[1915]
I
THIS is the open season for American novelists. The wardens are in
hiding and any one with a blunderbuss and a horn of powder is entitled
to all the game he can kill. The trouble was started by Mr. Edward
Garnett, a poacher from abroad, who crawled under the fence and wrought
great havoc before he was detected. His invasion roused the envy
of scores of native hunters, and at their behest all laws for game
protection have been suspended, to satisfy the general craving for
slaughter. Mr. Owen Wister on his bronco leads the field, a daring and
orgulous knight, sincerely jealous for the good name of the ranges. The
fact that I was once beguiled by an alluring title into purchasing one
of his books in the fond hope that it would prove to be a gay romance
about a lady, only to find that the heroine was, in fact, a cake, does
not alter my amiable feelings toward him. I made a pious pilgrimage
to the habitat of that cake and invested in numerous replicas for
distribution all the way from Colorado to Maine, accompanied by copies
of the novel that so adroitly advertised it--a generosity which I have
refrained from mentioning to Mr. Wister or his publisher to this day.
Mr. Wister’s personal experiences have touched our oldest and newest
civilization, and it is not for me to quarrel with him. Nor should
I be saddling Rosinante for a trot over the fearsome range had he
not taken a pot shot at poor old Democracy, that venerable offender
against the world’s peace and dignity. To drive Mr. Bryan and Mr.
Harold Bell Wright into a lonely cleft of the foot-hills and rope and
tie them together seems to me an act of inhumanity unworthy of a good
sportsman. As I am unfamiliar with Mr. Wright’s writings, I can only
express my admiration for Mr. Wister’s temerity in approaching them
close enough to apply the branding-iron. Mr. Bryan as the protagonist
of Democracy may not be dismissed so easily. To be sure, he has never
profited by any ballot of mine, but he has at times laid the lash with
a sure hand on shoulders that needed chastisement. However, it is the
free and unlimited printing of novels that here concerns us, not the
consecration of silver.
Democracy is not so bad as its novels, nor, for that matter, is a
constitutional monarchy. The taste of many an American has been debased
by English fiction. At the risk of appearing ungracious, I fling in
Mr. Garnett’s teeth an armful of the writings of Mr. Hall Caine, Mrs.
Barclay, and Marie Corelli. The slightest regard for the literary
standards of a young and struggling republic should prompt the mother
country to keep her trash at home. It is our most grievous sin that
we have merely begun to manufacture our own rubbish, in a commendable
spirit of building up home industries. In my youth I was prone to
indulge in pirated reprints of engrossing tales of adorable curates’
nieces who were forever playing Cinderella at hunt balls, and breaking
all the hearts in the county. They were dukes’ daughters, really,
changed in the cradle--Trollope, with a dash of bitters; but their
effect upon me I believe to have been baneful.
A lawyer of my acquaintance used to remark in opening a conference with
opposing counsel: “I am merely thinking aloud; I don’t want to be bound
by anything I say.” It is a good deal in this spirit that I intrude
upon the field of carnage, fortified with a white flag and a Red Cross
badge. The gentle condescension of foreign critics we shall overlook as
lacking in novelty; moreover, Mr. Lowell disposed of that attitude once
and for all time.
If anything more serious is to be required in this engagement than
these casual shots from my pop-gun I hastily tender my proxy to Mr.
Howells. And I am saying (in a husky aside) that if in England,
our sadly myopic stepmother, any one now living has served letters
with anything like the high-minded devotion of Mr. Howells, or with
achievements comparable to his for variety, sincerity, and distinction,
I shall be glad to pay postage for his name.
We must not call names or make faces, but address ourselves cheerfully
to the business at hand. The American novel is, beyond question, in
a bad way. Something is radically wrong with it. The short story,
too, is under fire. Professor Canby would clap a Russian blouse on it
and restore its first fine careless rapture. He makes out a good case
and I cheerfully support his cause, with, however, a reservation that
we try the effect of American overalls and jumper before committing
ourselves fully to Slavic vestments. In my anxiety to be of service to
the friends of American fiction, I am willing to act as pall-bearer
or officiating minister, or even as corpse, with proper guaranties of
decent burial.