS A YEAR.





: PRICE .10. CENTS :

                <div type="advertisements"><ab> 

Headquarters for CLOTHING, and MEN’S FURNISHING GOODS. Remember the Address: Marion Block, Riverside Ave, near Stevens St., Spokane.

BOOKS of every kind......

If you do not see the book you want on our shelves, we can procure it for you.

......John W. Graham &amp; Co.







                <div type="front"><ab> 

A Monthly Literary Magazine.

VOL. I. DECEMBER, 1898. NO. 9</ab></div>
                <div type="fiction"><ab> 



“The Sage-Brush people”—perhaps, after all, we are nothing but mere imposters to claim the title; a true bona fide sage-brush person has just quitted my back door, having partaken of a quantity of muck-a-muck which would simply appal a city appetite, and leaving a fine freshly caught salmon as a souvenir of his visit.

“Kallula Jim:” he thus introduced himself to me three years ago, with a bow which was the most marvelous thing I had ever beheld; and though it has now become familiar through many repetitions, the mystery of it remains deep as ever. Where did he ever learn that courtly wave of the hand, the self-abasement of that bend—I should rather say doubling-up—of his squat, pudgy body ? Not through reading court novels, for he cannot read, and as for seeing the like, why, the thing appears next to impossible. I think it entirely original, and that Kallula Jim is, in his way, a person of genius.

After making his bow, he presented his letter o

introduction, carefully wrapped in many layers of greasy—or rather fishy—calico.	This stated that

the bearer, Kallula Jim, was an Indian of honor and integrity; that he knew how to work; that he could chop wood, and also that he could be relied upon to rock the baby to sleep without scalping it while it slumbered.

The letter was signed by some unknown dignitary with many titles appended to his signature. I read it and handed it back, and it was religiously restored to its former place, and bestowed somewhere among the mass of rags and patches which had once been a coat.

He now intimated to me that the desire of his heart was muck-a-muck: having eaten everything in sight, he again bowed low, waved his hands with the grace of a Chesterfield, insisted upon grasping each several member of the household by the hand, and had no sooner engineered himself outside the door than he at once struck up a sort of dog-trot for the next place on his rounds, almost in a panic lest he should be too late, and find that the dinner things had been put away before he appeared.

Later in the day I had occasion to call at the house of this neighbor. Being in haste, I decided upon a short cut through the sage-brush, so, sighting the house in the distance, I started on my journey unaided by trail or foot-path. When fairly on my way, all landmarks hidden by the tall sagebrush, which was higher than my head, and just thick enough to make it necessary to travel in a sort of wavy line, I discovered that I was following with tolerable accuracy a set of moccasin tracks. From time to time as I chanced to glance downward, there they were. I was not a little elated at the thought that I possessed the true Indian instinct and had of my own accord chosen the exact route just pursued by Kallula Jim. . . . Why is it that we are always


pleased to discover in us a trait, however faint, of the aboriginal type ? Is it another argument for the universal brotherhood of all ?

I received many subsequent visits from Kallula Jim—and found it necessary gently to break to him the fact that muck-a-muck has a sort of commercial value and that the wood-pile was always at hand. He appeared surprised and grieved, but finally agreed to my terms—first, wood-pile, then muck-a-muck. Thus it became a transaction oft repeated. I even found it safe to vary the programme by reversing the order, notwithstanding the earnest warning of my friends.

Once I undertook what would at first thought appear rash and infeasible. I determined to allow him to eat all he could. I was resolved to see him satisfied. So I had ready a huge platter of meat—not scraps, mind you, but of excellent quality, freshly prepared as for the use of the family—and after he had whetted his appetite at the wood-cutting, set it before him. When he had emptied his plate of the first liberal supply, which appeared but a joke to him, I made haste to pile it high once more. He smiled questioningly, and being reassured, proceeded to reduce it in like manner, with unimpaired zeal and vigor. By this time his broad face fairly beamed with grease and satisfaction. I pushed the plate toward him. “More, Jim ? Plenty meat.” He helped himself to a small slice, but I insisted upon another liberal helping. This plateful did not appear quite so much of an unalloyed delight as the others, still he disposed of it with credit; leaning back, however, with a sigh, and evincing a slight tendency to rise from his seat. I would not let him off yet, and hastily emptied the rest into his plate. He looked at me, grinned helplessly, and began to eat, but with visible reluctance. Finally he laid down his knife and fork, exclaiming earnestly: “Hy-


u meat! Too much ! I guess me klatawa! ” which he did after elaborate parting ceremonies. Members of the writer’s household have ignobly attempted to prick the bubble of her satisfaction by declaring that in the course of an hour Jim would be equal to another square meal, and so on indefinitely. But even granting this, which I do not, I would still regard it as a triumph, for he did actually cry “enouhgh !”

He is an inordinate beggar and seeing a thing is desiring it for his own. He will ask for a ripe watermelon or a chew of tobacco in a deeply solemn tone of voice—a genuine prayer meeting accent. Hearing him in the next room you would think he was pleading with some one to forsake the error of his ways, when in reality he would be begging for a little salt, or “a little bit of pe-lour.” This last puzzled me awhile, but doubtless the reader is able to interpret. Once he had a new and pitiable tale:— “Maybe me go my house, my chillun cry—pappoose hungry ! Me like a little ’bacca !

Upon being asked to what tribe he belonged, he replied that he was “hap Umatilla, hap Snake.” I am sure he did not mean to imply that he was half reptile, but doubtless referred to the Indians who live along the river of that name.

The little band of Indians to which Jim belongs, consisting mainly of his own family connections and blood relations, are of that nondescript type who aro ever to be found upon the outer fringe of civilization—the border land between the white man’s domain and their own rightful territory. They decline to live upon the reservations. They cling, I suppose, to their old haunts, and prefer to eke out a precarious existence along the streams, following the salmon as they ascend or descend the river, hunting the gay and impertinent jack-rabbit with bow and arrow, earning a few dollars each season

at fruit and hop picking—and first, last and always begging whatever they can from the settlers, who perhaps can ill afford to divide their scanty stores; yet the house which turns the “poor Indian” empty away is always the exception. Generally he fares excellently well; and in some cases, as in that of Jim, he is willing to give something as an equivalent—usually inadequate, but still something, which raises him from the mere beggar to the man of business who gives, supposedly, value received for commodities in his special line.

Several thousand years ago—no matter about the exact date—a small boat containing three or four Chinese fishermen was driven by a storm far out to sea, leaving behind all trace of their own shores. While drifting aimlessly about, the mighty Japan current caught their frail craft, and bore it on and on, in spite of their desperate but feeble resistance and their unbounded terror and dismay; until after a certain number of days they effected a landing upon a jutting point of the peninsula of Alaska.

This boat contained one of the remote ancestors of Kallula Jim. Upon the new-found land they discovered a band of natives, and a rude sort of civil ization; and here they took up their abode.

By and by they or their sons or their sons’ sons explored further and further—perhaps the ocean stream had a part in this also—until they reached cur own beautiful country, and here they lived and prospered and grew into a great nation, known afterward to the later “discoverers” who discovered them and their country, as the “North American Indians.” Long ago, we are told, in like manner Ishmael of the wilderness himself became the head of a mighty people, an untamed race—although sprung from the stock of Abraham.

To-day the Chinaman, fresh from his own country, looks with disdain upon this outcast portion of


his nation—a feeling of scorn which the Indian returns in full measure, neither granting the relationship of “cousin,” although the family resemblance tells its own tale. To be sure, the language is lost— but when we consider how this may occur even when it has become fixed and crystalized, as it were, in writing, we cannot wonder that the Indian of to-day has a new language of his own, unlike any other spoken tongue. Much of this change may be laid to the diversity of occupation, climatic conditions, and other environments, but so many centuries have elapsed that the change has become permanent; and there remains but a faint trace here and there, some fancied resemblance to the speech of some other nation--enough to get the eager student hopelessly in the toils, but not enough to prove anything to his satisfaction.

The various little tribes or bands of Indians scattered throughout the Northwest have each its separate language, but all have learned the crude and outrageous “Chinook,” a jargon created by the rudest, most uneducated class who ever invaded their domain, before the whites claimed it as their own. It appears contrary to our theories that such a ‘‘language” as this, formed solely for commercial purposes, and containing no syntax, no anything but a jumble of absurd phrases, should come in general use as a means of communication between the two races, yet it is true.

Perched high up on the steep and rocky bank of the Columbia River, just beyond “high water mark” is the small village of tepees which forms the summer home of the little band of Indians to which Kallula Jim belongs. Each autumn, as the days begin to shorten and the frosts appear, the village is busily engaged in turning the open, airy structures into warmer winter quarters. Bark is carried in large quantities and piled along the sides, hut fashion, --6--

earth is used outside the bark, the tent itself is strengthened and fortified by every conceivable fabric which may be obtained of the settlers free of charge—and when the Siwash considers his work a complete and perfect thing, he squats contentedly by his small fire of drift which always burns in the centre of a true Indian wigwam, and puts in the winter as best he may; considering it a necessary evil, it is true, but still an evil which is not without its mitigations. They had just arrived at this stage in their arrangements, at Kallula Jim’s village, when one day the rollicking Chinook wind came their way—like a sailor let loose on a furlough. It proceeded on its explorations, with many a gust and flurry, and now and then a fury and strength which shows us, away off from salt water, some thing of what it may do when in company with its own ocean current, in the capacity of trade wind.

When It perceived the bunch of tepees, it laughed in its glee, and proceeded, in a spirit of pure wantonness and mischief, to demolish and scatter them abroad—carrying portions of some of them for a mile or two along the sage-brush-covered country.

For a time all was wild excitement and confusion —Chinook wind and Chinook language mingled with choice Indian, and over all a cloud of dust and smoke; while each sought his own special belongings, chasing them, overtaking them and anchoring them with rocks or tying them securely to the sagebrush.

Then all the painstaking preparations for the winter had to be repeated; the tents pitched, the patches replaced, and the white settlers called upon to contribute anew. I think that an ancient counterpane, once the property of the writer, now serves as portiere in the boudoir of Kallula Jim’s winter residence, flanked upon the one hand by a gunny-sack, on the other by a portion of a saddle blanket.


Kallula takes all such vicissitudes in the true philosophical spirit. Though year by year his age tells upon him—for he is getting to be an old Indian now—and though by no possibility is there anything better in store for him, still he crouches over his bit of a fire and eats his dried salmon, and life is sweeter, no doubt, to him than to you or me.

The next day after the storm found him making his rounds with his usual thoroughness, his bow if anything a little more complete, his expressions of undying friendship a little more fervent. When he returned to his family he staggered under a bundle like a peddler’s pack, and had eaten four dinners.</ab></div>
                <div type="images"><ab> 
Chief Joseph Leader of Non-Treaty Nez Perces

[pgbrk] </ab></div>

                <div type="articles"><ab> 


Written for The Dilettante.



Going down the Southampton High street early one clear frosty morning to catch the train for Winchester, I came accidentally upon the prettiest picture I saw in all my rambles. The grand old street is spanned about midway by the “Bargate,” a picturesque, grey stone gateway having three arches. In ancient times this was the principal entrance to the old walled town, and had a drawbridge to lower across the moat or canal which then surrounded the wall. Interesting as the old structure undoubtedly is as a relic of the almost forgotten Past, it is a great inconvenience to traffic, and blocks often occur. On one side of the gate is an old-fashioned hostelry known as the George Inn, with large yard and stables in the rear, and on the morning in question, just as I reached the spot, there slowly filed out of the Inn yard “all the Queen’s horses and all the Queen’s men.”

Kings and Queens have always been somewhat difficult furniture to transport. Long ago when Louis XV of France used to “prosecute his conquests in Flanders,” among other small necessaries a whole troupe of players with all their theatrical properties had to be sent along with him. Times have changed since then, but rumor has it that our Queen never travels without her horses and her feather bed. There were the horses anyhow. Her Majesty was traveling from London to Osborne in the Isle of Wight, and the horses had been stabled for the night in Southampton. As they pulled up in front of the massive old gateway, the high-mettled creatnres with their pretty coats and smartly dressed grooms; horses fit for riding and driving,


shaggy Shetlands for the children, and the two fat grey donkeys that draw the Queen’s Bath chair; they made a lovely picture in the morning sunlight.

In the days of my childhood the twelve miles run from Southampton to Winchester took you through lovely old villages with thatched roofs and rose-covered porches, seen here and there among the trees. Now the defiling arms of the busy town have reached out to the rural beanty, and rows of mean brick houses with cheap stucco ornaments already falling into decay, spoil the scene on every hand. But the ancient city is reached at last, and leaving the station behind me, with a sigh of content I stepped back into the Middle Ages. No noisy cars, no electric lights, no great flaunting stores—but red tiled roofs, and quaint old gables, narrow streets and lovely bits of masonry, the green seclusion of the Close; and standing grim and grey among its sheltering limes, worn with the sun and storm of well nigh a thousand years—the old Cathedral.

It was close upon eleven, the hour for morning service, and the great bells were chiming in the tower, so I hurried across the grassy enclosure which surrounds the ancient pile and entering by the West door walked up toward the front and sat down in a chair just without the choir. Presently two old men in black robes bustled about locking and unlocking gates, two or three worshippers went up the stairs within the screen, the bells ceased and the organ began to play. The black-robed men came back carrying black sticks with gold ornaments, and followed by two clergy and six choir men. These with much ceremony were led up the stairs and to their places within the screen, and the service began.

There was some beautiful singing—voices rising and falling in exquisite melody in the grand old chants, sounding dim and dreamy in the distance and dying softly away amid the silence and vastness


of the nave. Soon it was over. The black sticks turned up from somewhere and took clergy and choir out again, and the few worshippers departed. Few things strike me more strangely than the daily service at some of our cathedrals. So much pomp and ceremony, such exquisite music and singing kept up at great cost, and so few to come and take part. A great national church past whose doors the busy stream of the nation’s life hurries—but alas! enters not. I called later on upon a lady engaged in evangelistic work among the poor of Winchester. She had sold her carriage and horses and had the stable converted into a decent meeting room for the lads and men she was trying to reach. A stable ! with that glorious cathedral practically useless at her very door.

I walked around the building after service; saw the memorial to Jane Austen, the English novelist; the beautiful new tomb of Samuel Wilberforce; the magnificent screen, begun by Beaufort, completed by Fox, and destroyed by that fierce iconoclast, Oliver Cromwell, and his men, whose way is blazed through all the churches in the land, from far-away Scotland to the South, by broken windows and mutilated statuary. Dean Kitchen, a zealous churchman and learned antiquarian, to whom every stone in the old pile was precious, during his term of office undertook the task of restoring it. In the centre is the Cross, and in perpendicular niches arrayed in three tiers, figures of saints. St. Swithin is there, patron saint of the church. There is a queer old legend connected with his name. Once upon a time his bones were supposed to work miracles, and thus to confer both fame and wealth upon the place of his burial. The monks of a rival establishment therefore determined to steal them at night, but were prevented by forty days’ continuous rain—real English rain which made digging impossible; and


coming to the conclusion that Heaven was against them, they desisted. But it is still believed in rural districts that if it rain on St. Swithin’s day, it will rain for forty days after.

One of the loveliest features of the Cathedral is the chantries. There are seven: small enclosures of the most exquisite stone carving—walls of lace work —containing the tombs of the Cathedral benefactors. The great west window is a strange piece of crazy patchwork made of coloured glass; fragments gathered up by reverent hands from the shattered windows after Oliver’s visit. And to me from the days of my childhood, no pleasure was greater than to stand beneath that window on a summer evening when the slanting rays of the setting sun streamed through it, and fell in many-colored glory upon the pillars of the nave.

A poem in stone, not light and fanciful as a lyric or a song, but grand, soul-stirring, severe, solemn as an epic, is the ancient church. What changes has it seen—of belief, of life ! What sorrows has it sheltered—what broken hearts comforted ! Man’s work, fruit of his thought and labor of his hands; yet he has vanished and his thoughts have widened and changed—and the work remains.
                <div type="poetry"><ab> 

The soft-aired gloaming, purple-hued, Throbs with the beat of winnowing wings, And with a wailing music rings;

The culvers speed to yonder wood, Wing-weary, yet with eager flight.

Silence is now the name of night,

Save when a startled curlew’s cry Ruffles the hushed monotony.

William Sharp.



Ill canst thou bide where memories are so brief Thou that hast bathed thy leaf

Deep in the shadowy past, and known strange things Of crumbled queens and kings;

Thou whose green kindred in years half forgot, Robed the gray battlements of Camelot.

Through all thy fibers’ intricate expanse Hast thou breathed sweet romance;

Ladies that long are dust hast thou beheld Through dreamy days of eld;

Watched in gay castle-courts the merry lights Bathe gaudy banners and resplendent knights.

And thou hast seen, on ancient lordly lawns,

The timorous dappled fawns;

Heard pensive pages with their suave lutes play Some low Provencal lay;

Marked beauteous dames through arrased chambers glide,

With lazy and graceful staghounds at their side.

And thou hast gazed on splendid cavalcades Of nobles, matrons, maids,

Winding from castle gates on breezy morns,

With golden peals of horns,

In velvet and brocade, in plumes and silk,

With falcons, and with falcons white as milk.

Through convent casements thou hast peered, and there

Viewed the meek nun at prayer;

Seen, through rich panes dyed purple, gold and rose, Monks read old folios;

On abbey walls heard wild laughs thrill thy vine When the fat tonsured priests quaffed ruby wine.

O ivy, having lived in times like these,

Here art thou ill at ease;

For thou art one with ages passed away,

We are of yesterday !

Short retrospect, slight ancestry is ours,

But thy dark leaves clothe history’s haughty towers !

Edgar Fawcett in Collier's Weekty.




“Deal gently with us, ye who read,”

The poet sadly doth beseech:

“The flowering moments of our mind Drop half their petals in our speech.”

He might have added, the unskilled

Prevaricating fisherman doth ever say The largest beauty in his “catch”

Is not a marker to the ones that got away.  * * *
                <div type="articles"><ab> 

A Spokane youth, unwilling to rise betimes in the morning, was advancing various arguments to offset the importunities of his family. As a final inducement his mother announced that it was nearly eight o’clock.

“It oughtn’t to be,” quoth the youth, with laughable sincerity and a naivete quite diverting.


* *


In a Spokane family there abides a domestic who is a native of that land which contributes most argely to America’s population. She was waiting on the table one morning when the members of the family were discussing a bit of gossip which was not entirely harmless. Nora’s mistress, erroneously thinking that the girl might have overheard the conversation, turned to her with the caution, “You won’t mention this to anybody, Nora.”

“Mintion what, ma’am ?” demanded Nora eagerly; and upon being assured that it was nothing of any consequence, she retorted with the Hibernian threat:

“But I want to know. Indeed, I will mintion it if ye don,t tell me what it is !”




It is generally conceded that an historical novel gives one a clearer idea of past events than does the plain chronicle of the professional historian. Facts cling better in the memory if they are intertwined with romance, and there is surely no harm in humoring one’s mind by allowing it to absorb knowledge in the pleasantest way. Robert W. Chambers has written a story of the Siege of Paris which makes one realize the horror and strangeness of that experience of a great city. The leading characters are two young war correspondents—Americans— who stay in Paris when the other journalists fly, and are then obliged to remain till the city surrenders. Two young French girls supply the necessary feminine element, and the double love story does not interfere with a very effective narrative of military movements and blunders, Paris’ internal discords, and the political condition of the nation:	“Trochu,

the sombre mystic, the Breton Governor of republican Paris, moved on his darkened way, a flash of tinselled pomp, a shred of pageantry, the last paladin riding back into the gloom of the Middle Ages, seeking light, fleeing light, wrapped to the eyes in the splendid mantle of the Trinity. So he rode, esquired by Faith, dreaming of saints and quests of chivalry, pondering miracles. As a figure for a Gobelin tapestry, Gen. Trochu would have been useful; in no other capacity, save perhaps in a cloister, would he have been of use in the nineteenth century. ”

The characters are well drawn—Harewood, “the hare-brained suckling of journalism;” Bourke, his comrade, “who understood the younger man and would have laid down his life for him any hour of the day, knowing that Harewood would not do the same for him;” the two innocent Breton girls and


their tame lioness; the sinister figure of “The Mouse” —all of these pursue their characteristic vocations to an accompaniment of cannon-shots and famine. The thread of the story is a little obscure at times, and the figure of “Red Riding Hood” recalls Dickens’ uncanny child characters; but on the whole “Ashes of Empire” is a book you can read and then conscientiously recommend to your friends.

Published by the Fred. A. Stokes Co., New York. Price $1.25.


* *


“Sielanka, a Forest Picture,” is the sketch which gives its title to a volume containing all the short stories of Sienkiewicz’s collected works. Some of these tales have an American background, as “For Bread,” “Across the Plains,” and one or two others; but they are mostly pictures of Polish life. Each one is a masterpiece—startling, as are all the works of this great Pole, who has none of the English tendency to discreetly ignore some corners of human nature. He will never adopt the system pursued by the clever young editor of the Ladies' Home Journal, who sternly refuses to allow any sinful word, such as whisky or beer, to defile the immaculate pages of his journal. Sienkiewicz might surprise a disciple of that system. He holds up humanity and life it is, without any merciful disguises. Even those of us who consider a more reticent attitude desirable, must admit that if his thought is daring, the serious splendor of the language that clothes it makes criticism impossible.

With equal force he writes of widely different aspects and conditions of life. Nothing could surpass the pathetic little histories of children, “The Diary of a Tutor in Poznan,” and “Yanko the Musician.” “For Bread” tells the tragic experience of a simple Polish peasant and his daughter, wiled to America


by a crafty German agent who received a commission from the steamship company for each immigrant whom he lured across the sea:—

The German told Vavron miracles and wonders about America. He promised him more land for nothing than there was in all Lipintse, and with a forest, and with meadows; Vavron’s eyes laughed; he believed and he did not believe. But the Jew dairyman supported the German, and said the Government there gave each man as much land “as he could use.” The German showed an amount of money which not only a peasant’s eyes, but even the eyes of an heir, had not seen in his lifetime. They tempted the man till they convinced him. Why should he stay at home ? . . . Was he to yield himself to ruin ? Was he to take a staff in his hand and sing at the chnrch, “Holy, heavenly, angelic Lady?” “Nothing of that will come !” thought he. He struck hands with the German, sold out before Saint Michaels, took his daughter, and now he was sailing to America.

The story is pitiful, told with the force of truth and genius. There are other tales in a lighter vein, —all translated by Jeremiah Curtain, whose work is receiving many well-merited eulogiums. The volume is large and contains nearly six hundred pages. Published by Little, Brown &amp; Co., Boston. Price $2.00.

* *



It is hard to analyze the charm of these simple college tales by Chas. Macomb Flandrau; but the charm is there. In the pathetic little sketch, “Wellington,” the author makes Mrs. Haydock say, when she visits her son at Harvard, “Even the ones who feel the place, just as if they had been here themselves, can’t express it.” Mr. Flandrau can “express it;” he communicates to his readers his own feeling for Harvard, and makes even those who never saw the place realize it as if by the light of memory. The stories are deftly written, too—clean


and virile narratives of college happenings. There are seven stories in the volume; “Wolcott the Magnificent” is the longest and most striking. “A Class Day Idyl” is an absurd, delightful little comedy of errors in which the hero is a fastidious, blase young Harvard student, reserved and exclusive, who by a malign arrangement of circumstances is compelled to escort through the principal streets of Cambridge, on Class Day. “a moon-faced tub of a woman I’d never seen before, rigged out in a crimson harness, hanging on to me as if she’d brought me into the world, and doing some sort of a can-can on the sidewalk, like a hypnotized old cobra.”

Those who love brutal, happy youth, with its complete and charming egotism, its priceless freshness of feeling, will find rare enjoyment in this book. Published by Copeland &amp; Day, Boston. Price $1.25


* *


“Cyrano de Bergerac” has taken America by storm. The most unique and stirring drama of modern times is Edmond Rostand’s history of this real person—this picturesque martyr with the exaggerated nose. Cyrano, the noble braggart, keenwitted, erratic, supremely unfortunate as the world counts fortune, is a strangely compelling figure. We say he is magnificent—on the stage or in a book; if we knew one like him in real life we would all help to crush him. He is the greatest dramatic figure of the century, perhaps. He sacrifices himself with the irritating if sublime willingness of a Jean Valjean; he is eloquent, brave, and others receive the reward of his eloquence and bravery. His only triumph is the knowledge that “spite of your worst, something will still be left me to take whither I go ... I carry forth unblemished and unbent . . . my plume !” The drama has been translated by Gertrude Hall


and while it inevitably loses much sprightliness in the process, yet the resultant volume takes a wonderful hold on the reader’s imagination. The ballad of the Gascony Cadets is what Mr. Frank Munsey would call a “rattling good” translation. It has the true Parisian ring.

Cyrano’s creed of life is summed up as follows by himself, in conversation with his friend:—

“To sing, dream, laugh, loaf, be single, be free, have eyes that look squarely, a voice with a ring; wear, if he chooses, his hat hindside afore; for a yes, for a no, fight a duel or turn a ditty ! Work, without concern of fortune or of glory, to accomplish the heart’s desired journey to the moon ! Put forth nothing that has not its spring in the very heart, yet, modest, say to himself, Old man, be satisfied with blossoms, fruits, yea, leaves alone, so they be gathered in your garden and not another man’s !’ Then, if it happen that to some small extent he triumph, be obliged to render of the glory, to Caesar, not one jot, but honestly appropriate it all. In short, scorning to be the parasite, the creeper, if even failing to be the oak, rise, not perchance to a great height—but rise alone !”

“One does not fight because there is hope of winning !” he says at the last. “It is much finer to fight when it is no use !” And that is what he has been doing all his life. . . . Richard Mansfield is playing Cyrano in in New York—but we can hardly hope to see him play the role in Spokane before we enter the twentieth century. He and the role are made for each other, Cyrano being a man after his own heart.

Gertrude Hall’s translation is published by the Doubleday &amp; McClure Co., New York, in a dainty little scarlet and gold booklet. Price, 50 ct.; or it will be sent postpaid on approval, to be paid for after examination, or returned if unsatisfactory. “The Day’s Work,” (reviewed in another column) will also be sent on approval if desired.



Despite the fact that the great public has given Rudyard Kipling the highest place among modern writers, there are still those who refuse to inscribe their names in the list of his adorers. There are even persons who consider his “Recessional” pompous and entirely false in tone—in which opinion they are upheld by Mr. Kipling himself, who, after writing the poem, immediately consigned it to the wastepaper basket; from which appropriate receptacle it was dragged by a misguided member of his family—we are told—and given to the world. Mr. Kipling’s stories, however, are unlike any other stories that ever were written, and originality of any sort is precious. He has a brutal kind of faculty for saying what he wishes to say in a striking manner, and the exuberance and variety of the slang and “swear words” with which his tales are embellished makes even a native of the wild West feel envious.

There is nothing new to be said concerning Mr. Kipling’s book of short stories just published, “The Day’s Work.” It contains a dozen tales, and some of them impress favorably even so lukewarm an admirer of Kipling as the writer of this note. I have read several of them before in various magazines— “William the Conqueror,” a story of famine in India; “The Tomb of his Ancestors,” a weirdly grotesque tale of the superstitious natives of India and their deification of a callow young English subaltern; “007,” the story of a locomotive; and others equally notable. The book is undoubtedly one which will be received with joy by the several millions of people who believe that Kipling is the greatest genius of the age

Published by Doubleday &amp; McMlure Co.; $1.50.


* *


This is the season of the year when books are


viewed with special interest because of their fitness for holiday gifts. The bookmakers’ art has become so perfected that the works of our favorite authors can now be procured in bindings which are things of beauty in themselves. A good book deserves to be clothed royally; to see the works of Tennyson, Thackeray, Shakespeare, arrayed in cheap cloth or paper coverings and poor type, strikes me as a profanation. It is incongruous—like seeing a beautiful woman clad in an iil-fitting calico gown.

The various publishers offer a bewildering list of new books which are equally attractive inside and out—and there are also new editions of old favorites. For instance, Rand, McNally and Co. of Chicago advertise an exquisite edition of “Romola,” the greatest novel that George Eliot or any other woman ever wrote. It has over fifty full page illustrations in monogravure from original photographs; in two volumes, handsomely bound and printed.

Among the latest volumes concerning the war are two by Charles Morris: “The War With Spain,” and “The Nation's Navy.” Both are published by the J. B. Lippincott Co. Doubleday &amp; McClure have an account of “The Fight for Santiago,” by Stephen Bonsai, which is of especial interest to every American. A timely and thoughtful work by Benjamin Kidd is “The Control of the Tropics,” published by the Macmillan Co.

A charming little volume suitable for a gift is “Charles Lamb and the Lloyds”—newly discovered letters by the “Gentle Elia,” the Lloyds and S. T. Coleridge. There are portraits, and the book is exceedingly handsome. J. B. Lippincotts bring it out. The Putnams issue a new book by Marion Harland with the somewhat alarming title, “Where Ghosts Walk.” It is not a hair-raising tale of spectres and “harnts,” however, but merely a study of the “haunts of familiar characters in history and lit-


erature.” The book is decidedly interesting.

Lamson, Wolffe &amp; Co. have a new translation of “Cyrano de Bergerac.” It is the version now being used by Richard Mansfield, and is the third translation in the American market. Howard Thayer Kingsbury of New York is the translator. Paul Bourget’s latest novel is brought out by Meyer Bros. of New York. It is entitled “La Duchesse Bleue.”

A partscularly entertaining book is Cy Warman’s “Story of the Railroad.” It tells the story of pioneer railroad building in the West—a history full of dramatic incident. The book is illustrated with reproductions of photographs, and with drawings by West Clinedinst. Longmans, Green &amp; Co. bring out Stanley Weyman’s “Castle Inn,” which appeared in “Munsey’s” during the past year; while H. S. Stone &amp; Co. publish in book form another late magazine serial, “Gloria Mundi,” Harold Frederic’s last novel. Bret Harte has a new volume of short tales —“Stories in Light and Shadow.” Houghton, Mifflin &amp; Co. are his publishers. Gilbert Parker, author of “Seats of the Mighty,” has written a splendid historical novel which he calls “The Battle of the Strong.” It opens in 1781, when a company of French soldiers is sent to capture the Isle of Jersey from the British. “The Red Axe” is the sanguinary title of S. R. Crocket’s latest book, which is issued from the Harpers’ publishing house.

Richard Badger &amp; Co. announce the publication of a new novel by Julia Magruder, said to be “her longest and most ambitious effort.” The hero is a famous composer and the book is the history of a man’s love story—or stories. “Struan” is the title of the novel. “The Phantom Army” is Max Pemberton’s latest contribution to literature. It is a romantic story of an English soldier of fortune who joins the “phantom army” which has its head-quarters in the mountains of Spain. D. Appleton &amp; Co.


publish the book in uniform style with “Kronstadt.” Maarten Maartens offers a new novel to the public, “Her Memory,” which is described as “a singularly delicate and sympathetic study of character.” These are a few of the good things in the market; but the half is not told.


Last year Charles Dana Gibson illustrated “The People of Dickens” for the Ladies’ Home Journal. The pictures were so successful that during next year W. L. Taplor will illustrate “The People of Longfellow” for the Journol. The first of the series, “Hiawatha and Minnehaha.” appears in the December is sue. Other notable features of this number are: “Washington’s Christmas at Valley Forge;” the second installment of Mary E. Wilkins’ new serial “The Jamesons in the Country;” a felicitous tale of the old South, by Hopkinson Smith; an article by Edward Emerson about the girlhood of Louisa Alcott; and numerous other entertaining things. One page is devoted to pictures of Mary Anderson Navarro, her little boy, and her home in England; another page is filled with portaits of Gen. Lew Wallace at home.

The Saturday Evening Post has a history such as no other paper in this country can boast of. It was purchased by Benjamin Franklin in 1729 and was published by him under the title of The Pennsylvania Gazette until 1765, when it changed hands and was given its present name. It makes a feature of quaint, old-fashioned decorative designs and headings, but is entirely up to date in all other respects. It is an exceedingly attractive journal, having excellent illustrations, stories by well-known authors, notes on current events, editorials ably written. There is a page devoted to the books and literary gossip of the day, and there are always a few amusing little anecdotes “Told After Dinuer ” The paper is published every week at Philadelphia; priee, $2.50 a year, 5 cents a copy.

The calendars given by The Youth’s Companion in former years to all subscribers have been remarkable for their delicacy of design and richness of coloring. But the Calendar for 1899 far surpasses any of those. The publishers have endeavored to make it the finest calendar of the century, and readers of the paper will not be disappointed in it. Those who subscribe now will receive not only the gift of the Calendar, but also all the issues during the remainder of this year, from the time of subscription, free. The new volume will be the best The Companion has ever published. Among the contributions are: “The Little Demons of War,” by John D. Long; “Opportunities for Young Explorers,” Sir Clements Markham; “The Boy with a Voice,” David Bispham; “The Wonders of Somnambulism,” Dr. Wm. A Hammond; “Police Spies in Russia,” by Poultney Bigelow. Fine illustrated announcement and sample copies will be sent to anyone addressing The Youth’s Companton, Boston, Mass.

That the spy sent by the United States government to Spain during the war should have become the guest of Weyler himself seems incredible. Yet there is nothing more true. The govern-


ment selected as its agent a man of position who has lived much in Germany. It was necessary for us to have a trained intellect that would make no mistakes. His story is told in the November Cosmopolitan, and the most exciting pages of Dumas’ fiction seem tame in comparison with the facts. Crossing the frontier in a first-class carriage, he was by a trifling accident brought into conversation with a young Spanish nobleman; presently who should come along, but the son of General Weyler. This acquaintance led to his receiving many attentions from Weyler when they reached Madrid, and the General actually gave up a day to a trip to the Escurial. Imagine this grim arch-enemy of ours laying himself out to please the secret agent whom our government had sent to find out the weak places of Spain. How trifling the demarcation between the position of honored guest and that of spy, who, if discovered, would have been all tne more quickly sent to his death ! The same issue of the Coemopolitan contains four pieces of fiction by such famous authors as Frank Stockton, H. G. Wells, Zangwill, and the lamented Harold Frederic, but none of it so exciting in its interest as this true story.
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My Novel
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It has always been one of my favorite whimwhams that popular education is a mistake and a deadly fallacy. Here in the United States we have given the system a pretty thorough trial, and the semi-educated multitude is seething with discontent and poignant unhappiness. Insurrection and riot thrive in such a soil. The theory of popular education is a beautiful one, but no allowance is made for the bitter fact that society cannot exist without a vast sub-stratum of tillers of the soil, toilers at disagreeable and ill-paid tasks, $1.00 a day laborers galore. Wherefore teach this multitude of slaves to read the newspapers, grow discontented and ripe for revolt? But that is what popular education has done for America. Mr. Ambrose Bierce some time ago wrote a thoughtful essay upon this subject, which I transcribe as being corroborative of my own opinions. It is a gloomy picture, but that it is a true one even the most optimistic pampered drone must admit:—

“A man is not made intelligent by mere ability to read and write; his little learning is a dangerous thing to himself and to his country. The only reading that such men do is of the most degrading kind; it debases them, mind and heart, gives them a false estimate of their worth, magnifies their grievances and fills them with a sense of their numbers and their power. Eventually they ‘rise’ and have to be shot. Or they succeed and having first put to death the gifted rascals who incited and led them, they set up a government of Unreason, which they lack the sense to maintain, and their last state is no better than the first. That is the dull, dreary old sequence of events, so familiar to the student of history. That is the beaten path, leading back to its beginning, that must be traveled again and again without a break in the monotony of the march. That is Pro-


gress—the brute revolt of the ignorant mass, their resubjection by the intelligent few: nowhere justice, nowhere righteousness, everywhere and always force, greed, selfishness and sin. That is the universal struggle—sometimes sluggish, sometimes turbulent, always without an outcome and with no hope of one. Along that hideous path our American feet are merrily keeping time to the beating of hearts which, swelling to-day with the pride of progress, shall shrink to-morrow with the dread of doom.

“What then ? Is popular education mischievous ? Popular education is good for many things; it is not good for the stability of states. Whatever its advantages is has this disadvantage; it produces ‘industrial discontent;’ and industrial discontent is the first visible symptom of national wreck. Prate as we will of the ‘dignity of labor,’ we convince no one that labor is anything other than a hard, imperious necessity, to be avoided if possible. Education promises avoidance—a promise which to the mass of workers is not and cannot be, kept. It brings to Labor a bitter disappointment which in time is transmuted into political mischief. The only man that labors with a song in his heart is he that knows nothing but to labor. Give him education, enlarge by ever so little the scope of his thought, make him accessible to a sense of the pleasures of life and his own privations, and you set up a quarrel between him and his condition. He may remain in his lowly station, but that will be because he cannot get out of it. He may continue to perform his hard and hateful work, but he will no longer perform it well.

"What is the remedy ?—educate him still more ? Then he will no longer perform it at all; he will die first. Those of us who have tried both may assure him that head-work is harder than hand-work, that it takes more out of one, that its rewards give no


greater happiness; he observes that none of us renounce it for the other kind. He does not believe us, and it would not affect him if he did. What, as a matter of fact, is the public advantage of even that higher education which we tax ourselves more and more to make more general ? Look at our overcrowded professions, whose ‘ethics’ and practice grow worse and worse from increasing competition. Not one of them is any longer a really ‘honorable’ profession. Look at the monstrous outgrowth of our cities, those congested brains of the nation. They draw to themselves all the output of the colleges and the universities, and as much of that of the country schools as can get a precarious foothold and live—God knows how—in the hope to ‘better its condition.’ A pretty picture, truly; a population roughly divisible into a conscienceless crowd of brain-workers who have so bettered their condition’ as to live by prey; a sullen multitude of manual-laborers blowing the coals of discontent and plotting a universal overthrow. Above the one perch the primping monkeys of ‘society,’ chattering in meaningless glee; below the other the brute tramp welters in his grime. And with it all a national wealth that amazes the world and profits no human being—the country’s wonder, pride and curse ! Still we go on in maniacal hope, adding school to school, college to college, university to university and—unconscious provision for their product—almshouses, asylums and prisons in prodigal abundance.”




Judging from the utterances of a great many prominent members of the Republican party and of the Republican press, the Republican party is in favor of the adoption of the policy of expansion. I should like to refer to some of the effects that the adoption of the policy of expansion by the Republican party in distinction to the adoption of this policy by the nation at large will have upon the future of this party.

The war which has forced on us the consideration of the adoption of the expansion policy was begun, carried on and brought to a successful termination while we had a Republican president and while the Republicans had a majority in the House and were also the most powerful party in the Senate, therefore, though we may at present be of the opinion that the jingoes of both parties brought on the war against the will of the President and in opposition to the judgment of many of the ablest men of both parties, yet as time passes the war with all its results will be credited to the Republican party. We see this has resulted to some extent already from the fact that the Democrats seek to make political capital out of the failure of Gen. Alger in the organization of the commissariat and of the transportation, while the Republicans defend the administration. In politics it is difficult, in fact almost impossible, to stand merely on the defensive, and the fact that the war was eminently successful will lead Republicans to act on the aggressive on this point, the result being that they will take credit to themselves for its successful termination. In regard to these two phases of the war the advantage lies with the Republicans for the reason that the war considered from immediate results was very successful in


spite of any mismanagement which may be attributed to the Republican administration, and as each day passes the remembrance of losses sustained will grow fainter; and history is made up of results, even though its lessons can only be understood by a careful consideration of the influences and conditions that have brought them about. The Democrats, therefore, if they gain any political success by charging the Rebublican administration with mismanagement must do so speedily and they can hardly gain any advantage by making such an attack at the next presidential election. We may, then, safely conclude that any permanent political advantage on account of the conduct of the war will result to the Republican party.

It is in the position the two parties take with reference to the questions which the war has bequeathed to us as a nation that will be of interest, and without troubling to consider the position the Democrats or any other party may take, I wish to point out the dilemma the Republican party may find itself in if it adopts the policy of expansion to the extent of acquiring the Philippines, Cuba and Puerto Rico, in addition io Hawaii.

The Republican party has always been, and is now, the party of protection. The Dingley tariff is one of high protection. The Republican press is full of statements and assertions that the present prosperity is due to the enactment of a high tariff and a return to the principles of protection. The campaign speeches of Republican orators are largely made up of similar statements. The dilemma that the Republican party will find itself in is the reconciliation of the policy of expansion with a high tariff.

The acquisition of these islands means free trade between them and the United States, for the Republican party will hardly venture to advocate the enactment of separate tariffs for Cuba, Puerto Rico,


Hawaii and the Philippines; in such case Congress will have its hands full preparing tariffs, for though one tariff might do for Puerto Rico and Cuba, it is not reasonable to expect that the same tariff would answer far the Philippines and Hawaii; therefore, if the Republican party advocate the enactment of tariffs for these islands they will have to enact at least three separate tariffs and the country will soon have a surfeit of tariff legislation.

The Republicans cannot advocate surrounding each of these islands with the same tariff that the United States has for a number of reasons, one of which is conclusive. The imposition of our tariff upon these islands would defeat the objects which the Republicans say are to be gained by the policy of expansion, viz: new markets for our goods; as the manufacturers who would advocate such a tariff for these islands would be “hoisted by their own petard.”

Let us consider next what will be the effect on the Republican party if these islands are incorporated into the United States for all commercial purposes. In such a case they wonld be for all purposes of commerce additional states of the Union and between them and the United States the utmost free trade would exist. The dilemma the Republicans would find themselves in in such a case would be that they will be confronted with the question that if free trade is a desirable thing between these islands and the United States why is it not an equally good thing between the United States and other portions of the world. Of course they will advance the argument that these islands do not manufacture, to which the reply will be that there are a great many countries similarly situated and that therefore it will be to our interest to have the utmost free trade with them; so they will find it difficult to explain their course in advocating the policy of


protection in theory and by adopting the policy of expansion forcing themselves to abandon it in practice. But this will have a more serious effect on the Republican party than merely forcing it to defend the consistency of its course by the reasoning of the opportunists. Considering the position of these islands, in case of absolute free trade between them and the United States their products will mostly come into competition with the products of the Southern States. Their sugar and tobacco will certainly compete with the same products raised in the South. Oranges and other fruits raised on these islands will compete with the fruits of California and Florida and other portions of the South, and other products will also come into competition with those of the South. The result will be that the South will suffer all the evils of foreign competition and bear all the burdens of a high protective tariff. Now it has been pointed out by some that one of the advantages of the war has been the promotion of friendly feelings between the North and South—I even heard this advanced as one of the reasons why the war should be commenced. Even if such is the happy result of the war, can it be hoped that the South will maintain these friendly feelings when it is called upon to bear all the burdens and to suffer all the disadvantages ? If this policy of expansion is persisted in and a high tariff is maintained the South will be forced into an uncompromising opposition to protection, and this opposition will extend to wherever the products of these islands come into competition with those raised in the United States and will certainly extend to California (at present a Republican state), and other sections in the North which are now Republican in sentiment —especially when we consider that the products of these islands are raised by cheap Chinese and Coolie labor; which consideration will enlist the labor vote


in opposition to the Republican party.

As the doctors say, we have an “interesting case” and it will be quite interesting to watch developments.	Charles Grant.
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Bold artist of the facile pen,

Whose fertile fancy every glen And lonely dell of Scotland’s height Hath peopled with romantic knight.

No secret cave or forest glade But yields the form of lovely maid !

In every field of rhyme and song That charms the ear of public throng— Romance and ditty, sonnet, lay, Tradition, fancy, fairy, fay—

Great juggler of the jingling rhyme,

I doff my bonnet to your chime And would as humbly doff my hat If you had deigned to call it that!

In epic, idyl, lyric, lurk

The traces of your master-work;

In “Ivanhoe” and “Kenilworth,'’ “Midlothian,” “Fair Maid of Perth;”

Thy wizard touch, who knows it not! Magician, poet -Walter Scott !

D. Howard Gwinn.
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Published monthly by The Dilettante Publishing Company. Postoffice address, Box 1706.

Subscription price, 75 cents per year. Single copies 10 cents.

Entered at the Spokane post-office as Second-Class matter.

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TO CONTRIBUTORS—Short sketches, tales and essays will be welcome, though no contributions will be paid for.

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Associate Proprietor and Supt. Bookkeeping and Actual Business Practice Department.


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Principal German, Literature, History and Physical Culture.


Principal Telegraphy, Latin, Greek, Spanish, French and Asst. Bookkeeping Departments.

PROF. FRANZ MUELLER, Teacher of Music.


Principal Assaying and Metallurgy Departments,


Assistant Teacher Bookkeeping and Actual Office Practice.


Teacher English and Landscape Oil Painting.


Teacher Oil, Water Colors and China Painting.

MRS. LENORA ITA NICHOLSON, Teacher Guitar, Mandolin and Banjo


Engelhorn &amp; Dehuff,

321-323-325 Riverside Ave. 	'Phone No. 586. Spokane, Wash

Helena Business College



PROF. H. Z. AUSTIN, (For 13 years connected with Dept, of Public Inst, at Hawaiian Islands) Resident Principal and Business Manager; also Principal Bookkeeping, Penmanship and Normal Departments.

MISS MARY T. WILLIAMS, (Formerly of Detroit Pernin Phonog. Institute) Principal Shorthand, Typewriting and Postal Shorthand Departments,

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