I agree with you that sunflowers seem masculine, and I would add another. To me the common red clover of our hay fields always seems masculine. The fine white or faintly tinged pink clover is a little lady but the big chubby red clovers are sturdy country lads.
No, I’ve never heard from Miriam. She did not even acknowledge the little booklet of verse I sent at Xmas but she may not have received it. By “faring passably well” do you refer to her health or her circumstances. She was suffering much from rheumatism when I last heard from her.
No, I don’t think I can define what it is that Ruskin lacks, although I feel it acutely. I admit all his good qualities. But then
If (s)he be not fair to me
What care I how fair (s)he be,
to mis-apply an old couplet very illustrative of human nature. Perhaps, as you suggest, it is a sense of humour. He does take himself so terribly in earnest over things that are only of secondary importance after all. In one of his books, Beauty and Nature, he says some exquisite things about the sky for which I could almost find it to give him a place in my heart.
Thank you for the Cosmopolitan and Markham’s poem. I enjoyed it with qualifications. It possesses great beauty—but it is the secondary beauty of complexity not the primary beauty of simplicity. I don’t altogether understand your question marks. Do you mean that you disagree with the ideas expressed or disapprove of the method of their expression?
I don’t like his calling her Virgilia—which is a Roman name—when the whole spirit of the poem seems to throw it back to a primal time of earth’s childhood before Rome or even Egypt had a name. His ideas don’t seem to be especially well connected—I think he sometimes sacrifices sense to rhyme. Then in his fourth verse
One afternoon the stars were slipping
Pearl after pearl to the bowl of night
rather pointedly suggests Omar’s lines
Morning in the bowl of night,
Has flung the stone that puts the stars to flight.
The line
To turn from love is the world’s one treason,
is good and true when taken in the widest sense. On the whole, I liked the poem, got pleasure from its perusal and thank you for sending it.
By the way, a literary correspondent of mine in New York writes me that he has a personal acquaintance with Markham and that the latter is suffering from “swelled head.”
I’ve been scribbling away. Had a story in April Gunters. Will send you a copy by and by if possible. I haven’t been paid for it yet but I got $25 for a former one there.
I enclose a copy of my verses in a recent number of Lippincotts.
The American Home recently sent me $18 for a short 3,000 word story. This is surprisingly good pay for such a concern. Their price is ten cents a year. You remember I sold them a serial once. Last week I got a letter from them urging me to write them an 18,000 word serial. So I’m trying to do it and have almost got it done. It’s a sensational tale about a lost ruby and I shall be ashamed of it but shall expect a liberal check.
Over a year ago I wrote an article, “The Old South Orchard.” It wasn’t a story but just a sort of essay relating fictional incidents about an old homestead garden. I sent it to the N.Y. Xian Advocate which acknowledged. As time went on I flattered myself it was accepted—as that is their method usually—and as good as credited myself with the usual $5 check. Just a year from date of sending it came back without a word of explanation or apology. I was furious and meditated sending a sarcastic note to the editor suggesting that he expurgate the word Christian from his paper’s name. However, I calmed down and sent the MS to Outing, New York. Yesterday I got a letter offering a cent a word (about $40) for the article and asking for more like it. The editor said he admired its “fine simplicity” and wanted to know if I had any intentions of working material up into a book, as the Outing Co. published books etc. Outing is a fine magazine and I’m tickled over the outcome and quite ready to bless the Xian Advocate man for his unintentional good turn.
The Churchman, New York, is paying good rates now. Sent me $9 apiece for a couple of 2000 word kid’s stories.
Recently I’ve been dipping into history and am reading Gibbon’s Decline and Fall. Last night I read his two famous chapters on Christianity. He impressed me as having attained perfection in the art of saying one thing and meaning the very opposite. He defends and praises the Xian religion and every word is a subtle sneer. Have you ever read it? It’s a massive work and makes me dizzy thinking of the amount of research and drudgery it must have entailed.
It’s time to say goodnight. So consider it said.
Ever your sincere friend,
L. M. Montgomery.
Cavendish, P.E.I.,
Thursday Evening,
June 21, 1906.
My dear Mr. W.:—
Your letter has been lying in my portfolio for over a fortnight waiting a chance to be answered. From this you would infer I was a very busy person, wouldn’t you? Well, in truth I am. Not that I’m doing much worth while but I really seem rushed to death with a lot of little wretched duties that have to be done for peace’ sake and eat up all the spare time. However, I’ve a breathing space tonight and I’m going to make the most of it. But it will be merely a scribble—not a letter.
I’m all played out! We had a Sunday School Convention in C. yesterday—a species of religious dissipation which beats a midnight dance all hollow for taking the stamina out of one. I feel tired down to my toes. For about eight consecutive hours yesterday I listened to reports, discussed methods, heard addresses, played in the choir, or sat up stiffly, dressed in my best and looked attentive. Some of the features were interesting—others bored me. All in all, I don’t believe I shall be a whit the better Sunday School Teacher for it—and I’m sure I’m the worse Christian today! I feel positively impish and quite ready to persecute anyone who doesn’t agree with me in creed!
Was sorry to hear of your accident but if it had as good an aftermath as you say perhaps it was well it happened and you ought to be congratulated rather than condoled with. Isn’t it odd how often things like that turn out to be blessings in disguise, while on the other hand things seemingly desirable and which please us most mightily at first draw after them a train of most unrighteous consequences. Is it all a chance medley—or is it Providence?
Yes, my N.Y. correspondent is a literary man—Gerald Carlton, who has written a lot of novels. They are not literature—very sensational etc. But his letters are all right. He is an elderly man and a retired British army officer but an Irishman by birth. He is the personal friend of a personal friend of mine in Halifax and it was thus I became acquainted with him. He seems to have had a wide acquaintance among writers—knew R. L. Stevenson, Wilkie Collins and that set intimately.
I finished my serial and sent it to the American Home. I haven’t heard from it officially yet but in a note from the editor about another matter he said he would report on the story soon and he thought the report would be favourable—a cryptic utterance that inspires me with hope.
Gunters