Prose Fancies

Prose Fancies, by Richard Le
Gallienne

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Prose Fancies, by Richard Le
Gallienne This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and
with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Prose Fancies
Author: Richard Le Gallienne
Release Date: February 12, 2005 [EBook #15025]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROSE
FANCIES ***

Produced by Brendan Lane, Melissa Er-Raqabi and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.

[Illustration]

PROSE FANCIES
BY RICHARD LE GALLIENNE
WITH A LITHOGRAPHED PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR BY R.
WILSON STEER
[Illustration]
LONDON ELKIN MATHEWS & JOHN LANE G.P. PUTNAM'S
SONS NEW YORK 1894

TO MY DEAR WIFE MY PROSE FOR HER POETRY IN MEMORY
OF TWO HAPPY YEARS OCTOBER 22, 1891 DECEMBER 6 1893

CONTENTS
A SPRING MORNING A CONSPIRACY OF SILENCE LIFE IN
INVERTED COMMAS FRACTIONAL HUMANITY THE
WOMAN'S HALF-PROFITS GOOD BISHOP VALENTINE
IRRELEVANT PEOPLE THE DEVILS ON THE NEEDLE POETS
AND PUBLISHERS APOLLO'S MARKET THE 'GENIUS'
SUPERSTITION A BORROWED SOVEREIGN ANARCHY IN A
LIBRARY THE PHILOSOPHY OF 'LIMITED EDITIONS' A PLEA
FOR THE OLD PLAYGOER THE MEASURE OF A MAN THE
BLESSEDNESS OF WOMAN VIRAGOES OF THE BRAIN THE
EYE OF THE BEHOLDER TRANSFERABLE LIVES THE
APPARITION OF YOUTH THE PATHETIC FLOURISH A
TAVERN NIGHT SANDRA BELLONI'S PINEWOOD WHITE
SOUL

NOTE
The reader will, doubtless, feel the greater confidence in the following

essays, from the fact that they have already passed their first and
second readings through the hands of the editors and subscribers of The
Speaker, The Star, The Illustrated London News, and The Sketch. To
the several editors of these papers I am indebted for their kind
permission to reprint, and I take this opportunity of expressing my
thanks to Mr. CLEMENT SHORTER for many other kindnesses. I
venture also particularly to thank my friend Mr. T.P. GILL--but for
whose kind incitement many of the following 'Fancies' had not been
written at all.

PROSE FANCIES

A SPRING MORNING
I
Spring puts the old pipe to his lips and blows a note or two. At the
sound, little thrills pass across the wintry meadows. The bushes are
dotted with innumerable tiny sparks of green, that will soon set fire to
the whole hedgerow; here and there they have gone so far as those little
tufts which the children call 'bread and cheese.' A gentle change is
coming over the grim avenue of the elms yonder. They won't relent so
far as to admit buds, but there is an unmistakable bloom upon them,
like the promise of a smile. The rooks have known it for some weeks,
and already their Jews' market is in full caw. The more complaisant
chestnut dandles its sticky knobs. Soon they will be brussels-sprouts,
and then they will shake open their fairy umbrellas. So says a child of
my acquaintance. The water-lilies already poke their green scrolls
above the surface of the pond; a few buttercups venture into the
meadows, but daisies are still precious as asparagus. The air is warm as
your love's cheek, golden as canary. It is all a-clink and a-glitter, it trills
and chirps on every hand. Somewhere close by, but unseen, a young
man is whistling at his work; and, putting your ear to the ground, you
shall hear how the earth beneath is alive with a million little beating
hearts. C'est l'heure exquise.

Presently along the road comes slowly, and at times erratically, a
charming procession. Following the fashion, or even setting it, three
weeks since yon old sow budded. From her side, recalling the Trojan
horse, sprang suddenly a little company of black-and-tan piglets, fully
legged and snouted for the battle of life. She is taking them with her to
put them to school at a farm two or three miles away. So I understand
her. They surround her in a compact body, ever moving and poking and
squeaking, yet all keeping together. As they advance slowly, she
towering above her tiny bodyguard, one thinks of Gulliver moving
through Lilliput; and there is a touch of solemnity in the procession
which recalls a mighty Indian idol being carried through the streets,
with people thronging about its feet. How delicately she steps, lest she
hurt one of the little limbs! And, meanwhile, mark the driver--for
though the old pig pretends to ignore any such coercion, as men believe
in free-will, yet there is a fate, a driver, to this idyllic domestic
company. But how gentle is he too! He never lets it be seen that he is
driving them. He carries a little switch, rather, it would appear, for