Men Who Have Risen.

Men Unsuccessful.

Sympathy Seekers.

Sympathy Finders.

Newspaper Reporters.

Newspaper Poets.

Authors Private.

Authors Public.

People Of The Army.

People Of The Navy.

Bohemians, Ragged As To Their Cuffs, Unkempt As To Their Raiment.

All Cla.s.ses, Shades And Conditions Of Life.

In Short, A Strange Kaleidoscopic Circle.

To be a gentleman above question is the _badge of admission_. To be clever is the _badge of promotion_. I am the center of this intensely interesting circle. I am the focus, the magnet around which they all revolve. The bulk of the social burden rests on me. The minute but highly important details are carefully watched and skillfully righted by the good mother. I am the General Entertainer, but she is the ameliorator of those little roughnesses, those little sharp corners which cling even to unconventional people. Her clear, well-balanced mind, her gentle, yet quietly positive temperament, peculiarly fit her for this necessary but frequently neglected social work.

I am young, beautiful, untrammeled; I am full of an unlimited ambition; I am not content with the small things of life; I will have none of those precious morsels--mere fragments--which tempt and readily please my sweet sisters in Vanity Fair. Young, yet I am far enough beyond twenty to have ideas of my own. Beautiful, yet I am free from that all-conscious air which pervades the average beauty. Untrammeled, because men do not touch me--have not the power to rouse within me one tender feeling. I am interested always, but I am never susceptible.

Women depend too much on their intuitions; they know so little about human nature, and less about man-nature. An intuition is oftentimes a safeguard to woman but more frequently a danger, because it creates within her too much of a servile dependence upon mere impulses and first impressions. My own intuitions are strong, but I want my knowledge to be stronger. I want to know all there is to know about men, women, and things. Women are usually like open books to me, easily read while pa.s.sing on to matters more interesting--men.

A man once asked me what special impression or effect I should like to have on a man of the world who had been every where, done every thing, seen every thing, knew every thing (or at least thought so)--in fine, a man with the edge of every desire dulled, the glow of every pa.s.sion cooled. My answer was simply this: I should try to give him what I constantly and without much effort gave most men--_A new sensation_.

After all it is not such a hard thing to do. Blase men are my especial prey; they can always be reached; their vulnerable points are many, but generally well concealed.

I have lost my early enthusiasms, but my enthusiastic _manner_ still remains. A genuine, cynical touch has, here of late, fallen into my life. It is not an affectation. I am all the better for that touch; it makes me more of a power among my subjects. For they are in reality my subjects. In the main they are loyal. They are ready to fight for me and my cause--if I had one.

I have divided my subjects--and other men--into:

I. Plat.i.tudes, II. Pleasures.

Plat.i.tudes are men who lead an honest, stupid existence. They are contented with their lot--because ignorant of any other. They are resentful of all innovations--because they are narrow-minded and full of deep ruts; they are guiltless of one clever thought; they sometimes stumble into somewhat of a clever action, but humbly deprecate the move, unconscious of having done a clever thing. Such men used to float about me in shoals of delicious stupidity. I was such a new creature! I was so different from the women they had met and always known. They were the foolish moths, I the candle-flame. They dashed blindly into danger; they fluttered about in ungraceful, ungracious misery. Finally, they would fly out and go on their little commonplace ways full of scars and petty burns, but not altogether marred--all the better for their uncomfortable but harmless burning. But nowadays it is quality not numbers which I desire, so they let me alone and are indeed astonished, bewildered, to find that I can go on, quite successfully too, and _without them_.

Poor little fools; they are not an absolute necessity to any one--hardly to themselves.

A Plat.i.tude is a selfish creature, and never very grateful unless he expects a continuance of past favors. With him a cessation of favors means a cessation of grat.i.tude. A limited number of the Plat.i.tude cla.s.s still linger about me--princ.i.p.ally on account of a long-contracted habit. They are content with whatever they get; they are entirely harmless, always useful in some way, and occasionally quite interesting.

A Pleasure is the direct opposite of a Plat.i.tude.

He is a clever man--clever in some one particular way. He is generally a man with many brilliant theories brilliantly brought forth. He is ready to entertain any proposition. He is ready to try any new field of human action. He is sometimes sympathetic, more frequently antagonistic.

But my so-called _Pleasures_ may not be forced under any one head which will accurately describe them as a cla.s.s. Indeed, each one is a cla.s.s within himself; that is my reason for using so broad a term as Pleasures: they are, in fact, Pleasures to me. They are really necessary to my happiness--not individually, but as an entirety.

Most of these men have been at some one time my lovers--at least after a fashion. Some of them are foolishly constant. They are not foolish on account of their constancy--a most commendable trait--but because of their inability to know just when to make a display of their devotion.

The general run of lovers--at least mine--are distressingly inopportune.

This a woman, in spite of herself, deeply resents; it is so unpardonably stupid of a sensible man not to know just when to make known his tender pa.s.sion. Lovers seldom study the women they love. They labor hard and plow straight on, in spite of any timid opposition from the other quarter; they are heedless of the future; they are eager to gain the prize, and often stride far beyond--overstep the mark, which sometimes is but a mere shadow line.

Most women fail to understand why they are unable to retain their rejected lovers. To me the explanation is plain. The average woman has nothing to give her lover, when he asks the all-important question, but a few tender, meaningless words to environ her _yes_ or _no_.

Of course, when the answer is yes, they both feed on the thought of marriage until its consummation. But if she is forced to say no, it leaves her barren of any thing to offer in lieu of the affection demanded. She is at once dest.i.tuted of resources. She has no mental reservoir out of which she may feed the man's desire, and gently but effectually turn it into an intellectual channel of her own making and directing. Therefore the man is lost to her--be he Plat.i.tude or Pleasure. She has made the fatal failure of neglecting to furnish--and at once--a sufficient amount of intellectual excitement to fascinate the man into lingering, and force him finally into a steadfast allegiance.

Women ought never insult their rejected lovers by _asking_ them for their friendship. Those things come, if come they can, of themselves. It is such an ugly mistake to insist on giving every thing a name. Emotions thrive so much better when they are nameless. We rightly label poisons, but why should we label perfumes? I love a touch of the vague and of the mysterious. It is the mystery-man who wins the woman. Direct courtships--when found in novels--read well, but they are not advisable in real life. Women like to upset well-laid plans by perverse and counter movements. A man must always let a woman do a reasonable share of the courting. I know so many men who have been courted outright by their wives--of course in a gentle, womanly way. It is often done. I have sometimes been so much interested in a man that I have fancied myself at last in love. But it is always a fleet-footed fancy. Interest and Love are not always the same--Robert Fairfield once interested me, but I never loved him.

I lead an ideal, independent life. I have no uncongenial family ties. My wishes, yea, even my whims, find instant gratification, if gratification is possible. I am just delicate enough to gain the tenderest consideration from all who know me. My little social sins gain the readiest forgiveness--from those who love me--and, in the eyes of some, grow into positive virtues. I maybe outrageously tardy for an engagement, or, without any particular reason, break it altogether, yet be understood and upheld. Plat.i.tudes do not always understand, and sometimes foolishly rebel. But it is of no use. I have a little way of making them believe that it was actually they and not I who had committed the offense. And they plead for _me_ to forgive _them!_

My modes of life are somewhat peculiar--at least commonplace persons think them so. I give little lunches and dinners. I invite just whomsoever I please. Now and then, for the sake of good form, and of the good mother, I have regulation affairs, to which I bid the _society regulars_--the so-called first and best set, who take invitations as a matter of course, who consider themselves the social salt of the earth, who go every where, and move about the houses of other people as if they owned them. The _Society Regular_ is a well-dressed, bad-mannered, somewhat disagreeable animal, devoid of innate delicacy, and absolutely without grat.i.tude. They are Plat.i.tudes of the first water. They do not frequent my house. They never dine or lunch with me, my Pleasures and other Plat.i.tudes.

This regulation affair is generally and afternoon tea. I leave out my retinue, the Kaleidoscopic Circle, and tell them about it afterward. My Social Exquisites and my Social Drifters are _reformed regulars_--brands s.n.a.t.c.hed from the burning by me. Briefless Barristers delight me very much. I have several interesting specimens in the legal line. It is interesting to have "young men of great promise" around me. True, their fees are small and few between, yet that enables them to see just that much more of me. In the old days I used to read law with them; but I have very wisely abandoned that little habit--it was tiresome.

I have one or two Men Who Have Risen. They are crude, uncultured creatures, but full of excellent points. One of them is a widower, who made his large fortune killing hogs, and afterward canning peas, tomatoes, etc. Of course he talks all the time about how he made his money. I am always an attentive listener, and I verily believe that I now have a practical knowledge of the hog business and canning interests of the country.

Men Unsuccessful look to me for new inspiration, new hope. They are always interesting. They are mental fragments flung aside by G.o.d, and by Him held down--so they tell me. They are bitter, cynical, and nearly always dyspeptic. They are near of kin to my Sympathy Seekers, who are pale, light-haired creatures, continually making appeals for sympathy.

But my Sympathy Finders are very near and dear to me. They are generally silent, melancholy men. They are always bearable, unless they chance to be in love with some other woman, and make me, along with a dozen other people, their _one and only_ confidant. Then is my life made a burden. I am privately interviewed on all occasions, the more inopportune the better. I am cornered and made a vessel for his pent-up feelings. I am told of her cruel treatment. I am told of her charms and of her faults--princ.i.p.ally not loving him. I am worked up into a nervous state. My physical nature grants him tears, while my mental nature speculates about the sincerity of his pa.s.sion and just to how many others he may have told the self-same story. Of course all this is wearing, yet it is very interesting.

Newspaper Reporters are a much-abused, downtrodden cla.s.s. I have known many, and I have yet to know one unworthy of a true woman's confidence.

Treat them as if they were dogs, and they will act like dogs--forever barking and biting at your heels; but treat them like human beings, with due and just consideration, and they will prove to you the wisdom of your course. Newspaper Poets gather about me in a body. I have all styles and gradations. They run the entire range from bad to fairly good; but there is one who writes a most exquisite verse. He is a tender, sympathetic, yet cynical man. Somehow he has slipped away. I was not able to hold him, nor did I wish or even dare to keep him. He is scornful of the world. He sees no reason why he should be here. He would rather not have been born--if _he_ had been consulted. After all, I may have idealized and overrated him. One of his rival poet friends once told me that my favorite and favored verse-maker was an inveterate poker-player and a continual loser! Ergo, the cynicism and scornfulness of the world. But banish tawdry thought!

Authors Private and Authors Public haunt my salon; men who have written and printed "little things of their own" for "private circulation only;"

and men who have given their books to the world at large--generally to the detriment of the world. They are full of twists and notions. They seek me to gain admiration, and they do--for I am a generous person.

People Of The Army and People Of The Navy are valuable to have around, for the sake of looks and manners. They never disappoint you. A man who has been on an Arctic expedition is especially desirable. You get material for a hero at small cost. I have one Arctic Explorer, and two army men who have been stationed in Yellowstone Park, and who fought with the dead Custer. My Bohemians are my chief delight, and they are many. They give the brightest, strongest colors to my Kaleidoscopic Circle. They give me new strength to fight the little battles and calms of every-day life. They give me the halo and the aroma of a new existence. This, in brief, the retinue.

I seldom have--and less here of late than ever--a desire to marry.

To me marriage would be such an uncertain thing--a risk with so little to gain. I am unwilling to relinquish my hold on the center of this charming circle. As it is I am a possibility--unfulfilled, it is true, yet a possibility--to twenty men or more. So I am unwilling to give up _all_ of my Pleasures just for the sake of any _one_ particular Pleasure, who might in six months, aye six days, reduce himself into a miserable Plat.i.tude. I may and I may not be a great number of things; but alas, above all, I am critical. Plat.i.tudes as Plat.i.tudes may constantly afford even considerable interest, but Plat.i.tudes do not make ideal husbands for women of my peculiar temperament and mental caliber.

I would rather be a Queen of Possibilities reigning over many hearts than a Queen of just one heart, and that one, perhaps, a most unworthy heart.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Miss Lina Searlwood, (of the Inner Sisterhood.)]