Life — January 5, 1899 — page 14: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“WHY DON'T YOU KILL THE CURSED BRCTET” “WHY IN BLAZES CAN'T YOU STAND STILL A MOMENT AND GIVE ME 4 cHAxcE?” “DAMMIT! “MAYBE YOU'D LIKE To HAVE ME HOLD HIM FoR You!" Trouble on Parnassus. lV the good old days, when gods were men and men were gods, a frugal Spartan named Peo Urius hired out as butler to the Muses. ‘Those were the halcyon days, when they had poets to burn and wasted them; r when the kitchen fires of Par- Na nassus were lighted with rejected epics; when the carpets were lined with sonnets and transcendental essays, and the menus were dove in trivlets. * For centurics Pen Urius waited on the heavenly maids, drinking in their wit and wisdom; but there came a day when the Parnassian standards were lowered and the faithful servitors of a the Muses grew sad and discontented. Freak poets, writers with purposes, end women with too many emotions and husbands, crowded the dining-rooi bargain counter laurels were flaunted on the front stoop; Thalia was doing coon songs; Terpsichore went in for the hoocbee-coochee; Erato was translating from the French; and Polyhymoia was working the syndicates. Days of disaster were at hand; there was talk of a summer school and hotel adjoining the Temple of Apollo; and an Athenian syndicate wanted ‘the bottling rights of the Castalian Spring. In the servants’ hall Pen Urius spoke to the disgusted re- * tainers: ‘* We have scen the best of Parnassus, Where I used to decant nectar, 1 am now serving Fourteenth Street claret and Mellcn’s Food; old man Homer nods, while Omaha poets put their feet on the table and yell for. cocktails and afflatus. Now weare threatened with a British laureate, a jingle maker, called Alfred X. Austin, a poct who wears those waterproof laurels made in Birmingham for the colonial trade. It is too much. We have stood Ibsenism; we have patiently borne Low- land Scotch outrages; we have swallowed the mince piety of Mary Wilkins, and even toler- ated the dull conceits of the mighty Canucks; but, brethren, I will everlastingly shovel coals in Tartarus before I will go Austin, If he comes in, I go out; I draw the line on him.” That day a man with loud clothes, violent hair and a Lyceum stage accent rode up Par- nassus on a wheel, and knocked on the door with the clamor and contidence of a Tammany cop. When the indignant Pen Urius came to the door the stranger looked at him through a monocle, und said: ‘“‘Announce me to the girls, me good man. Say the laureate bas arrived—Austin, you know; the celebrated author of *Jameson’s Ride.’ Me luggage and laurels will arrive later; put them in a front room; send up shaving paper and hot water, and have me tub filled. Then tell Homer if he wishes to see me to be lively about it, as T will be busy this evening on an ode to ‘ Royal Rheumatism Relieved.’ Now move along aod tell the girls.” Pen Urius, pale with humiliation, announced the laureate to the Muses, and gave them a week's notice. When Homer heard the news he went down to the smoking-room, where Dante, Shakespeare, Calderon and Goethe were playing a small game for halos, and suid hurriedly: ‘Say, fellows! It’s come. It’s criticising Sophocles and me, and correcting Calliope’s declamation, It is time for us to be taking the cars for Boston, or any old place.” ‘Two months later a large, yellow-frame boarding-house was “ALL IS LOST SAVE moor.”