LITERATURE--PAWED AND UNPAWED; AND THE CROWN-PRINCE THEREOF.
“See here!” cried a friend of mine the other day, “you’re always crying
down the magazines, but I’ll bet you couldn’t write a magazine story to
save your neck!”
My dear boy, I never said I could write one--in fact, I am very sure I
couldn’t; it’s all I can do to read them after the other people have
written them. That is an infirmity which has, I am sure, interfered
seriously with my labors as a critic--this inability to wade through
everything that the magazine editors are kind enough to set before
us. But I contrive to keep in touch with contemporary fiction by
frequenting the Mercantile Library, where I can not only read and
write undisturbed, but also take note of what others are reading and
writing. And toward the close of each month I make it a point to arrive
very early of a morning and take a superficial glance at the pages of
the different periodicals, in order to gain an idea of the relative
popularity of each one, and of the stories which they contain. When
I find a story that is smeared with the grime of innumerable hands,
or a magazine that has been torn almost to shreds by scores of eager
readers, I retire to a corner and try to find out the cause of all the
trouble.
But this labor-saving system, excellent as it is in many ways, has
its defects; and so it happened that I came very near missing one of
the most charming stories that I have ever found in the pages of a
magazine.
One bleak autumnal morning not many years ago I paid one of my
periodical early visits to the library, and had just finished my
examination of the literary market when my eye happened to fall on the
name of François Coppée printed in about the last place in the world
that one would be apt to look for it--namely, in the table of contents
of _Harper’s Magazine_. It was signed to a story called “The Rivals,”
and although the pages of that story were neither torn by nervous
feminine claws nor blackened by grimy hands I began to read it, and as
I read New York slipped away from me, the wheezing of the asthmatic
patrons of the library became inaudible to me, for I was in Paris with
the young poet and his two loves. When I had finished the book I looked
up and saw that I was still in the library, for there were the shelves
full of what are termed the “leading periodicals of the day,” and two
elderly ladies were racing across the room for the new number of
_Life_.
And then in the fullness of my heart I gave thanks to the great firm
of publishers that had dared to violate all the sacred traditions that
have been handed down from the Bonnerian to the Johnsonian age of
letters and print a story that could make me forget for half an hour
that I had a thousand words of “humorous matter” to write before twelve
o’clock.
It was sad to come back from the _coulisses_ of the Vaudeville and
find myself directly opposite the shelf containing the _Chautauquan
Magazine_ and within earshot of the rustling of _Harper’s Bazar_; but
I turned to my work in a better spirit because of M. Coppée and the
Harpers, and I have reason to believe that the quality of the “humorous
matter” which I constructed that afternoon was superior in fibre and
durability to the ordinary products of my hands. I know that a dealer
to whom I occasionally brought a basketful of my wares gave me an order
the very next day to serve him once a week regularly thereafter, and
as he has been a steady and prompt-paying customer ever since I have
special cause to feel grateful to the famous house of Harper for the
literary stimulus which the story gave me.
I have already alluded to the fact that the pages on which “The Rivals”
was printed were not torn and discolored like those containing other
much-read and widely discussed romances. It was this circumstance which
led me to reflect on the difficulties and discouragement which confront
the editor whose ambition it is to give his subscribers fiction of the
very best literary quality. In this instance the experiment had been
fairly tried and yet at the end of the month the virgin purity of these
pages was, to me at least, sadly significant of the fact that Coppée’s
delightful work had not met with the appreciation which it deserved.
I did not, of course, lose sight of the fact that the story appealed
almost exclusively to a class of people who keep their fingers clean
(and have cleanly minds also), and that it was, therefore, not
improbable that it had found more readers than the condition of its
pages would indicate; but nevertheless I was forced to the reluctant
admission that from a commercial point of view the publication of “The
Rivals” had proved a failure; nor has the opinion which I formed then
been upset by later observation and knowledge. All of which served
to heighten my admiration for the enlightened policy which gave this
unusual bit of fiction to the American public.
I said something of this sort to a friend of mine, who, although
rather given to fault-finding, had to admit that the Harpers had done
a praiseworthy and courageous thing in printing M. Coppée’s story.
“Yes,” said my friend, rather grudgingly, “it was a big thing of Alden
to buy that story; but if that story had been offered to them by an
American they wouldn’t have touched it with a forty-foot pole.”
My friend was quite right, for if that story, or one like it, were
offered in the literary market by an American writer, the editor to
whom it was offered would know at once that it had been stolen, and
would be perfectly justified in locking his office door and calling for
the police. Coppée has simply told the story of a young poet beloved of
two women, a shop-girl and an actress; and he has told it truthfully
as well as artistically--so truthfully, in fact, that I shudder when
I think of the number of people of the “Christian Endeavor” type who
must have withdrawn their names from the _Monthly’s_ subscription-list
because of it. If I could be assured that the number of these wretched
Philistines were far exceeded by that of the intelligent men and women
who added their names because of this important step in the direction
of true art, I would feel far more confident than I do now of a bright
near future for American letters.
The very next day after that on which I read “The Rivals” I was aroused
by a sudden agitation which spread through the reading-room of the
quiet library in which I was at work. The table on which my books and
papers were spread shook so that the thought of a possible earthquake
flashed across my startled mind, and I looked up in time to see the
young woman opposite to me drop the tattered remnants of _Harper’s
Bazar_, from which she had just deciphered an intricate pattern, rush
across the room, and pounce upon a periodical which had just been
placed on its shelf by the librarian. If she had been a second later
the three other women who approached at the same moment from three
different parts of the room would have fought for this paper like
ravening wolves.
The Christmas number of the _Ladies’ Home Journal_ had arrived.
I do not know of any magazine which so truthfully reflects the literary
tendency of the age as this extraordinary Philadelphia publication,
and I am not surprised to learn, as I have on undisputed authority,
that it has a larger circulation than any other journal of its class
in this country. It is conducted by that gifted literary exploiter and
brilliant romancer, Mr. E. W. Bok, the legitimate successor to Mr.
Johnson, and the present crown-prince of American letters.
I took the trouble to examine the number which the librarian had
removed, and found that it had been pawed perfectly black, while many
of its pages were torn and frayed in a way that indicated that they
had found a host of eager readers. Here was pawed literature with
a vengeance, and so, after leaving the library that afternoon, I
purchased a copy of the Christmas number, thrust it under my coat, and
skulked home.
All that evening until well into the early hours of the new day, I sat
with that marvelous literary production before me, eagerly devouring
every line of its contents, and honestly admiring the number of
high-priced advertisements which met my eye, and the high literary
quality of many of them. When I finally pushed the Christmas number
away and rose from my table it was with a feeling of enthusiasm
tempered with awe for the many-sided genius that controlled and had
devised this widely circulated and incomparable journal. I must
confess, also, to a feeling of admiration tinged with envy that took
possession of my soul as I read the serials to which were affixed the
names of some of the most distinguished writers in America. I have
spoken in an earlier chapter of the “good bad stuff” produced by my
friend the poet, and in which he took such honest pride; and I would
like nothing better than to ask him his opinion of the “bad bad stuff”
which the acknowledged leaders of our national school of letters had
unblushingly contributed, and for which, as I have since learned, they
were paid wages that were commensurate with their shame. Now the author
who writes a good story is entitled to his just mead of praise, but
what shall we say of the author who succeeds in selling for a large sum
the serial that he wrote during his sophomore year in college? I say,
and I am sure my friend the practical poet will agree with me, that he
ought to be the president of an industrial life-insurance company.
As for the literary huckster who succeeds in distending the circulation
of an almost moribund weekly journal to unheard-of limits by the
infusion of this and other equally bad bad stuff, I am at a loss for
terms that will do fitting tribute to his ability, and must leave that
duty for some more comprehensive reviewer of a future generation who
will do full justice to the genius of our great contemporary in an
exhaustive treatise on _English Literature from Chaucer to Bok_.
Although as yet only the heir apparent to the crown of letters, Mr.
Bok has acquired an undeniable and far-reaching influence in the realm
which he will one day be called upon to govern, and has strongly
impressed his individuality on contemporaneous literature, in which
respect his position is not unlike that of the Prince of Wales in
England. Among the more noteworthy of the literary products which
have added lustre to the period of his minority may be mentioned
“Heart-to-Heart Talks about Pillow-shams”; “Why My Father Loved
Muffins,” by Mamie Dickens; “Where the Tidies Blow”; “The Needs of
a Canary,” by the Rev. Elijah Gas; and “How I Blow My Nose,” by the
Countess of Aberdeen. Mr. Bok has also made a strong bid for the favor
of the sex which is always gentle and fair by his vigorous championship
of what is termed an “evening musicale,” an abomination which still
flourishes in spite of the persistent and systematic efforts of strong,
brave men to suppress it. A timely Christmas article on the subject,
published about a year ago, was found to be almost illegible before it
had been on the Mercantile Library shelves a fortnight. This article
is by the wife of an eminent specialist in nervous diseases--it may
be that she has an eye on her husband’s practice--and it contains
elaborate instructions as to the best way of inflicting the evening
musicale on peaceful communities. How to entrap the guests, what
indigestibles to serve, how to prevent the men from escaping when
the bass viol begins its deadly work, and how to make them believe
they have had a pleasant time, are among the minutiæ treated in this
invaluable essay.
It is by sheer force of tireless industry and a complete mastery of
every detail of his prodigious literary enterprise that Mr. Bok has
placed himself in the proud position which he occupies to-day. He is
the acknowledged authority on such subjects as the bringing up of
young girls, the care of infants, the cleansing of flannel garments,
and the crocheting of door-mats. In the gentle art of tatting he has
no superior, and has long held the medal as the champion light-weight
tatter of America. In his leisure moments he “chats with Mrs. Burnett,”
“spends evenings with Mark Twain,” and interviews the clever progeny of
distinguished men in the interest of his widely circulated monthly.
The homely qualities to which I have alluded in the preceding
paragraph have made Mr. Bok our crown-prince, but he will live in
history as the discoverer of a new force in literary mechanics--a force
which may, with justice, be compared to the sound-waves which have been
the mainspring of Mr. Edison’s inventions, and one which is destined
to produce results so far-reaching and important that the most acute
literary observer is utterly unable to make any estimate of them.
The use of the names of distinguished men and women to lend interest
to worthless or uninteresting articles on topics of current interest
dates back to the most remote period of the world’s history, but it
was Mr. Bok who discovered, during a temporary depression in the
celebrity market, that a vast horde of their relations were available
for literary purposes, and that there was not much greater “pull”
in the name of a citizen who had won distinction in commerce, art,
literature, in the pulpit or on the bench, than there was in those of
his wife, his aunt, his sister, and his children even unto the third
and fourth generation.
It was this discovery that led to the publication of the popular and
apparently endless series of essays bearing such titles as “The Wives
of Famous Pastors,” “Bright Daughters of Well-known Men,” “Proud
Uncles of Promising Young Story-writers,” and “Invalid Aunts of Daring
Athletes.” The masterpiece of these biographical batches was the one
bearing the general head of “Faces We Seldom See,” and it was this one
which established beyond all question or doubt the permanent worth and
importance of Mr. Bok’s discovery. The faces of those whom we often see
have been described in the public prints from time immemorial, but it
was the editor of the _Ladies’ Home Journal_ who discovered the great
commercial value that lurked in the faces of men and women who were
absolutely unknown outside their own limited circles of friends.
Then the relations of the celebrities became writers on their own
account, and straightway the pages of Mr. Bok’s invaluable magazine
glistened with “How My Wife’s Great-uncle Wrote ‘Rip Van Winkle,’” by
Peter Pointdexter; “My Childhood in the White House,” by Ruth McKee;
“How Much Money My Uncle is Worth,” by Cornelius Waldorf Astorbilt: and
“Recollections of R. B. Hayes,” by his ox and his ass.
Even a well-trained mind becomes stunned and bewildered in an attempt
to estimate the extent to which this newly discovered force can be
carried. The imagination can no more grasp it than it can grasp the
idea of either space or eternity, and it is my firm belief that under
the impetus already acquired in the _Ladies’ Home Journal_ the hoofs
of the relations of celebrities will go clattering down through the
literature of centuries as yet unborn.
In the mind of a celebrity the prospect is one calculated to rob the
grave of half its repose; nevertheless it must be a comfort to pass
away in the great white light of fame, cheered by the thought that the
stricken wife, the orphaned children, and the consumptive aunt are left
with a perpetual source of income at their fingers’ ends.
A well-thumbed paragraph in a recent number of the _Journal_ announces
that Mr. Bok has trampled upon his diffident, sensitive nature to the
extent of permitting “what he considers a very satisfactory portrait”
of himself to be offered to his admirers at the low price of a quarter
of a dollar apiece. This offer, which bears the significant heading
“The Girl Who Loves Art,” is made with the express stipulation that
intending purchasers shall not deepen the blush on the gifted editor’s
cheek by sending their orders direct to the _Home Journal_ office, but
shall address them direct to the photographer, Mr. C. M. Gilbert, of
926 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.
I desire to add that I reprint this generous proposition of my own free
will and without either solicitation on the part of Mr. Bok or hope
of reward from the photographer whose precious privilege it has been
to transmit to the cabinet-sized cardboard the likeness of America’s
crown-prince. I would not do this for Mr. Gilder, for Mr. Scribner, or
for any of the Harpers. I would do it only for Mr. E. W. Bok.