tombstone erected to a pilot, and inscribed with the story of his heroic
death in precisely Jim Bludso's spirit. At the time that I read the
inscription on it, "Jim Bludso" had not been written, but the matter
interested me and I made inquiry for the exact facts. The story as I
heard it was this: The boat being afire the pilot landed her, head-on
against a bank that offered no facilities for making her fast with
cables. The only way to get the "galoots ashore" was for the pilot
to remain at his post and ring his engine bells for going ahead and
backing, so as to "hold her nozzle agin the bank." But the flames were
by that time licking the rear of the pilot house, and the captain
frantically entreated the pilot to leap from the forward part of the
structure to the deck below. This the heroic fellow refused to do so
long as the safety of the passengers required his presence at his post.
He stood there, calmly smoking his cigar and coolly ringing his bells as
occasion required till at last every other human being on board had been
saved. By that time the flames had completely enveloped the pilot-house,
and there was left no possible way of escape. Then relinquishing his
hold upon the wheel, the pilot folded his arms and stood like a statue
until the floor beneath him gave way and he sank to a cruel death in the
furnace-like fire below.
The details of the story were related to me by Captain John Cannon, of
the steamer "Robert E. Lee," and the weather-beaten old navigator was
not ashamed of the tears that trickled down his cheeks as he told the
tale.
When I had finished, Mr. Hay said:
"That only means that we have two heroes to revere instead of one. Jim
Bludso was an engineer."
Continuing his talk of coincidences, Mr. Hay said:
"I once went up to my native village, and as I walked along the street I
accidentally jostled a man. When I apologized, he turned to me and said:
"'I ought to know you and you ought to know me, for your name's John
Hay and mine's Jim Bludso. But I'm not the fellow you wrote that poetry
about. He's very dead and you see I'm very much alive.'"
Then Mr. Hay told me of another curious encounter that connected itself
with the Pike County Ballads.
"You remember," he said, "that it was from the sermon of an old minister
that I got the story told in 'Little Breeches.' Well, when I was in
California in company with President McKinley, I was one day visited by
a venerable man who proved to be none other than the preacher from whose
lips I had heard the original and authoritative prosaic version of that
miracle story. It is curious how these coincidences occur."
The substance of this conversation with Mr. Hay was embodied in an
article of mine in the New York _Herald_ for April 27, 1902. Proofs of
the interview were sent to Mr. Hay in advance of publication, with my
request that he should make such corrections in them as he saw fit. He
returned the slips to me without an alteration and with a note saying;
"I have no suggestions to make. Your report of our conversation is
altogether accurate. I only wish I might have said something better
worth printing."
That was the last time I saw John Hay. It was the end of an acquaintance
which had been cordial, though not intimate, and which had extended over
a period of thirty years. As I was leaving he stopped me. He took up a
copy of the pamphlet containing his splendid tribute to the memory of
President McKinley, inscribed it with his autograph, and handed it to
me, saying, with a touch of sadness which was not quite melancholy:
"You care for my literary work. Perhaps in the coming years you will
care to have, from my own hand, this copy of my latest and probably my
last essay in that department of human endeavor."
The event verified his prophecy. He soon afterward fell ill, and in the
year 1905 he died, affectionately regretted by every one who had ever
known him personally and by scores of thousands who had known him only
through his work.
[Sidenote: Mr. Hay's Personality]
John Hay's personal character was the foundation upon which all his
successes, whether in journalism, literature, or statecraft were built.
He was utterly sincere, as instinctively truthful as a child, and as
gentle of spirit as any woman ever was. Those who knew him personally
were never at a loss to account for the ease with which, in diplomatic
matters, he won men to his wish and persuaded them to his point of
view. Every one who came into contact with him was constrained by his
gentle reasonableness to agree with him. His whole nature was winning
in an extraordinary degree. Strong as he was in his own convictions,
his assertion of them never took the form of antagonism. I really
suppose that John Hay never said a thing in his life which aroused
resentment--and that not because of any hesitation on his part to utter
his thought but because of the transparent justice of the thought,
and of his gently persuasive way of uttering it. His convictions were
strong and there was enough of apostleship in his nature to prompt him
to urge them on all proper occasions: but he urged them soothingly,
convincingly, never by arrogant assertion or with obnoxious insistence.
Feeling no disposition to quarrel with anybody on his own account,
he was always alert to make an end of other people's quarrels when
opportunity of pacification came to him.
I remember an instance of this that fell under my own notice. During a
prolonged absence of Mr. Whitelaw Reid from the country, Mr. Hay was
left in control of the _Tribune_. I was not connected with any newspaper
at the time, but was "running a literary shop" of my own, as Mr. Hay
expressed it--writing books of my own, editing other people's books,
advising a publishing firm, and writing for various newspapers and
magazines. Now and then, when some occurrence suggested it, I wrote an
editorial article for the _Tribune_, as I had done occasionally for a
good many years before.
One day Mr. Hay asked me to call upon him with reference to some work he
wanted me to do. After we had arranged all the rest of it, he picked up
Jefferson Davis's "Rise and Fall of the Confederate Government," which
had just been published.
"That is a subject," Mr. Hay said, "on which you can write as an expert.
I want you, if you will, to review the book for the _Tribune_."
I objected that my estimate of Mr. Davis was by no means a flattering
one, and that in a cursory examination which I had already given to his
book, I had discovered some misrepresentations of fact so extraordinary
that they could not be passed over in charitable silence. I cited, as
one of these misrepresentations, Mr. Davis's minute account--expunged
from later editions of the book, I believe--of the final evacuation of
Fort Sumter and the city of Charleston--in which he gave an account of
certain theatrical performances that never occurred, and of impassioned
speeches made by an officer who was not there and had not been there for
eight months before the time of the evacuation.
"So far as that is concerned," said Mr. Hay, "it makes no difference. As
a reviewer you will know what to say of such things. Mr. Davis has put
forward a book. It is subject to criticism at the hands of any capable
and honest reviewer. Write of it conscientiously, and with as much of
good temper as you can. That is all I desire."
I then suggested another difficulty. For a considerable time past there
had been some ill feeling between the editor of the _Tribune_ and the
publishers of Mr. Davis's book. The _Tribune_ did not review or in any
way mention books published by that firm. On one occasion, when I had
been asked to review a number of books for the paper, one of them was
withdrawn on that account. I suggested to Mr. Hay that perhaps a review
of Mr. Davis's book by one who had been thus warned of the situation
might be a displeasing impertinence. He replied:
"I have had no instructions on that head. I know nothing about the ill
feeling. Perhaps you and I may make an end of the trouble by ignoring
it. Write your review and I will publish it."
[Sidenote: Mr. Hay and "The Breadwinners"]
One other thing I may mention here as perhaps of interest. When the
anonymous novel, "The Breadwinners," appeared, it excited a good deal of
comment because of the freedom with which the author presented prominent
persons under a disguise too thin to conceal identity. The novel was
commonly and confidently attributed to Mr. Hay, and some of the critics
ventured to censure him for certain features of it. One night at the
Authors Club, at a time when talk of the matter was in everybody's
mouth, and when Mr. Hay's authorship of the work had well-nigh ceased
to be in doubt, he and I were talking of other things, when suddenly he
said to me:
"I suppose you share the general conviction with regard to the
authorship of 'The Breadwinners.' Let me tell you that I did not write
that book, though I confess that some things in it seem to justify the
popular belief that I did."
The peculiar form of words in which he couched his denial left me in
doubt as to its exact significance, and to this day that doubt has never
been resolved. Of course I could not subject him to a cross-examination
on the subject.
XLV
I have wandered somewhat from the chronology of my recollections, but
this record is not a statistical table, and so it matters not if I
wander farther still in pursuit of vagrant memories.
The mention of Mr. Hay's old preacher who had no sense of humor in his
composition reminds me of another of like kind, who was seized with an
ardent desire to contribute--for compensation--a series of instructive
moral essays to _Hearth and Home_.
When asked by a member of the publishing firm to let him do so, I
replied that I did not think the paper was just then in pressing need of
instructive moral essays, but that the reverend gentlemen might send one
as a sample. He sent it. It began thus:
"Some philosopher has wisely observed that 'every ugly young woman has
the comforting assurance that she will be a pretty old woman if she
lives long enough.' Doubtless the philosopher meant that a young woman
destitute of physical beauty, with all its temptations, is sure to
cultivate those spiritual qualities which give beauty and more than
beauty to the countenance in later years."
And so the dear, innocent old gentleman went on for a column or so,
utterly oblivious of the joke he had accepted as profound philosophy.
I had half a mind to print his solemn paper in the humorous column
entitled, "That Reminds Me," but, in deference to his age and dignity,
I forbore. As is often the case in such matters, my forbearance awakened
no gratitude in him. In answer to his earnest request to know why
I thought his essay unworthy, I was foolish enough to point out and
explain the jocular character of his "philosopher's" utterance,
whereupon he wrote to my publishers, strongly urging them to employ a
new editor, for that "the young man you now have is obviously a person
of frivolous mind who sees only jests in utterances of the most solemn
and instructive import."
As the publishers did not ask for my resignation, I found it easy to
forgive my adversary.
[Sidenote: The Disappointed Author]
In view of the multitude of cases in which the writers of rejected
contributions and the victims of adverse criticism are at pains to
advise publishers to change their editors, I have sometimes wondered
that the editorial fraternity is not continually a company of literary
nomads, looking for employment. In one case, I remember, a distinguished
critic reviewing a rather pretentious book, pointed out the fact that
the author had confounded rare old Ben Jonson with Dr. Samuel Johnson
in a way likely to be misleading to careless or imperfectly informed
readers, whereupon not only the author but all his friends sent letters
clamoring for the dismissal of a reviewer so lacking in sympathetic
appreciation of sincere literary endeavor. When I told Mr. George Ripley
of the matter he replied:
"Oh, that is the usual thing. I am keeping a collection of letters sent
to Mr. Greeley demanding my discharge. I think of bequeathing it to the
Astor Library as historical material, reflecting the literary conditions
of our time."
In one case of the kind that fell to my share there was a rather
dramatic outcome. I was acting as a literary adviser for Harper &
Brothers, when there came to me for judgment the manuscript of a novel
in which I found more of virility and strong human interest than most
novels possess, together with a well constructed plot, a pleasing
literary style, and some unusually well conceived and well portrayed
characters. The work was so good indeed that it was with very sincere
regret that I found myself obliged to condemn it. I had to do so because
it included, as an inseparable part of its structure, a severe and even
a bitter assault upon the work and the methods of Mr. Moody and all the
other "irregular troops" in the army of religion, not sparing even the
"revival" methods of the Methodists and Baptists. It was a rigid rule
of the Harpers not to publish books of that kind, and I might with
propriety have reported simply that the novel included matters which
rendered it unavailable for the Harper list. But I was so interested in
it and so impressed with its superior quality as a work of fiction that
instead of a brief recommendation of rejection, I sent in an elaborate
critical analysis of it, including a pretty full synopsis of its plot.
The "opinion" filled many pages of manuscript--more than I had ever
before written in that way concerning any book submitted to me.
A week or so later I happened to call at the Harper establishment, as
it was my custom to do occasionally. Seeing me, Mr. Joseph W. Harper,
Jr.--"Brooklyn Joe" we called him--beckoned to me, and, with a labored
assumption of solemnity which a mirthful twinkle in his eye completely
spoiled, said:
"I have a matter which I must bring to your attention, greatly to my
regret. Read that."
With that he handed me a letter from the author of the novel, an
Episcopalian clergyman of some distinction.
The writer explained that his vanity was in no way offended by the
rejection of his work. That, he said, was to be expected in the case of
an unknown author (a flattering unction with which unsuccessful authorship
always consoles itself), but that he felt it to be his duty as a
clergyman, a moralist, and a good citizen, to report to the house that
their reader was robbing them to the extent of his salary. He had
incontrovertible proof, he said, that the reader had not read a single
page or line of his manuscript before rejecting it.
"There," said Joe Harper when I had finished the letter. "I really
didn't think you that sort of a person."
"What did you say to him by way of reply?" I asked.
[Sidenote: Joe Harper's Masterpiece]
"I'll show you," he said, taking up his letter-book. "I inclosed a copy
of that intolerably long opinion of yours and wrote this." Then he let
me read the letter. In it he thanked the gentleman for having brought
the dereliction of the reader to the attention of the house, but
suggested that before proceeding to extreme measures in such a case,
he thought it well to be perfectly sure of the facts. To that end, he
wrote, he inclosed an exact copy of the "opinion" on which the novel had
been declined, and asked the author to read it and report whether or not
he still felt certain that the writer of the opinion had condemned the
work unread.
The entire letter was written in a tone of submissive acceptance of
the rejected author's judgment in the case. As a whole it seemed to me
as withering a piece of sarcasm as I ever read, and in spite of the
injustice he had sought to do me. I was distinctly sorry for the man to
whom it was addressed. I suppose Mr. Harper felt in the same way, but
all that he said, as he put the letter-book upon his desk, was:
"I hope he prepares his sermon early in the week, for that letter of
mine must have reached him about Friday morning, and it may have created
a greater or less disturbance in his mind."
A few days later there came a reply. The author said that an examination
of the "opinion" left no room for doubt that the work had been read with
care throughout, but that he had confidently believed otherwise when he
wrote his first letter. He explained that before sending the manuscript
he had tied a peculiar cord around it, inside the wrapper, and that when
it came back to him with the same cord tied about it, he thought it
certain that the package had never been opened. He was sorry he had made
a mistake, of course, but he had been entirely sincere, etc., etc.
Mr. Harper indulged himself in an answer to all this. If I had not been
permitted to read it, I should never have believed that anything so
caustic could have been uttered by a man so genially good-tempered as
I knew Mr. Harper to be. It was all the more effective because from
beginning to end there was no trace of excitement, no touch of anger, no
word or phrase in it that could be criticised as harsh or intemperate.
Beneath the complaint made by the clerical author in that case there was
a mistaken assumption with which every publisher and every editor is
familiar--the assumption, namely, that the publisher or editor to whom
unsolicited manuscripts are sent is under some sort of moral obligation
to read them or have them read. Of course no such obligation exists.
When the publisher or editor is satisfied that he does not wish to
purchase a manuscript, it makes no manner of difference by what process
he has arrived at that conclusion. The subject of the book or article
may be one that he does not care to handle; the author's manner, as
revealed in the early pages of his manuscript, may justify rejection
without further reading. Any one of a score of reasons may be conclusive
without the necessity of examining the manuscript in whole or even in
part. I once advised the rejection of a book without reading it, on
the ground that the woman who wrote it used a cambric needle and milk
instead of a pen and ink, so that it would be a gross immorality to put
her manuscript into the hands of printers whose earnings depended upon
the number of ems they could set in a day.
[Sidenote: Manuscripts and Their Authors]
But the conviction is general among the amateur authors of unsolicited
manuscripts that the editors or publishers to whom they send their
literary wares are morally bound not only to examine them, but to read
them carefully from beginning to end. They sometimes resort to ingenious
devices by way of detecting the rascally editors in neglect of this
duty. They slenderly stick the corners of two sheets together; or they
turn up the lower corner of a sheet here and there as if by accident but
so carefully as to cover a word or two from sight; or they place a sheet
upside down, or in some other way set a trap that makes the editor smile
if he happens to be in good temper, and causes him to reject the thing
in resentment of the impertinence if his breakfast has not agreed with
him that day.
I was speaking of these things one day, to Mr. George P. Putnam,
Irving's friend and the most sympathetically literary of publishers then
living, when he suddenly asked me:
"Do you know the minimum value of a lost manuscript?"
I professed ignorance, whereupon he said:
"It is five hundred dollars." Presently, in answer to a question,
he explained:
"In the old days of _Putnam's Monthly_, one of the multitude of
unsolicited manuscripts sent in would now and then be mislaid. I
never knew a case of the kind in which the author failed to value the
manuscript at five hundred dollars or more, no matter what its subject
or its length or even its worthlessness might be. In one case, when I
refused to pay the price fixed upon by the author, he instituted suit,
and very earnestly protested that his manuscript was worth far more
than the five hundred dollars demanded for it. He even wrote me that he
had a definite offer of more than that sum for it. To his discomfiture
somebody in the office found the manuscript about that time and we
returned it to the author. He sent it back, asking us to accept it.
I declined. He then offered it for two hundred and fifty dollars, then
for two hundred, and finally for seventy-five. I wrote to him that he
needn't trouble to reduce his price further, as the editors did not care
to accept the paper at any price. I have often wondered why he didn't
sell it to the person who, as he asserted, had offered him more than
five hundred dollars for it; but he never did, as the thing has never
yet been published, and that was many years ago."
XLVI
It was during my connection with _Hearth and Home_ that I first met two
men who greatly interested me. One of them was the newest of celebrities
in American literature; the other was old enough to have been lampooned
by Poe in his series of papers called "The Literati."
The one was Joaquin Miller, the other Thomas Dunn English.
[Sidenote: Joaquin Miller]
Joaquin Miller had recently returned in a blaze of glory from his
conquest of London society and British literary recognition. He brought
me a note of introduction from Mr. Richard Watson Gilder of the
_Century_ or _Scribner's Monthly_ as I think the magazine was still
called at that time. He wore a broad-brimmed hat of most picturesque
type. His trousers--London made and obviously costly--were tucked into
the most superior looking pair of high top boots I ever saw, and in
his general make-up he was an interesting cross or combination of the
"untutored child of nature" fresh from the plains, and the tailor-made
man of fashion. More accurately, he seemed a carefully costumed stage
representation of the wild Westerner that he professed to be in fact.
I do not know that all this, or any of it, was affectation in the
invidious sense of the term. I took it to be nothing more than a clever
bit of advertising. He was a genuine poet--as who can doubt who has read
him? He had sagacity and a keen perception both of the weakness and the
strength of human nature. He wanted a hearing, and he knew the shortest,
simplest, surest way to get it. Instead of publishing his poems and
leaving it to his publisher to bring them to attention by the slow
processes of newspaper advertising, he went to London, and made himself
his own advertisement by adopting a picturesque pose, which was not
altogether a pose, though it was altogether picturesque, and trusting
the poems, to which he thus directed attention, to win favor for
themselves.
In saying that his assumption of the role of untutored child of nature
was not altogether an assumption, I mean that although his boyhood was
passed in Indiana schools, and he was for a time a college student
there, he had nevertheless passed the greater part of his young manhood
in the wilds and among the men of the wilderness. If he was not in fact
"untutored," he nevertheless owed very little to the schools, and
scarcely anything to the systematic study of literature. His work was
marked by crudenesses that were not assumed or in any wise fictitious,
while the genuineness of poetic feeling and poetic perception that
inspired it was unquestionably the spontaneous product of his own soul
and mind.
In my editorial den he seated himself on my desk, though there was a
comfortable chair at hand. Was that a bit of theatrical "business"? I
think not, for the reason that Thomas Bailey Aldrich, the least affected
of men, used nearly always to bestride a reversed chair with his hands
resting upon its back, when he visited me in my office, as he sometimes
did, to smoke a pipe in peace for half an hour and entertain me with his
surprising way of "putting things," before "going off to suffer and be
good by invitation," as he once said with reference to some reception
engagement.
London had accepted Joaquin Miller's pose without qualification. Even
the London comic journals, in satirizing it, seemed never to doubt its
genuineness. But on this side of the water we had begun to hear rumors
that this son of the plains and the mountains, this dweller in solitudes
whose limitless silence he himself suggested in the lines:
"A land so lone that you wonder whether
The God would know it should you fall dead,"
was after all a man bred in civilization and acquainted with lands so
far from lone that the coroner would be certain to hear of it promptly
if death came to one without the intervention of a physician.
As he addressed me by my first name from the beginning, and in other
ways manifested a disposition to put conventionalities completely aside,
I ventured to ask him about one of these rumors, which particularly
interested me.