The secret thoughts of a man run over all things without shame or blame; which verbal discourse cannot do farther than the judgment shall approve of the time, place, and persons.—Hobbes’s “Leviathan.”
I WAS coming home from Buffalo in a train delightfully called “The Black Diamond.” I had any number of books in my bag, but my lower instincts were uppermost: I was tired, and pined for the narcosis of newspapers. I asked the porter, also a black diamond, to see if there were any lying around. He brought me a great mass of them: Chicago papers, Buffalo papers, Wilkes-Barre papers. With great happiness I browsed among their cheerful simplicities. From Wilkes-Barre I learned that
Shakespeare’s marvellous plays could never have been written by a dyspeptic. He ate carefully, sensibly, and had excellent digestion.
(I had just come back from the dining car when I read that, and wondered a little sadly if I had been sensible.)
From Chicago (“The World’s Greatest Newspaper”) I learned, in an article on “A Perfume to Suit Your Personality,” that
The vampire had best be sparing in her use of any odour. An oriental bouquet of jasmine, tube rose, cassie, and civet would enhance the individuality of the colourful type. For a perfume combination of this sort when used correctly can create a sensation akin to ecstasy, bringing to the wearer a feeling of tremendous vitality.
But in this Chicago paper I found so much to perpend that I never reached the journals of other cities. I learned in an interview with Lady Diana Manners (“Pressed for Precious Secrets of Pulchritude, She Reveals a Surprising Lack of Them”) that
The life of a newspaper person is not without its recompenses—aside from the weekly stipend. Sometimes it is a hard life—when, say, you scratch and pound upon the old dome, pleading, begging its tenant, Mr. Brain, to give up an idea, and you get in response a loud and hollow echo convincing you he has left for parts unknown!
I learned from Chicago that
The literary life of New York continues to rattle on. And it is a rather grand life: though a number of writers appear to scratch an existence from the soil of Greenwich Village and the purlieus of mean streets, most of the men who write our books live quite comfortably. One meets them every day—a prosperous crew—who lunch cosily at the —— or at the —— and not infrequently the ——, then are whisked homeward in shining limousines to put in another hour or so on the manuscript of a new novel.