FullReads

“My daughter brought home a copy of the book Saturday,” said he, “and I looked through it yesterday. Sappho may suit some cranks; but as for me, give me Ella Wheeler or Will Carleton. I love good poetry: I ‘ve got the finest-bound copy of Shakespeare in Illinois, and my edition of Coleridge will knock the socks off any book in the country. My wife has painted all the Doray illustrations of the Ancient Marine, and I would n’t swap that book for the costliest Mysonyay in all Paris!

“I can’t see where the poetry comes in,” he went on to say. “So far as I can make out, this man Sapolio–I mean Sappho–never did any sustained or consecutive work. His poems read to me a good deal like a diary. Some of them consist of one line only, and quite a number have only three words. Now, I will repeat five entire poems taken from this fool-book: I learned them on purpose to repeat at the club. Here is the first,–

“Me just now the golden-sandalled Dawn.

“That ‘s all there is to it. Here’s the second:

“I yearn and seek.

“A third is complete in–

“Much whiter than an egg;

and the fourth is,–

“Stir not the shingle,

which, I take it, was one of Sapphire’s juvenile poems addressed to his mother. The fifth poem is simply,–

“And thou thyself, Calliope,

which, by the way, reminds me that Forepaugh’s calliope got smashed up in a railroad accident night before last,–a circumstance deeply to be regretted, since there is no instrument calculated to appeal more directly to one versed in mythological lore, or more likely to awaken a train of pleasing associations, than the steam-calliope.”

A South-Side packer, who has the largest library in the city, told us that he had not seen Sappho’s works yet, but that he intended to read them at an early date. “I ‘ve got so sick of Howells and James,” said he, “that I ‘m darned glad to hear that some new fellow has come to the front.”

Another prominent social light (a brewer) said that he had bought a “Sappho,” and was having it bound in morocco, with turkey-red trimmings. “I do enjoy a handsome book,” said he. “One of the most valuable volumes in my library I bought of a leading candy-manufacturer in this city. It is the original libretto and score of the ‘Songs of Solomon,’ bound in the tanned pelt of the fatted calf that was killed when the prodigal son came home.”

“I have simply glanced through the Sappho book,” said another distinguished representative of local culture; “and what surprised me, was the pains that has been taken in getting up the affair. Why, do you know, the editor has gone to the trouble of going through the book, and translating every darned poem into Greek! Of course, this strikes us business-men of Chicago as a queer bit of pedantry.”

The scholarly and courtly editor of the “Weekly Lard Journal and Literary Companion,” Professor A. J. Lyvely, criticised Sappho very freely as he stood at the corner of Clark and Madison Streets, waiting for the superb gold chariot drawn by twenty milk-white steeds, and containing fifty musicians, to come along. “Just because she lived in the dark ages,” said he, “she is cracked up for a great poet; but she will never be as popular with the masses of Western readers as Ella Wheeler and Marion Harland are. All of her works that remain to us are a few fragments, and they are chestnuts; for they have been printed within the last ten years in the books of a great many poets I could name, and I have read them. We know very little of Sappho’s life. If she had amounted to much, we would not be in such ignorance of her doings. The probability is that she was a society or fashion editor on one of the daily papers of her time,–a sort of Clara-Belle woman, whose naughtiness was mistaken for a species of intellectual brilliancy. Sappho was a gamey old girl, you know. Her life must have been a poem of passion, if there is any truth in the testimony of the authorities who wrote about her several centuries after her death. In fact, these verses of hers that are left indicate that she was addicted to late suppers, to loose morning-gowns, to perfumed stationery, and to hysterics. It is ten to one that she wore flaming bonnets and striking dresses; that she talked loud at the theatres and in public generally; and that she chewed gum, and smoked cigarettes, when she went to the races. If that woman had lived in Chicago, she would have been tabooed.”