It seems that biography as well as history will have to be re-written in the light of modern progress. Appleton’s Cyclopedia of American Biography has sent out its first volume, edited by Gen. Wilson and Prof. John Fiske. The sources of this volume do not promise much liberality, and the first volume does not show it. While professing to record the lives of all who are eminent or noteworthy, it fulfils this promise by recording many who are not very eminent or noteworthy; indeed, Mr. Lowell says, by way of commendation, that he has hunted for obscure names and found them. What then is the reason of the omission of the Hon. Cassius M. Clay, our former minister to Russia, one of the most conspicuous figures for many years in American politics and par excellence, the lion of the struggle which ended in negro emancipation? His life, recently published is a volume of fascinating and romantic interest. Mr. Clay might treat this omission as the old Roman said of having a statue in the forum–that he would rather men should ask why he had no statue there, than to ask why his statue was there. Dr. Joseph Rodes Buchanan is briefly noticed, his name incorrectly spelled, a catalogue of his publications given, and a volume attributed to him which was written by the notorious Dr. John Buchanan of Philadelphia. But nothing is said of the new school of philosophy, or of the new sciences, established by Dr. Buchanan. Evidently this is old fogy biography. The editors have gathered their material with a scoop, unable to distinguish between dirt, pebbles and jewels. Nevertheless they have made a valuable record if not a fair one.

The public mind has been greatly stirred upon the subject of monopolies and legislative abuses; but there are some glaring evils, which a short statute might suppress, that are flourishing unchecked.

Speculative dealers in the necessaries of life have learned how to build colossal fortunes by extortion from the entire nation, and the nation submits quietly because gambling competition is the fashion. The late Charles Partridge endeavored to show up these evils and have them suppressed. We need another Partridge to complete the work he undertook.

A despatch to the Boston Herald, March 5, shows how the game has been played in Chicago on the pork market:

“‘Phil Armour must have been getting ready for this break for three months,’ said a member of the board of trade to-day. ‘Since September last he has visited nearly every large city in the country. He knows from observation where all the pork is located, and, having cornered it, his southern trip was a scheme to throw his enemies off the scent, and enable his brokers to quietly strengthen the corner. His profits and Plankinton’s cannot be less than $3,000,000.’

“But if Armour and his old Milwaukee side partner have made money, so have hundreds of others here. A messenger boy in the board of trade drew $100 from a savings bank on Monday last at 11 o’clock and margined 100 barrels of pork. To-day the lad deposited $1,000, and has $300 for speculation next week.

“Those poor snorts who are expecting to have pork to-day to make their settlement, paid $21. Anything less was scouted. ‘You will have to pay $25 next Saturday night,’ was all the comfort afforded.

“An advance of 2 cents a bushel in wheat was also scored by the bulls to-day. The explanation is that the several big wheat syndicates encouraged by the action of pork have made an alliance. The talk at the hotels to-night is that Armour has started in to buy wheat.”

We have laws that forbid boycotting, and they are enforced in New York and New Haven by two recent decisions. Financial extortion is an equal crime, and needs a law for its suppression. Why is the metropolitan press silent? Have the syndicates too much influence? Will editors who read these lines speak out?

In the last North American Review, James F. Hudson, in an essay on “Modern Feudalism,” says:–

“The conquest of all departments of industry by the power of combination has just begun. But the mere beginning has imposed unwarrantable taxes on the fuel, light, and food of the masses. It has built up vast fortunes for the combining classes, drawn from the slender means of millions. It has added an immense stimulant to the process, already too active, of making the rich richer and the poor poorer. The tendency in this direction is shown by the arguments with which the press has teemed for the past two months, that the process of combination is a necessary feature of industrial growth, and that the competition which fixes the profits of every ordinary trader, investor or mechanic, must be abolished for the benefit of great corporations, while kept in full force against the masses of producers and consumers, between whom the barriers of these combinations are interposed.”

From Buchanan’s Journal of Man, May 1887.

ASSES MUST NOT EXPECT TO BE FONDLED

From The Baby’s Own Aesop, by Walter Crane. 1887 (Page 52)

Some three hundred years since, when the convent of Kreutzberg was in its glory, one of the monks who dwelt therein, wishing to ascertain something of the hereafter of those whose bodies lay all undecayed in the cemetery, visited it alone in the dead of night for the purpose of prosecuting his inquiries on that fearful subject. As he opened the trap-door of the vault a light burst from below; but deeming it to be only the lamp of the sacristan, the monk drew back and awaited his departure concealed behind the high altar. The sacristan emerged not, however, from the opening; and the monk, tired of waiting, approached, and finally descended the rugged steps which led into the dreary depths. No sooner had he set foot on the lower-most stair, than the well-known scene underwent a complete transformation in his eyes. He had long been accustomed to visit the vault, and whenever the sacristan went thither, he was almost sure to be with him. He therefore knew every part of it as well as he did the interior of his own narrow cell, and the arrangement of its contents was perfectly familiar to his eyes. What, then, was his horror to perceive that this arrangement, which even but that morning had come under his observation as usual, was altogether altered, and a new and wonderful one substituted in its stead.

A dim lurid light pervaded the desolate abode of darkness, and it just sufficed to give to his view a sight of the most singular description.

On each side of him the dead but imperishable bodies of the long-buried brothers of the convent sat erect in their lidless coffins, their cold, starry eyes glaring at him with lifeless rigidity, their withered fingers locked together on their breasts, their stiffened limbs motionless and still. It was a sight to petrify the stoutest heart; and the monk’s quailed before it, though he was a philosopher, and a sceptic to boot. At the upper end of the vault, at a rude table formed of a decayed coffin, or something which once served the same purpose, sat three monks. They were the oldest corses in the charnel-house, for the inquisitive brother knew their faces well; and the cadaverous hue of their cheeks seemed still more cadaverous in the dim light shed upon them, while their hollow eyes gave forth what looked to him like flashes of flame. A large book lay open before one of them, and the others bent over the rotten table as if in intense pain, or in deep and fixed attention. No word was said; no sound was heard; the vault was as silent as the grave, its awful tenants still as statues.

Fain would the curious monk have receded from this horrible place; fain would he have retraced his steps and sought again his cell; fain would he have shut his eyes to the fearful scene; but he could not stir from the spot, he felt rooted there; and though he once succeeded in turning his eyes to the entrance of the vault, to his infinite surprise and dismay he could not discover where it lay, nor perceive any possible means of exit. He stood thus for some time. At length the aged monk at the table beckoned him to advance. With slow tottering steps he made his way to the group, and at length stood in front of the table, while the other monks raised their heads and glanced at him with a fixed, lifeless look that froze the current of his blood. He knew not what to do; his senses were fast forsaking him; Heaven seemed to have deserted him for his incredulity. In this moment of doubt and fear he bethought him of a prayer, and as he proceeded he felt himself becoming possessed of a confidence he had before unknown. He looked on the book before him. It was a large volume, bound in black, and clasped with bands of gold, with fastenings of the same metal. It was inscribed at the top of each page

“Liber Obedientiae.”

He could read no further. He then looked, first in the eyes of him before whom it lay open, and then in those of his fellows. He finally glanced around the vault on the corpses who filled every visible coffin in its dark and spacious womb. Speech came to him, and resolution to use it. He addressed himself to the awful beings in whose presence he stood, in the words of one having authority with them.

“Pax vobis,” ’twas thus he spake–”Peace be to ye.”

“Hic nulla pax,” replied an aged monk, in a hollow, tremulous tone, baring his breast the while–”Here is no peace.”

He pointed to his bosom as he spoke, and the monk, casting his eye upon it, beheld his heart within surrounded by living fire, which seemed to feed on it but not consume it. He turned away in affright, but ceased not to prosecute his inquiries.

“Pax vobis, in nomine Domini,” he spake again–”Peace be to ye, in the name of the Lord.”

“Hic non pax,” the hollow and heartrending tones of the ancient monk who sat at the right of the table were heard to answer.

On glancing at the bared bosom of this hapless being also the same sight was exhibited–the heart surrounded by a devouring flame, but still remaining fresh and unconsumed under its operation. Once more the monk turned away and addressed the aged man in the centre.

“Pax vobis, in nomine Domini,” he proceeded.

At these words the being to whom they were addressed raised his head, put forward his hand, and closing the book with a loud clap, said–

“Speak on. It is yours to ask, and mine to answer.”

The monk felt reassured, and his courage rose with the occasion.

“Who are ye?” he inquired; “who may ye be?”

“We know not!” was the answer, “alas! we know not!”

“We know not, we know not!” echoed in melancholy tones the denizens of the vault.

“What do ye here?” pursued the querist.

“We await the last day, the day of the last judgment! Alas for us! woe! woe!”

“Woe! woe!” resounded on all sides.

The monk was appalled, but still he proceeded.

“What did ye to deserve such doom as this? What may your crime be that deserves such dole and sorrow?”

As he asked the question the earth shook under him, and a crowd of skeletons uprose from a range of graves which yawned suddenly at his feet.

“These are our victims,” answered the old monk. “They suffered at our hands. We suffer now, while they are at peace; and we shall suffer.”

“For how long?” asked the monk.

“For ever and ever!” was the answer.

“For ever and ever, for ever and ever!” died along the vault.

“May God have mercy on us!” was all the monk could exclaim.

The skeletons vanished, the graves closing over them. The aged men disappeared from his view, the bodies fell back in their coffins, the light fled, and the den of death was once more enveloped in its usual darkness.

On the monk’s revival he found himself lying at the foot of the altar. The grey dawn of a spring morning was visible, and he was fain to retire to his cell as secretly as he could, for fear he should be discovered.

From thenceforth he eschewed vain philosophy, says the legend, and, devoting his time to the pursuit of true knowledge, and the extension of the power, greatness, and glory of the Church, died in the odour of sanctity, and was buried in that holy vault, where his body is still visible.

Requiescat in pace!

from: Folk-Lore and Legends: Germany, by Anonymous (possibly C. J. T. who had done similar books). London: WW Gibbings, 1892.

Nature is incomplete. She leaves man to provide for himself his raiment, shelter, and surroundings. Nature in her works throws out suggestions of beauty, rather than its perfect and complete embodiment. Her gold is imbedded in the rock. Her creations are limited by the particular material and the narrow conditions which are at her disposal at a given time and place. To seize the pure ideal of beauty which Nature suggests, but never quite realizes; to select from the universe of space and the eternity of time those materials and forms which are perfectly adapted to portray the ideal beauty; to clothe the abodes and the whole physical environment of man with that beauty which is suggested to us in sky and stream and field and flower; to present to us for perpetual contemplation the form and features of ideal manhood and womanhood; to hold before our imagination the deeds of brave men, and the devotion of saintly women; to thrill our hearts with the victorious struggle of the hero and the death-defying passion of the lover;–this is the mission and the significance of art.

Art is creative. The artist is a co-worker with God. To his hands is committed the portion of the world which God has left unfinished–the immediate environment of man. We cannot live in the fields, like beasts and savages. Art has for its purpose to make the rooms and houses and halls and streets and cities in which civilized men pass their days as beautiful and fair, as elevating and inspiring, as the fields and forests in which the primeval savage roamed. More than that, art aims to fill these rooms and halls and streets of ours with forms and symbols which shall preserve, for our perpetual admiration and inspiration, all that is purest and noblest and sweetest in that long struggle of man up from his savage to his civilized estate.

THE DUTY.

Beauty is the outward and visible sign of inward perfection, completeness, and harmony.–In an object of beauty there is neither too little nor too much; nothing is out of place; nothing is without its contribution to the perfect whole. Each part is at once means and end to every other. Hence its perfect symmetry; its regular proportions; its strict conformity to law.

The mind of man can find rest and satisfaction in nothing short of perfection; and consequently our hearts are never satisfied until they behold beauty, which is perfection’s crown and seal. Without it one of the deepest and divinest powers of our nature remains dwarfed, stifled, and repressed.

How to cultivate the love of beauty.–It is our duty to see to it that everything under our control is as beautiful as we can make it. The rooms we live in; the desk at which we work; the clothes we wear; the house we build; the pictures on our walls; the garden and grounds in which we walk and work; all must have some form or other. That form must be either beautiful or hideous; attractive or repulsive. It is our duty to pay attention to these things; to spend thought and labor, and such money as we can afford upon them, in order to make them minister to our delight. Not in staring at great works of art which we have not yet learned to appreciate, but by attention to the beauty or ugliness of the familiar objects that we have about us and dwell with from day to day, we shall best cultivate that love of beauty which will ultimately make intelligible to us the true significance of the masterpieces of art. Here as everywhere, to him that hath shall more be given. We must serve beauty humbly and faithfully in the little things of daily life, if we will enjoy her treasures in the great galleries of the world.

THE VIRTUE.

Beauty is a jealous mistress.–If we trifle with her; if we fall in love with pretentious imitations and elaborate ornamentations which have no beauty in them, but are simply gotten up to sell; then the true and real beauty will never again suffer us to see her face. She will leave us to our idols: and our power to appreciate and admire true beauty will die out.

Fidelity to beauty requires that we have no more things than we can either use in our work, or enjoy in our rest. And these things that we do have must be either perfectly plain; or else the ornamentation about them must be something that expresses a genuine admiration and affection of our hearts. A farmer’s kitchen is generally a much more attractive place than his parlor; just because this law of simplicity is perfectly expressed in the one, and flagrantly violated in the other. The study of a scholar, the office of the lawyer and the business man, is not infrequently a more beautiful place, one in which a man feels more at home, than his costly drawing room. What sort of things we shall have, and how many, cannot be determined for us by any general rule; still less by aping somebody else. In our housekeeping, as in everything else, we should begin with the few things that are absolutely essential; and then add decoration and ornament only so fast as we can find the means of gratifying cherished longings for forms of beauty which we have learned to admire and love. “Simplicity of life,” says William Morris, “even the barest, is not a misery, but the very foundation of refinement: a sanded floor and whitewashed walls, and the green trees, and flowery meads, and living waters outside. If you cannot learn to love real art, at least learn to hate sham art and reject it. If the real thing is not to be had, learn to do without it. If you want a golden rule that will fit everybody, this is it: Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.”

THE REWARD.

The refining influence of beauty.–Devotion to art and beauty in simplicity and sincerity develops an ever increasing capacity for its enjoyment. As Keats, the master poet of pure beauty, tells us,

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep,
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

The refining influence of the love of beauty draws us mysteriously and imperceptibly, but none the less powerfully, away from what is false in thought and base in action; and develops a deep and lasting affinity for all that is true and good. The good, the true, and the beautiful are branches of a common root; members of a single whole: and if one of these members suffer, all the members suffer with it; and if one is honored, all are honored with it.

THE TEMPTATION.

Luxury the perversion of beauty.–Luxury is the pleasure of possession, instead of pleasure in the thing possessed. Luxury buys things, not because it likes them, but because it likes to have them. And so the luxurious man fills his house with all sorts of things, not because he finds delight in these particular things, and wants to share that delight with all his friends; but because he supposes these are the proper things to have, and he wants everybody to know that he has them.

The man who buys things in this way does not know what he wants. Consequently he gets cheated. He buys ugly things as readily as beautiful things, if only the seller is shrewd enough to make him believe they are fashionable. Others, less intelligent than this man, see what he has done; take for granted that because he has done it, it must be the proper thing to do; and go and do likewise. Thus taste becomes dulled and deadened; the costly and elaborate drives out the plain and simple; the desire for luxury kills out the love of beauty; and art expires.

THE VICE OF DEFECT.

Ugly surroundings make ugly souls.–The outward and the inward are bound fast together. The beauty or ugliness of the objects we have about us are the standing choices of our wills. As the object, so is the subject. We grow into the likeness of what we look upon. Without harmony and beauty to feed upon, the love of beauty starves and dies. Our hearts become cold and hard. Not being called out in admiration and delight, our feelings brood over mean and sensual pleasures; they dwell upon narrow and selfish concerns; they fasten upon the accumulation of wealth or the vanquishing of a rival, as substitutes for the nobler interests that have vanished; and the heart becomes sordid, sensual, mean, petty, spiteful, and ugly. The spirit of man, like nature, abhors a vacuum; and into the heart from which the love of the beautiful has been suffered to depart, these hideous and ugly traits of character make haste to enter, and occupy the vacant space. What Shakspere says of a single art, music, is true of art and beauty in general:

The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils:
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted.

THE VICE OF EXCESS.

The hollowness of ostentation.–Man is never proud of what he really enjoys; never vain of what he truly loves; never anxious to show off the tastes and interests that are essentially his own. In order to take this false attitude toward an object, it is necessary to hold it apart from ourselves: a thing which the true lover can never do. He who loves beautiful things will indeed wish others to share his joy in them. But this sharing of our joy in beautiful objects, is a very different thing from showing off our fine things, simply to let other people know that we have them. Ostentation is the vice of ignorant wealth and vulgar luxury. It estimates objects by their expensiveness rather than by their beauty; it aims to awaken in ourselves pride rather than pleasure; and to arouse in others astonishment rather than admiration.

THE PENALTY.

Vulgarity akin to laziness.–Art, and the beauty which it creates, costs painstaking labor to produce. And to enjoy it when it is produced, requires at first thoughtful and discriminating attention. The formation of a correct taste is a growth, not a gift. Hence the dull, the lazy, and the indifferent never acquire this cultivated taste for the beautiful in art. This lack of perception, this incapacity for enjoyment of the beautiful, is vulgarity. Vulgarity is contentment with what is common, and to be had on easy terms. The root of it is laziness. The mark of it is stupidity.

At great pains the race has worked out beautiful forms of speech, for communicating our ideas to each other. Vulgarity in speech is too lazy to observe these precise and beautiful forms of expression; it clips its words; throws its sentences together without regard to grammar; falls into slang; draws its figures from the coarse and low and sensual side of life, instead of from its pure and noble aspects.

Vulgarity with reference to dress, dwellings, pictures, reading, is of the same nature. It results from the dull, unmeaning gaze with which one looks at things; the shiftless, slipshod way of doing work; the “don’t care” habit of mind which calls anything that happens to fall in its way “good enough.”

From all that is precious and beautiful and lovely the vulgar man is hopelessly excluded. They are all around him; but he has no eyes to see, no taste to appreciate, no heart to respond to them. “All things excellent,” so Spinoza tells us, “are as difficult as they are rare.” The vulgar man has no heart for difficulty; and hence the rare excellence of art and beauty remain forever beyond his reach.

From: Practical Ethics, by William DeWitt Hyde. New York: Henry Holt & Company, 1892, p. 89 ff.

An extract from a Manuscript Novel.

“’Twas nothing more, indeed my dear uncle! No, indeed, ’twas nothing more! Dear, dear, how could I suppose it to be any thing more? And yet I even tremble now,” exclaimed Miss Godfrey to her astonished uncle, as he entered the house. “For heaven’s sake, my beloved Frances what has thus dreadfully alarmed you?” returned the old gentleman. “Tell me I beseech you! I’m on the rack till I know what could possibly have the power of alarming you to this dreadful degree. Come my sweet girl, compose yourself and relate to me this “soul harrowing” tale; for I’m half inclined (seeing you smile) to suppose it some imaginary evil.” It is indeed, sir, an imaginary evil, and a very foolish fear: I am very, very angry with myself, and am seriously apprehensive, that in disclosing to you my weakness, I shall draw down your very just animadversion; but if you will give me a patient hearing, and not think me too circumstantial in my narrative, I will give you then the seeming cause for the disorder in which you found me.” Do not fear censure from me my dear Frances, we all have our weak moments; and I am convinced, a girl with my Fanny’s understanding, could not be so alarmed at a very trifling circumstance; therefore proceed, my love; I will promise not to fall asleep over the recital.”

“Sitting in my dressing room at work, I was surprised by a very hasty tap at the door, which I opened, when Monsieur l’ Abbé appeared before me, with his hair erect, his eyes starting from their sockets, and his whole frame so convulsed with terror, that I momentarily expected the wax taper which he bore in his hand would make a somerset on my muslin dress. I begged him to inform me if he was ill? whether any thing had alarmed him? if I should ring for his servant? He shook his head in token of disapprobation of my last interrogatory, and in broken and almost inarticulate accents, begged I would indulge him with a moment’s hearing. He then, with much difficulty, addressed me as follows:–

“You know Miss Godfrey, I am the last man in the world to be frightened at bugbears, or in other words, superstition and I were ever sworn enemies: I think, then, after reprobating this weakness in others for fifty years, I have this evening become its victim; for to that alone must I ascribe my fears. Listen then to the cause of this weakness in me. I was deeply immersed in Horace, when I heard a knocking against the partition that separates the rooms. I paid little or no attention to it at first, when a second time the knocks were repeated with more violence. I then arose, and proceeded to the room where the noise issued; and directing my eyes towards the bed, to my infinite surprise I perceived the bell-rope making rapid and extensive strides from one side of the partition to the other. After viewing it for a moment, I thought I would take the liberty of stopping the marble breasted gentleman’s progress; I grasped the bell-rope, it yielded to my embrace, and became quiescent; I sat a moment to observe it; it remained quiet, and I returned to my studies. The instant I was seated, the same noise was repeated with increased violence; I entered the room a second time, and a second time saw the bell-rope in rapid motion. I then examined every corner of the room, without discovering the least trace by which I might elucidate this singular appearance. I again grasped the rope, and again it was motionless: I sat two or three minutes in the room, I believe, during which every thing was perfectly quiet. I returned to my room, when scarcely had I seated myself, ere the same noise met my ear, with a sort of hard breathing. This was more than even my philosophy could bear at that moment, and must plead my excuse for appearing before you in the disordered state which you have just witnessed.” “You must pardon me, my good sir, for smiling,” I remarked, but I really have scarcely had patience to hear you out, so anxious am I to be introduced to this ghost in the shape of a bell-rope! lead me to the haunted room, and you will gratify me beyond measure!”

“Magnanimous courage! exclaimed Monsieur, with such a guide, I’d face e’en Beelzebub himself;” when each embracing our taper, we proceeded to the mysterious room. My eager eye sought the bell-rope; but no sooner did I perceive its motion (for it was moving as Monsieur had described) than all my boasted philosophy forsook me. Ashamed to confess as much, I begged my companion to once more stop its progress, and suppressing my emotions, I assisted Monsieur in searching the room. Nothing, however, which possessed animation could we discover, (ourselves excepted) and indeed we could scarcely be said to possess it. Monsieur prevailed on me to retire to his sitting room, when perhaps, he observed, we should hear the noise repeated. I acquiesced, when to my inexpressible horror our ears were assailed by a tremendous knocking, accompanied by a terrific scream. This was more than human nature could bear. I rang the bell with unusual violence, which brought up two of the female servants. Without communicating my fears, I requested that the groom might be called: he came, and thus, in a body we once more ventured to enter this terror striking room, every corner of which was searched without success; when the groom accidentally moving the bed, out sprung our–black cat! She had so completely concealed herself in the head curtain of the bed, that all our endeavours to discover anything were fruitless; and each time we left the room, she amused herself with patting the pull of the bell, which occasioned its motion to the infinite terror of a French philosopher, and an heroic maiden.

“The ‘terrific scream,’ was a faint groan, proceeding from a servant who was ill in the house.”

From: The Mirror of Taste and Dramatic Censor, Volume 1, Issue 4 (April 1810).

“Hey, ho, hum!” exclaimed Uncle Wiggily Longears, the rabbit gentleman, as he stretched up his twinkling, pink nose, and reached his paws around his back to scratch an itchy place. “Ho, hum! I wonder what will happen to me to-day?”

“Are you going out again?” asked Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady housekeeper. “It seems to me that you go out a great deal, Mr. Longears.”

“Well, yes; perhaps I do,” admitted the bunny uncle. “But more things happen to me when I go out than when I stay in the house.”

“And do you like to have things happen to you?” asked Miss Fuzzy Wuzzy.

“When they are adventures I do,” answered the rabbit gentleman. “So here I go off for an adventure.”

Off started the nice, old, bunny uncle, carrying his red, white and blue striped barber-pole rheumatism crutch–over his shoulder this time.

For his pain did not hurt him much, as the sun was shining, so he did not have to limp on the crutch, which Nurse Jane had gnawed for him out of a corn-stalk.

Uncle Wiggily had not gone very far toward the fields and woods before he heard Nurse Jane calling to him.

“Oh, Wiggy! Wiggy, I say! Wait a moment!”

“Yes, what is it?” asked the rabbit gentleman, turning around and looking over his shoulder. “Have I forgotten anything?”

“No, it was I who forgot,” said the muskrat lady housekeeper. “I forgot to tell you to bring me a bottle of perfume. Mine is all gone.”

“All right, I’ll bring you some,” promised Mr. Longears. “It will give me something to do–to go to the perfume store. Perhaps an adventure may happen to me there.”

Once more he was on his way, and soon he reached the perfume store, kept by a nice buzzing bee lady, who gathered sweet smelling perfume, as well as honey, from the flowers in Summer and put it carefully away for the Winter.

“Some perfume for Nurse Jane, eh?” said the bee lady, as the rabbit gentleman knocked on her hollow-tree house. “There you are. Uncle Wiggily,” and she gave him a bottle of the nice scent made from a number of flowers.

“My! That smells lovely!” exclaimed Uncle Wiggily, as he pulled out the cork, and took a long sniff. “Nurse Jane will surely like that perfume!”

With the sweet scented bottle in his paw, the rabbit gentleman started back toward his hollow-stump bungalow. He had not gone very far before he saw a nurse maid, out in the garden, back of a big house. There was a basket in front of the maid, with some clothes in it, and stretched across the garden was a line, with more clothes on it, flapping in the wind.

“Ha!” exclaimed Uncle Wiggily. “I wonder if that garden maid, hanging up the clothes, wouldn’t like to smell Nurse Jane’s perfume? Nurse Jane will not mind, and perhaps it will be doing that maid a kindness to let her smell something sweet, after she has been smelling washing-soap-suds all morning.”

So the bunny uncle, who was always doing kind things, hopped over to the garden maid, and politely asked:

“Wouldn’t you like to smell this perfume?” and he held out the bottle he had bought of the bee lady.

The garden maid turned around, and said in a sad voice:

“Thank you, Uncle Wiggily. It is very kind of you, I’m sure, and I would like to smell your perfume. But I can’t.”

“Why not?” asked the bunny uncle. “The cork is out of the bottle. See!”

“That may very well be,” went on the garden maid, “but the truth of the matter is that I cannot smell, because a blackbird has nipped off my nose.”

Uncle Wiggily, in great surprise, looked, and, surely enough, a blackbird had nipped off the nose of the garden maid.

“Bless my whiskers!” cried the bunny uncle. “What a thing for a blackbird to do–nip off your nose! Why did he do such an impolite thing as that?”

“Why, he had to do it, because it’s that way in the Mother Goose book,” said the maid. “Don’t you remember? It goes this way:

“‘The King was in the parlor,<br/ > Counting out his money,<br/ > The Queen was in the kitchen,<br/ > Eating bread and honey.<br/ > The maid was in the garden,<br/ > Hanging out the clothes,<br/ > Along came a blackbird<br/ > And nipped off her nose,’

“That’s the way it was,” said the garden maid.

“Oh, yes, I remember now,” spoke Uncle Wiggily.

“Well, I’m the maid who was in the garden, hanging out the clothes,” said she, “and, as you can see, along came a blackbird and nipped off my nose. That is, you can’t see the blackbird, but you can see the place where my nose ought to be.”

“Yes,” answered Uncle Wiggily, “I can. It’s too bad. That blackbird ought to have his feathers ruffled.”

“Oh, he didn’t mean to be bad,” said the garden maid. “He had to do as it says in the book, and he had to nip off my nose. So that’s why I can’t smell Nurse Jane’s nice perfume.”

Uncle Wiggily thought for a minute. Then he said:

“Just you wait here. I think I can fix it so you can smell as well as ever.”

Then the bunny uncle hurried off through the woods until he found Jimmie Caw-Caw, the big black crow boy.

“Jimmie,” said the bunny uncle, “will you fly off, find the blackbird, and ask him to give back the garden maid’s nose so she can smell perfume?”

“I will,” said Jimmie Caw-Caw, very politely. “I certainly will!”

Away he flew, and, after a while, in the deep, dark part of the woods he found the blackbird, sitting on a tree.

“Please give me back the garden maid’s nose,” said Jimmie, politely.

“Certainly,” answered the blackbird, also politely. “I only took it off in fun. Here it is back. I’m sorry I bothered the garden maid, but I had to, as it’s that way in the Mother Goose book.”

Off to Uncle Wiggily flew Jimmie, the crow boy, with the young lady’s nose, and soon Dr. Possum had fastened it back on the garden maid’s face as good as ever.

“Now you can smell the perfume,” said Uncle Wiggily, and when he held up the bottle the maid said:

“Oh, what a lovely smell!”

So the bunny uncle left a little perfume in a bottle for the garden maid, and then she went on hanging up the clothes, and she felt very happy because she had a nose. So you see how kind Uncle Wiggily and Jimmie were, and Nurse Jane, too, liked the perfume very much. So if the little girl’s roller-skates don’t run over the pussy’s tail and ruffle it all up so she can’t go to the moving picture party, I’ll tell you next of Uncle Wiggily and the King.

From: Uncle Wiggily and Old Mother Hubbard, by Howard R. Garis, ©1922. Printed by A. L. Burt.

Bookp(h)ile

Since the Unitary Theory explains the structure of the entire Cosmos, from bottom to top, using only the sane rational methods employed by a mechanic in a machine shop, why debase our reason by attempting to explain cosmic construction by mystic flubdub? Suppose we did not understand terrestrial mechanics, but did perfectly comprehend all the outside Cosmos. Would it no then be absurd to assume our earth mechanics were unique, contrary to all outside phenomena, a mushy mystic miasma?

Well, then, in reverse, why guess idiotically about the Outside when we know the Inside? Should it not be all alike? A mathematician has no doubt about the universality of mathematics. But the mystic physicist, who sees it all spread out at his feet, in his eyes and hands, dreams that a lunatic eddingsteinian bedlam of erratic disorder prevails beyond our Sun, tho at the same time he demands that his light come straight thru all the grotesqueries of curveting “empty space,” ether with its “permanent waves,” parallel lines which criss-cross at infinity, reflect and return in reversed parallel, bricks made from buildings, light traveling faster than its own subconstituent units like a train running faster than its diner’s fans thru space; colors with equal speeds because Algol’s winks reach us, at our great distance, as gray in stead of prismatic; gravitation (which “can’t be seen and therefore can’t exist”), but a fairy tale scene shifter in the farce called Regional Geometry (tho a corkscrew on earth shows us how gravity really works); “space eating mass,” the Universe is “running down, expanding and exploding;” space has from four to fifty odd extra (fairy tale) dimensions beyond geometry’s limit of three–length, breadth, depth; gravity nonchalantly and capriciously rolls down warps, ruts and tilting bowling alleys of an uncurvable nothingness, dubbed “curved space,” along its “easiest way,” like a wanton scornful of interfering reactions.

And many other equally wild lunacies, such as the skeery mysteries of the “awful depths” of “empty space” (which should be equally scared of the “awful distant us”); “vast distant nebulae,” fleeing in panic from the ever fixed centric Man-Devil (sizzling thru space at 23 miles per second), at speeds causing light to blush, with a red faced spectrum; tho their light reaches us–they claim–in regular schedule time. Mass spends velocity as a spendthrift spends money–the faster it goes the “shorter” it becomes. All the above is contrary to fact. Nightmares of Mystic Mental Cholic. And if you will only believe all the foregoing, “they will tell you some more.” Allright. Swallow this:

Their pet mascot, Man’s all-cosmic champion light unit, is the sole unique Outlaw and Gangster, privileged to break the universal Cosmic Law of Action and Reaction, of Cause and Effect, of all-impartial Orderliness. It reflects and refracts, to be sure; but only because it desires to do so of its own free will. But it arrogantly refuses to accept velocity reactions from other mass as all other mass units are compelled to do. Man’s light defies the Cosmos–UNLESS–the Mysticks are only Mistooks and you can safely bet your last dollar against them on almost any bet they offer. And they are our leaders? Nerts!

These Mystic Vaudevillians for twenty years have been putting over the greatest Farce in Science. It is time “they got a laugh.” One Great World Roar! Surely the audience has not taken these showmen seriously! They are just having a lot of fun at our expense and, meanwhile, gathering in huge royalties while spoofing us. Readers! Is it not about time we “cleaned house” in Science and swept these goofy mystics out into the backyard? Have you not enough plain common-sense to take their measure, to see what they really are? Well, turn on the Hose of Reason, swab the Ground Floor of Science, draing them down the Sewer to Oblivion, to sink beneath the Sea of Sane Thought–the Ocean of Truth.

An orthod-ox will not believe anything is what it is unless it happens to be just what “he was told” he “must believe” it to be. All of which boils down to the alleged definition by a precocious English child: “Faith is believing what you know is not so.”

Real scientists never believe even a demonstrated fact fanatically. They are ever ready to repair a tentative acceptance to harmonize with later evidence. Fanaticism cannot flourish on Truth, it must feed on Fantasy, where it takes a real effort to “believe” and so should earn a reward for concession and share in its emoluments. It is a “racket.” The truth seeker is never a fanatic. He has no fantasies to be fanatic about So he is serene and humane, civilized. He does not strive to force his opinions on others, since he may soon change them himself. “Live and let live” is his motto. In short, he is “for man.”

“Vast distant stars,” “remote depths of space” and “gigantic nebulae” are but relativities. They exist evertywhere, up and down, around and within us. They are but points of view and everything which ever happens within, to or from, them occurs in replica in all planes of size. Our Home Cosmic Circus is a complete and every bit as good as those distant awful mygodhowwonderful ones. If you feel awed be honest enough to realize you but feel ignorant. Awe means only, “aw! I don’t understand.” Eliminate awe as you would dust from a telescope’s lens or, self-blinded you will never see.

****

The Cosmos is one infinite theatre, with stages in every plane of size, each stage ever presenting the same play, plot and scenes. The play is continuous, eternal. The actors come and go. Each actor thinks himself a permanent star, but he is only a temporary “super” in a “one-night” stand. Ho, Hum!

****

Now read the Entire Cosmic Play–in the Rational Non-Mystical Cosmos. One act, one actor, one trick–reaction. Duplicated infinetly, endlessly.

GEORGE F. GILLETTE. New York City (1935).

(From an addendum to Orthod Oxen of Science: Synoptic conspectus of author’s Unitary Theory. Published by George F. Gillette, Author of Unity of Universe, Cycle of Power, Rational Non-Mystical Cosmos at the Blackstone Publishers, New York City, 1936.)