rth
a king's ransom, and figures of speech that deserve the Prix Montyon.
Then reviewing his work, he formulated an axiom which will go down
with a nimbus through time: Whomsoever a thought however complex, a
vision however apocalyptic, surprises without words to convey it, is
not a writer. The inexpressible does not exist." It is impossible to
taste at this man's table. One must eat the whole dinner to appreciate
its opulent inevitability. Still I may offer a few olives, a branch or
two of succulent celery to those who have not as yet been invited to
sit down. One of his ladies walks the Avenue in a gown the "color of
fried smelts." Such figurative phrases as "Her eyes were of that
green-grey which is caught in an icicle held over grass," "The sand is
as fine as face powder, _nuance_ Rachel, packed hard," "Death, it may
be, is not merely a law but a place, perhaps a garage which the
traveller reaches on a demolished motor, but whence none can proceed
until all old scores are paid," "The ocean resembled nothing so much
as an immense blue syrup," "She was a pale freckled girl, with hair
the shade of Bavarian beer," "The sun rose from the ocean like an
indolent girl from her bath," "Night, that queen who reigns only when
she falls, shook out the shroud she wears for gown," are to be found
on every page. Certain phrases sound good to him and are re-used:
"Disappearances are deceptive," "ruedelapaixian" (to describe a
dress), "toilet of the ring" (lifted from the bull-fight in "Mr.
Incoul's Misadventure" to do service in an account of the arena games
under Nero in "Imperial Purple"), but repetition of this kind is
infrequent in his works and seemingly unnecessary. Ideas and phrases,
endless chains of them, spurt from the point of his ardent pen.
Standing on his magic carpet he shakes new sins out of his sleeve as a
conjurer shakes out white rabbits and juggles words with an exquisite
dexterity. He is, indeed, the _jongleur de notre ame_!

From the beginning, his style has attracted the attention of the few
and no one, I am sure, has ever written a three line review of a book
by Saltus without referring to it. Mme. Amelie Rives has quoted Oscar
Wilde as saying to her one night at dinner, "In Edgar Saltus's work
passion struggles with grammar on every page!" Percival Pollard has
dubbed him a "prose paranoiac," and Elbert Hubbard says, "He writes so
well that he grows enamoured of his own style and is subdued like the
dyer's