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place of a bonnet over her hair。 It is of the second womanO unfortunate
creature！that this record is madea record without sequel； without
consequence； but there is nothing to be done in her regard except so to
remember her。 And thus much I think I owe after having looked； from
the midst of the negative happiness that is given to so many for a space of
years； at some minutes of her despair。 She was hanging on the man's arm
in her entreaties that he would stop the drama he was enacting。 She had
wept so hard that her face was disfigured。 Across her nose was the dark
purple that comes with overpowering fear。 Haydon saw it on the face of
a woman whose child had just been run over in a London street。 I
remembered the note in his journal as the woman at Via Reggio； in her
intolerable hour； turned her head my way； her sobs lifting it。 She was
afraid that the man would throw himself under the train。 She was afraid
that he would be damned for his blasphemies； and as to this her fear was
mortal fear。 It was horrible； too； that she was humpbacked and a dwarf。
Not until the train drew away from the station did we lose the clamour。
No one had tried to silence the man or to soothe the woman's horror。 But
has any one who saw it forgotten her face？ To me for the rest of the day
it was a sensible rather than a merely mental image。 Constantly a red
blur rose before my eyes for a background； and against it appeared the
dwarf's head； lifted with sobs； under the provincial black lace veil。 And
at night what emphasis it gained on the boundaries of sleep！ Close to my
hotel there was a roofless theatre crammed with people； where they were
giving Offenbach。 The operas of Offenbach still exist in Italy； and the
little town was placarded with announcements of La Bella Elena。 The
peculiar vulgar rhythm of the music jigged audibly through half the hot
night； and the clapping of the town's…folk filled all its pauses。 But the
persistent noise did but accompany； for me； the persistent vision of those
three figures at the Via Reggio station in the profound sunshine of the day。
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The Rhythm of Life and Other Essays
POCKET VOCABULARIES
A serviceable substitute for style in literature has been found in such a
collection of language ready for use as may be likened to a portable
vocabulary。 It is suited to the manners of a day that has produced salad…
dressing in bottles； and many other devices for the saving of processes。
Fill me such a wallet full of 'graphic' things； of 'quaint' things and 'weird；'
of 'crisp' or 'sturdy' Anglo…Saxon； of the material for 'word…painting' （is not
that the way of it？）； and it will serve the turn。 Especially did the Teutonic
fury fill full these common little hoards of language。 It seemed；
doubtless； to the professor of the New Literature that if anything could
convince him of his own success it must be the energy of his Teutonisms
and his avoidance of languid Latin derivatives； fit only for the pedants of
the eighteenth century。 Literature doubtless is made of words。 What
then is needful； he seems to ask； besides a knack of beautiful words？
Unluckily for him； he has achieved； not style； but slang。 Unluckily for
him； words are not style； phrases are not style。 'The man is style。' O
good French language； cunning and good； that lets me read the sentence in
obverse or converse as I will！ And I read it as declaring that the whole
man； the very whole of him； is his style。 The literature of a man of letters
worthy the name is rooted in all his qualities； with little fibres running
invisibly into the smallest qualities he has。 He who is not a man of letters；
simply is not one； it is not too audacious a paradox to affirm that doing
will not avail him who fails in being。 'Lay your deadly doing down；'
sang once some old hymn known to Calvinists。 Certain poets； a certain
time ago； ransacked the language for words full of life and beauty； made a
vocabulary of them； and out of wantonness wrote them to death。 To
change somewhat the simile； they scented out a wordan earlyish word；
by preferenceran it to earth； unearthed it； dug it out； and killed it。 And
then their followers bagged it。 The very word that lives； 'new every
morning；' miraculously new； in the literature of a man of letters； they
killed and put into their bag。 And； in like manner； the emotion that
should have caused the word is dead for those； and for those only； who
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The Rhythm of Life and Other Essays
abuse its expression。 For the maker of a portable vocabulary is not
content to turn his words up there： he turns up his feelings also；
alphabetically or otherwise。 Wonderful how much sensibility is at hand in
such round words as the New Literature loves。 Do you want a generous
emotion？ Pull forth the little language。 Find out moonshine； find out
moonshine！
Take； as an instance； Mr。 Swinburne's 'hell。' There is； I fear； no doubt
whatever that Mr。 Swinburne has put his 'hell' into a vocabulary； with the
inevitable consequences to the word。 And when the minor men of his
school have occasion for a 'hell' （which may very well happen to any
young man practising authorship）； I must not be accused of phantasy if I
say that they put their hands into Mr。 Swinburne's vocabulary and pick it。
These vocabularies are made out of vigorous and blunt language。 'What
hempen homespuns have we swaggering here？' Alas； they are
homespuns from the factory； machine…made in uncostly quantities。
Obviously； power needs to make use of no such storage。 The property of
power is to use phrases； whethe