The Lark; No. IKby Les Jeunes:

Gelett Burgess, Editor:y o 8 Sutter St., San Francisco

Ernest Peixotto Porter Garnett Yone Noguchi

SAN FRANCISCO JU LY FIRST

I 8 9 6PUBLISHED BY W ILLIAM DOXEY 631 M ARKET ST. ISSUED M ONTHLY SUBSCRIPTION ONE DOLLAR A YEAR

Entered at the Post Office in San Francisco as second-class matter.

T H E N IG H T R E V E R IE S O F A N E X I L E :

W O U LD have you think of him as I know him, alone on the heights, in his cabin, — ‘ 4 even yellow-jackets- abandoned,” — listening to the (i tire­less songs of the crickets_on the lean, gray-haired hill, in the sober-faced evening.”

An exile from his native land, a stranger in a new civilization,— a mystic by temperament, race, and religion, — these lines which I have rephrased, setting his own words in a more intelligible order, are his attempts to voice the indefinable thoughts that came to him on many lonely nights; the journal of his soul,— nocturnes set to words of a half-learned, foreign tongue; in form vague as his vague dreams.

That these songs’are sincere, must be evident from the lack of art (in its technical sense) in their construction ; the pictures he tries to describe often bear no conscious relation to each other, save that they are coloured by the . same mood.

I have retained his own words in almost every case, modifying only the connectives in accordance with his ex­planations, and with his consent,— preferring rather to excuse the liberties he has taken with the language, than to lose the vigor of his unworn metaphors, unfettered by the traditions of expression. G . B .

Mr Mr Mr Hr Mr Mr Mr

T h e k n o w n -u n k n o w n -b o t t o m e d g o s s a m e r w a v e s o f

THE FIELD ARE COLOURED BY THE TRAVELLING

SHADOWS OF THE LONELY, ORPHANED, MEADOW LA R K : AT SHADELESS NOON, SUNFUL-EYED,-— THE CRAZY, ONE-

INCH BUTTERFLY (DETHRONED ANGEL?) ROAMS ABOUT, HER EMBODIED SHADOW ON THE SECRET-CHATTERING HAY-TOPS, IN THE SABRE-LIGHT.

T h e U n iv e r s e , t o o , h a s s o m e w h e r e it s s h a d o w ;—BUT WHAT ABOUT MY SONGS?

A n THERE BE NO SHADOW, NO ECHOING TO THE END,—* MY BROKEN-THROATED FLUTE WILL NEVER AGAIN BE MADE

WHOLE !

S E E N A N D U N S E E N

T he b r a v e u p r ig h t r a in s c o m e r ig h t d o w n l i k e

ERRANDS FROM IRON-BODIED YORETIME, NEVER LOOKING BACK; OUT OF THE EVER TRANQUIL,

OCEAN-BREASTED, FAR HIGH HEAVEN — YET AS HIGH BUT AS THE GUM TREE AT MY CABIN WINDOW.

W it h o u t h e s it a t io n , t h e y k i l l t h e m s e l v e s in a n

INSTANT ON THE EARTH, LIFTING THEIR SINGLE-NOTED

CHANTS— O TRAGEDY!— CHANTS? N a Y, THE CLAPPING SOUND OF EARTH-LIPS.

O , HEAVENLY MANNA, CHILLY, DELICATE AS GODDESS' TEARS FOR THE INTOXICATED MOUTH OF THE SOIL, THIS GOSSAMER-VEILED DAY !

T h e U n iv e r s e n o w g r o w s s o b e r , g a u n t , h u n g r y ,FROZEN-HEARTED, SPITEFUL-SOULED ; ALONE, FRIENDLESS,IT GROANS OUT IN THE FLUTE OF THE STONY-THROATED FROG.

R e s ig n e d l y , t h e f l e e t in g m o u n t a in o f t ir e d c l o u d

CREEPS INTO THE WILLOW LEAVES — WASHED HAIR OF

PALACE-MAIDEN OF OLD.LO, THE WILLOW LEAVES, MIRRORED IN THE DUST-FREED

WATERS OF THE POND!

T HE FLAT-BOARDED EARTH, NAILED DOWN AT NIGHT, RUSTING UNDER THE DARKNESS. THE UNIVERSE GROWS SMALLER, PALPITATING AGAINST ITS DESTINY.

M y CHILLY SOUL,— CENTER OF THE WORLD,— GIVES

SEAT TO AUDIBLE TEARS,— THE SONGS OF THE CRICKET.I DRINK THE DARKNESS OF A CORNER OF THE UNIVERSE,

— ALAS! SQUARE, IMMOVABLE WORLD TO ME, ON MY BED!S u g g e s t in g w h a t — g o d o r d e m o n ?— f a r d o w n , u n d e r

MY BODY.I AM AS A LOST WIND AMONG THE COUNTLESS ATOMS OP

h ig h H e a v e n !W o u l d t h e in v is ib l e N ig h t m ig h t s h a k e o f f h e r

RADIANT LIGHT, ANSWERING THE KNOCKING OF MY SOFT- FORMED VOICE 1

T H E SO N G S O F T O N E N (M U C III.

UNTIMELY FROSTS WREATHE OVER THE GARDEN— THE STAID BOTTOM OF THE SEA OF AIR.

A l a s ! f r o m h e r h o n e y e d r i m , f r o s t s s t e a l

DOWN LIKE LOVE-MESSAGES FROM THE L a DY MOON,A LIGHT-WALLED CORRIDOR IN TRUTH’S PALACE; A

v - HUMANITY-GUARDED CHAPEL OF GOD, WHERE BRAVE DIVIN ITIES KNEEL, SMALL AS MICE, AGAINST THE SHORELESS

HEAVENS,— THE MIDNIGHT GARDEN, WHERE MY NAKED SOUL ROAMS ALONE, UNDER THE GUIDANCE OF SlLENCE.

T h e G o d -b e l o v e d m a n w e l c o m e s , r e s p e c t s a s a n

HONOURED GUEST, HIS OWN SOUL AND BODY, IN HIS SOLITUDE.

Lo! THE ROSES UNDER THE NIGHT TOIL IN SILENCE, AND EXPECT NO MORTAL APPLAUD,— CONTENT WITH THAT OF THEIR VOICELESS GOD.

T h e i n k y -g a r m e n t e d , t r u t h -d e a d C l o u d — w o v e n

BY DUMB GHOST ALONE IN THE DARKNESS OF PHAN­TASMAL MOUNTAIN-MOUTH— KIDNAPPED THE MAIDEN

M o o n , s i l e n c e -f a c e d , l o v e -m a n n e r e d , m ir r o r in g h e r

GOLDEN BREAST IN SILVERY RIVULETS :T h e W in d , h e r l o v e r , g r e y -h a ir e d in o n e m o m e n t ,

CRAZES AROUND THE UNIVERSE, HUNTING HER DEWY LOVE- LETTERS, STREWN SECRETLY UPON THE OAT-CARPETS OF THE OPEN FIELD.

O , DRAMA! NEVER PERFORMED, NEVER GOSSIPED, NEVERr h y m e d ! B e h o l d — t o t h e b l in d b e a s t , e v e r t e a r l e s s ,IRON-HEARTED, THE HEAVEN HAS NO MOUTH TO PROCLAIM THESE TIDINGS!

A h, w h e r e is t h e m a n w h o l iv e s o u t o f h i m s e l f ?-— THE POET INSPIRED OFTEN ..TO” CHRONICLE THESE THINGS?

A N E S S A T ON S T Y L E :

H E R E are none among us who have not been made aware of the presence in our midst of a new school of Literature,— a new style in writing; inaugurated by a few apostles of the modern possessed of natural talents

it anticipated the tendency towards a radical vicissitude in Art. Standards, and has taught us to view things in an utterly new light, and ,~""al though the unlettered public are inclined to repudiate the cult, it don’t follow that because these be unappreciative that the favored few who are within the white ribbon to witness the wedding of Art and Decadence are blind to the fact that the consummation of the ceremony between the contracting parties is of the greatest consequence to themselves.

One can recollect but a couple of years back when the adventurous Knights of the New heralded the dawn of a new era in Aesthetics; before that time one would not have been able to have adopted the style that has since come in vogue without jeopardizing one’s character and laying oneself open to the aggravating experience of being visited with condign punishment from the pens of caviling critics.

It is quite preposterous to deny that the style in writing cannot change, like the styles in hats or pocket-handker­chiefs; the elect of letters are writing now like no human ever dreamed of writing before. Not that one would demean dn^self by emulating the style of Addison or Swift. Their English is nice enough of its kind; but I do not expect or consider* That its resurrection would be calculated to replace directiy-the superior style' of our o\vn authors andauthoresses. — ----- _

Yet no champion enthused by the beauties of the ultimate stylistic development has arisen to definitely interpret its methods, to clearly codify its laws, to manfully indorse

beyond their fellows,

T H E A R T L I T E R A R T E X E M P L IF I E D .

its claims to recognition, or to intelligently comment on its very unique and curious graces and peculiar and charac- . teristic idiosyncrasies. I am therefore moved to make a partial analysis of Literary Style as it is understood by the foremost contributors to the latest issues of certain advanced monthly journals, published in various sections, which voice the creed of those kind of writers.

To commence with, the chief characteristic of the latest style in letters is Vagueness and Vacuity; but it is exceed­ingly difficult to discriminate as to the relative value of these

— ------- fwtr qualities, and~ fm de sihcle productions par­take largely of both. The most splendid vagueness is gotten by a careful construction of sentences, which may be so involved as to cloud their meaning beyond^all hope of disentanglement.

As for Vacuity, the simplest way to master this factor is for the ambitious scribe to think only of how Vagueness may be snared. In doing this, the desired consummation may be wrought. It seems a paradox that one should be able to write without knowing what he says; but this is absolutely essential to the most perfect style. It must be also borne constantly in mind to steadfastly avoid the obvious and shun the commonplace. Here lay the Scylla and Charybdis of the unsophisticated neophyte; if he be not of the blood-royal of Decadence, he is liable to make use of an obvious word, or taint his style with conven­tionality. Let him try and dispense with either one; in harmfulness, they are both alike.

The handmaidens of Vagueness and Vacuity are Incon­sequence and Pleonasm, and the two first are almost always attended by the latter. Grammar and Rhetoric are tabooed; for the less knowledge one has got of these, the better will he be able to master the art of writing. Place only your reliance on dictionaries, and dig from these the treasures of obsolescence and neology; for th«y will aid you greatly in the accomplishment of your aim.

G LO SE U PO N T H E 12th R U B A I OF O M A R K H A T T A I N :

B o o k o f V e r s e s u n d e r n e a t h t h e

B o u g h ,A Jut> o f W in e , a L o a f o f B r e a d —

a n d T h o u

B e s id e m e s in k in g in t h e W il d e r ­n e s s—

O h , W il d e r n e s s w e r e P a r a d is e

e n o w !

Oft have the footsteps o f my Soul been led B y thee, sw eet O m a r , f a r fro tn hum o f Toil

To where the Chenar trees their plum age spread And tangly w ild grape-vines the thickest coil;

Where distant fie ld s , scarce g lim psed in Noon content, Are lush w ith verdure quick upo?i the P lough,

Where trills the N ightingale beneath the Tent O f H eaven , uttering h er so ft la?nent;

There have I sa t TVilh Thee and conned ere now A book o f Verses w iderneath the Bough.

When fr em -ih e City's raucous din new-freed,I qua ff thy Wisdom fr om the clea rin g Cup

O f Rubaiyat, then, even as I read ,I seem w ith Thee in P ersian groves to sup

On B read o f Y e z d a k h a s t and S h ir a z Wine,That lifts the Net o f Care fr om o f f the B row .

These Words, that tongue the Spirit o f the Vine, Speak fr om the Veil, and l o f the twice is Thine:

Then is my Wish—w ou ld Fate that Wish a llow — A J u g o f Wine, a L oa f o f B rea d—and Thou.

D E D IC A T E D TO Y. N., B Y P . G., TH E S IX T E E N T H N IG H T O F J U N E .

Although 1 tread the W ilderness o f L ife,Thy Song can w a ft me to tha t careless Clime,

Where en ter in 7tor M emories o f S trife,N or Ghosts o f Woe fro7ti out the G u lf o f Ti77ie.

There, by thy side, g r ea t O m a r , w ou ld I stray, And drink the J u ic e that has fo r g o t the Press.

( A Pot, the P otter shaped but Yesterday,— T om orrow w ill it be but broke7i ctdyt~) ~

With only Thee, the toilso7tie R oad to bless, Beside 7?ie si7igi7ig in the W ilderness!

When thou dost scorn the Waste and mourn the Rose, That dies upon the W orlds too sin fu l B rea st,

In thy Disdai7i a wondrous beauty g low s,Unfoldi7ig Visions o f a Life 7)iore blessed. '

Then fro)ti thy N aishapur in K horasan,I seem to wander, though 17mow ?iot how ,

Within the glitteri7ig Gates o f J ennistan.Supre?ne S hadukiam / wo?ideri.7ig scan :

Though still I walk the Wilderness, I vow y—Oh, Wilder7iess w ere Paradise en o iv l

T H E A V O C A T IO N S O F V I V E T T E :

' O T W IT H ST A N D IN G the absorb- ing interest Vivette took in the management of the Romance Association, she had often urged to me the necessity of combining with the major course of action, an avocation in which we could refresh our minds after the fatiguing de­

mands of our profession. For, varied and exciting as were our adventures, there was at times a disagreeable sense of routine in the affairs of the office, that forced our minds

" toward the most vulgar and commonplace Realism, for a brief relaxation.

I had indeed, long suspected Vivette of clandestine cor­respondence with the dynasty of magazine editors that then held sway in the world of letters, and more than once I had noticed amid the unopened mail upon her table, some particularly corpulent envelope transversely creased, tHa*t I was sure contained disagreeable news. I was of course too discreet to mention these unfortunate episodes. I had known myself, in my sanguine youth, the strangling shame that these replies must bring,— the crushing shock to one’s vanity — the haggard endeavor to conceal the knowledge of the defeat even from oneself; the effort to forget, and the slow retreat of Memory, ever turning back to charge and trap one’ s conscious blushes once more before it dis­appeared.

And so one day while we were looking over an old book of Elizabethan songs, a stanza smote us from the page with an idea that made us gasp.

“Now a ll you Galla?its o f the Towne What w ou ld you care f o r Wine,

I f you w ou ld hear 7ny Milkniaide brown A-singing by the kyne l ”

WE S T A R T “ T H E M IL K M A ID

The literary ambitions we had both held in solution, growing stronger every day, now at this hint, precipitated an idea that crystallized into a definite plan almost before we spoke: — Phyllida, or the M ilkm aid— a new magazine published by Vivette & Company! Like a storm the scheme in all its possibilities broke over us, raining promise of success upon our parched hopes.

“ Think of the quotations available,” cried Vivette — “ it is enough to do it for them alone. And the ‘ copy ’ we have in the association files, too, — and your letters, and mine! W e’ ll begin this afternoon^ ltTnust"appear on" May-day.’ *

She rang for the office boy, an intelligent lad whose imagination she had developed from a mere rudimentary fancy. He was anxious to make a name and a salary for himself, and he was forthwith **iven the manager’s desk for a week, while we attacked the problem.

It was not until Vivette unearthed for me the treasury of her rejected manuscripts that I realized what a career was awaiting The M ilkm aid, and the quality and quantity of her material staggered me.

Her prose was rich and full; magnificent as the music of some Austrian orchestra. She had not spared ideas neither; plot and action, clever analysis, swift and pregnant com­ment, character, human nature, philosophy, wit, science and art loaded her sentences with heavy values. There was enough matter in her simplest pastel in prose to rival most libraries. And her poetry was like the waving of a thousand coloured flags; she had not contented herself with the conventional problems of versification,— double sestinas, rhymed word-squares, acrostic sonnets, but she had ex­plored the by-ways of Parnassus and wrote in Greek and Latin Quantities; she beat down the barriers of Welch and Siamese rhyme-forms; s_he resurrected the antediluvian anapests of Tertiary Man.

A N IM A G I N A T I V E M

The meaningful, suggestive 17 syllabled H o -K d s and the 3 1 syllabled imperial U-la’ s of Japanese poetry were as wax in her hands; she had translated all the set forms of Lilliput, and invented terbolanes and octarines with new feet and measures. Her work was encyclopedic—an ex­position of the Higher Mathematics of Versification.

To you, who have not known Vivette, these categories may seem impossible, and my praise overfond, but to see her writing these things! O tittle cramped finger, thy memories linger forever in pictures of puckered precision,— chirography child-like, demure yet so wild-like, in galloping word-dances come to my vision! A h,—the words that like excited steeds shy from the horizontal, with emotion, — leaping clear of the line like the exclamations of Planchette; the words that chase each other in excited neck and neck races across the page,— these may not be the signs of genius, but they vehicle a fine frenzy that brings the heart of the reader to his mouth !

And thus was the first number of The M ilkm aid pre­pared; the hot phrases inspiring the compositors to a fervor that bred riots in the printing-office, when the copy was split into “ takes.” The day of issuance came at last, a Friday to be sure, and the boys were engaged and dressed in flowing white gowns with garlands of green upon their heads, and we watched the excitement from our office- window as they ambuscaded the audience emerging from the Symphony Rehearsal. The populace bit eagerly at the novelty, and the whole edition was exhausted in a week.

Once embarked, The M ilkm aid became the talk of the hour. Its subtle vagaries and high flown humour rendered it discussable, and it achieved a sort of dinner-party prestige that kept it afloat in the gossip of the drawing-room and verandah. Its admirers developed a cult; the few that ap­preciated its finesse became its ardent promoters, and exploited its wit among the secondary intellects, who in turn,

T H E O R IG IN O F “ L A R E V U E J E U N E : ’

paraphased the critiques at retail, and bragged and traded upon their perception. From these, its vogue spread to the commonplace types, who, hearing of its brilliance, wondered in hesitant undertones.

The second and third numbers forced in the wedge; sense in the guise of absurdity, and nonsense masquerading as reason, played the Fiend with our readers, but audacious, irresponsible as were the articles, we began to notice in the orbit of the paper, traces of an uncalculated attraction— it was actually revolving around a fixed point— The M ilkm aid had developed a Policy!

This was a sad blow to Vivette. “ Alas ! ” she said mournfully, “ we are circling round a central idea—we are the slaves of Optimism! Of course it is a part of the game, — but what a restriction, Robin, — I feel as if my hands were tied. I t ’s well enough to make people want The M ilkm aid for the restful happiness after struggles with the half-tone magazines, but I wish we could break through our old policy. I t ’s no fun ! ” said Vivette.

“ W hy not give it u p ?” I said; “ we have made a success of it,— we have fought off almost all our would-be yearly subscribers. Let’s drop the magazine ! ”

‘ * And start another! ’ ’ said Vivette, transformed. **Think of it, Robin! Off on the larboard tack and get to wind­ward of all our imitators. I see-the whole thing,” and she shut her eyes with Tier two fingers. 4 4 Back, back to Addision — to Montaigne — to Chaucer, if need be. Oh,I have the title— L a R e v u e J e u n e ! Print it in that fascinating 8 x io size of the Tatler — with square wood-cut initials and double columns, the proper names in small caps — Oh, Oh, Oh! It will make the heathen rage!”

In the lull that followed, while we digested the plot, the office-boy was called in, and the neglected reports of the Association examined; Romancewas going on wheels, and we toasted our acting manager gayly. The next thing

T H E R E V IV A L O F T H E C L A S S IC :

on the program was the disposition of The M ilkm aid. I was put to it, to devise some graceful exit for the paper, but it was accomplished with 6clat by marrying her to The

one-of-her-most. prosperous rivals, and the editor of that magazine was laden unthTbul* goodwill and The M ilkm aid's accepted manuscripts.

The coast thus cleared, la Revue fa m e gathered itself together for a leap into popularity. It was a cunning sheet, coffee-dyed with age, adorned with Bewick cuts. Such caiiserie /— such reviews ! lithe and sinewy comment — gossipy chatter— there was meat on the bones of la Revue fa m e. It was ushered into the company of the

- Select^tooT by many new-made friends,— stars of the first magnitude they, who had praised The M ilkm aid and vouched for the new essay with the pride of the discoverers of youthful genius.

With Vivette as hostess of the Salon we held at the Editorial Rooms, in 'afterweeks, we held ourselves well balanced on the perch of prominence, and a card to a

-Sunday has made many a minor poet. Now [ wind blew Vivette away from these giddy successes,

I can’ t remember, but the Association claimed her services imperatively soon after the Review was well under way, and she disappeared for a month. The intelligent office boy took her place. He was a demon on Circulation, and rushed the Review into the tradesworld, damning it in an afternoon.

“ One really didn’ t enjoy seeing one’s Revue in one’s kitchen,” said a contributor to me. “ I f one’s cook could enjoy one’s articles, and that sort of thing,— one, really— you know 1 ’ ’

Interest in the Revue had dropped out of sight when Vivette returned, and she was indignant at the management. “ To think we should fail like that, after The M ilkm aid,”

T H E A N T H R O P O P H A G I A N .”

she said. “ There is but one thing to do, to retrieve our reputation. Robin,— I have the very idea.”

“ A new paper?” said I, growing old.“ What else,” she replied—the M ilkm aid and the Revue

Jeunc were mere toys to this. Listen to the announce­ment. The jir 7n o f Vivette 6° Company w ill shortly bring out a new periodical that w ill be to the flood o f banal imita tions o f their famous M i l k m a id as chess is to tit-tat-toe— This new venture— t h e A n t h r o p o p h a g ia n w ill be printed on real sheep­skin rolls set frojn types cut to the faces o f the 8th century Irish mini scutes; —

Here we were interrupted by the entrance of the office boy. “ I am sorry to say we are short $672.00, sir, and the force must be paid off to-night; the adventuresses are quite impatient.”

‘ ‘ Is the Association insolvent,1 ’ I asked fiercely, ‘ ‘ that you come to me for a paltry $672.00? ”

“ W e cleared more than that in The M ilkm aid, ” inter- persed Vivette, kindly. w

“ And sank it in the Young Review! ” said I.The office-boy drew himself up with a touch of pride.

14 It is precisely the amount I spent buying up first copies of The M ilkm aid, while I was acting manager of the Romance Association. Forgive me, sir; — in that capacity I felt justified in furthering your game at trade rates — but now I have the honour of informing you that I have by the investment, owing to the advance in price of M ilkm aids No. I, made a profit of 400% for the Association.”

Vivette burst into tears of laughter: ‘ ‘ You shall be made 27th Assistant Deputy Sub-Manager,” she said, “ but you have killed The Anthropophagian/”

My House is too Little to Live in, Oh! what would I do in a

With a Bore f o r a Caller It seems even Smaller,

There's nothing so Strange about That!