It is now nearly a quarter of a century ago since a popular novelist
revealed to the world in a well-known periodical the existence of the
'Unknown Public;' and a very curious revelation it was. He showed us
that the few thousands of persons who had hitherto imagined themselves
to be the public—so far, at least, as their being the arbiters of
popularity in respect to writers of fiction was concerned—were in fact
nothing of the kind; that the subscribers to the circulating libraries,
the members of book clubs, the purchasers of magazines and railway
novels, might indeed have their favourites, but that these last were
'nowhere,' as respected the number of their backers, in comparison with
novelists whose names and works appear in penny journals and nowhere
else.
This class of literature was of considerable dimensions even in the
days when Mr. Wilkie Collins first called attention to it; but the
luxuriance of its growth has since become tropical. His observations
are drawn from some half a dozen specimens of it only, whereas I now
hold in my hand—or rather in both hands— nearly half a hundred of them.
The population of readers must be dense indeed in more than one sense
that can support such a crop.
Doubtless the individual circulation of none of these serials is equal
to that of the most successful of them at the date of their first
discovery; but those who read them must, from various causes, of which
the most obvious is the least important, have trebled in number.
Population, that is to say, has increased in very small proportion as
compared with the increase of those who very literally run and read—the
peripatetic students, who study on their way to work or even as they
work, including, I am sorry to say, the telegraph boy on his errand.
Nevertheless, notwithstanding its gigantic dimensions, the Unknown
Public remains practically as unknown as ever. The literary wares that
find such favour with it do not meet the eye of the ordinary observer.
They are to be found neither at the bookseller's nor on the railway
stall. But in back streets, in small dark shops, in the company of
cheap tobacco, hardbake (and, at the proper season, valentines), their
leaves lie thick as those in Vallombrosa. Early in the week is their
springtime, when they are put forth from Heaven knows what
printing-houses in courts and alleys, to lie for a few days only on the
counter in huge piles. On Saturdays, albeit that is their nominal
publishing day, they have for the most part disappeared. For this sort
of literature has one decidedly advanced feature, and possesses one
virtue of endurance—it comes out ever so long before the date it bears
upon its title-page, and 'when the world shall have passed away' will,
by a few days at least, if faith is to be placed in figures, survive
it.
Why it should have any date at all no man can tell. There is nothing in
the contents that is peculiar to one year—or, to say truth, of one
era—rather than another. As a rule, indeed, time and space are alike
annihilated in them, in order to make two lovers happy. The general
terms in which they are written is one of their peculiar features. One
would think that, instead of being as unlike real life as stories
professing to deal with it can be, they were photographs of it, and
that the writers, as in the following instance, had always the fear of
the law of libel before their eyes:
We must now request our readers to accompany us into an obscure _cul de
sac_ opening into a narrow street branching off Holborn. For many
reasons we do not choose to be more precise as to locality.
Of course in this _cul de sac_ is a Private Inquiry Office, with a
detective in it. But in defining even him the novelist gives himself no
trouble to arouse excitement in his readers: they have paid their penny
for the history of this interesting person, and, that being done, they
may read about him or not, as they please. One would really think that
the author of the story was also the proprietor of the periodical.
Those who desire (he says) to make the acquaintance of this somewhat
remarkable person have only to step with us into the little dusky room
where he is seated, and we shall have much pleasure in introducing him
to their notice.
—A sentence which has certainly the air of saying, 'You may be
introduced to him, or you may let it alone.'
The coolness with which everything is said and done in penny fiction is
indeed most remarkable, and should greatly recommend it to that
respectable class who have a horror of 'sensation.' In a story, for
example, that purports to describe University life (and is as much like
it as the camel produced from the German professor's self-consciousness
must have been to a real camel) there is an underplot of an amazing
kind. The wicked undergraduate, notwithstanding that he has the
advantage of being a baronet, is foiled in his attempt to win the
affections of a young woman in humble life, and the virtuous hero of
the story recommends her to the consideration of his negro servant:
'Talk to her, Monday,' whispered Jack, 'and see if she loves you.'
For a short time Monday and Ada were in close conversation.
Then Monday uttered a cry like a war-whoop.
'It am come all right, sare. Missy Ada says she not really care for
Sir Sydney, and she will be my little wife,' he said.
'I congratulate you, Monday,' answered Jack.
In half an hour more they arrived at the house of John Radford,
plumber and glazier, who was Ada's father.
Mr. and Mrs. Radford and their two sons received their daughter and
her companions with that unstudied civility which contrasts so
favourably with the stuck-up ceremony of many in a higher position.
They were not prejudiced against Monday on account of his dark
skin.
It was enough for them that he was the man of Ada's choice.
Mrs. Radford even went so far as to say, 'Well, for a coloured
gentleman, he is very handsome and quite nice mannered, though I
think Ada's been a little sly in telling us nothing about her
engagement to the last.'
They did not know all.
Nor was it advisable that they should.
Still they knew something—for example, that their new son-in-law was a
black man, which one would have thought might have struck them as
phenomenal. They take it, however, quite quietly and as a matter of
course. Now, surely, even among plumbers and glaziers, it must be
thought as strange for one's daughter to marry a black man as a lord.
Yet, out of this dramatic situation the author makes nothing at all,
but treats it as coolly as his _dramatis personæ_ do themselves. Now
_my_ notion would have been to make the bridegroom a black lord, and
then to portray, with admirable skill, the conflicting emotions of his
mother-in-law, disgusted on the one hand by his colour, attracted on
the other by his rank. But 'sensation' is evidently out of the line of
the penny novelist: he gives his facts, which are certainly remarkable,
then leaves both his characters and his readers to draw their own
conclusions.
The total absence of local scenery from these half hundred romances is
also curious, and becomes so very marked when the novelists are so
imprudent as to take their _dramatis personæ_ out of England, that one
can't help wondering whether these gentlemen have ever been in foreign
parts themselves, or even read about them. Here is the conclusion of a
romance which leaves nothing to be desired in the way of brevity, but
is unquestionably a little abrupt and vague:
A year has passed away, and we are far from England and the English
climate.
Whither 'we' have gone the author does not say, nor even indicate the
hemisphere. It will be imagined, perhaps, that we shall find out where
we are by the indication of the flora and fauna.
A lady and gentleman before the dawn of day have been climbing up an
arid road in the direction of a dark ridge.
Observe, again, the ingenious vagueness of the description: an 'arid
road' which may mean Siberia, and a 'dark ridge' which may mean the
Himalayas.
The dawn suddenly comes upon them in all its glory. Birds twittered in
their willow gorges, and it was a very glorious day. Arthur and Emily
had passed the night at the ranche, and he had now taken her up to look
at the mine which at all events had introduced them. He had previously
taken her to see his mother's grave, the mother whom he had so loved.
The mine after some delay proved more prosperous than ever. It was not
sold, but is the 'appanage' of the younger sons of the house of Dacres.
With the exception of the 'ranche,' it will be remarked that there is
not one word in the foregoing description to fix locality. The mine and
the ranche together seem indeed to suggest South America. But—I ask for
information—do birds twitter there in willow gorges? Younger sons of
noble families proverbially come off second best in this country, but
if one of them found his only 'appanage' was a mine, he would surely
with some justice make a remonstrance.
The readers of this class of fiction will not have Dumas at any
price—or, at all events, not at a penny. Mr. Collins tells us how
'Monte Christo' was once spread before them, and how they turned from
that gorgeous feast with indifference, and fell back upon their tripe
and onions—their nameless authors. But some of those who write for them
have adopted one peculiarity of Dumas. The short jerky sentences which
disfigure the 'Three Musketeers,' and indeed all that great novelist's
works, are very frequent with them, which induces me to believe that
they are paid by the line.
On the other hand, some affect fashionable description and conversation
which are drawn out in 'passages that lead to nothing' of an amazing
length.
'Where have I been,' replied Clyde with a carelessness which was half
forced 'Oh, I have been over to Higham to see the dame.'
'Ah, yes,' said Sir Edward, 'and how is the poor old creature?'
'Quite well,' said Clyde, as he sat down and took up the menu of
the elaborate dinner. 'Quite well, she sent her best respects,' he
added, but he said nothing of the lodger, pretty Miss Mary
Westlake.
And when, a moment afterwards, the door opened and Grace came
flowing in with her lithe noiseless step, dressed in one of Worth's
masterpieces, a wonder of amber, satin, and antique lace, he raised
his eyes and looked at her with an earnest scrutiny—so earnest that
she paused with her hand on his chair, and met his eyes with a
questioning glance.
'Do you like my new dress?' she said with a calm smile.
'Your dress?' he said. 'Yes, yes, it is very pretty, very.' But to
himself he added, 'Yes, they are alike, strangely alike.'
Which last remark may be applied with justice to the conversations of
all our novelists. There appears no necessity for their commencement,
no reason for their continuance, no object in their conclusion; the
reader finds himself in a forest of verbiage from which he is
extricated only at the end of the chapter, which is always, however,
'to be continued.'
It is true that these story-tellers for the million generally keep 'a
gallop for the avenue' (an incident of a more or less exciting kind to
finish up with), but it is so brief and unsatisfactory that it hardly
rises to a canter; the author never seems to get into his stride. The
following is a fair example:
But before we let the curtain fall, we must glance for a moment at
another picture—a sad and painful one. In one of those retreats, worse
than a living tomb, where reside those whose reason is dead, though
their bodies still live, is a small spare cell. The sole occupant is a
woman, young and very beautiful. Sometimes she is quiet and gentle as a
child; sometimes her fits of frenzy are frightful to witness; but the
only word she utters is 'Revenge,' and on her hand she always wears a
plain gold band with a cross of black pearls.
This conclusion, which I chanced upon before I read the tale which
preceded it, naturally interested me immensely. Here, thought I, is at
last an exciting story; I shall now find one of those literary prizes
in hopes, perhaps, of hitting upon which the penny public endures so
many blanks. I was quite prepared to have my blood curdled; my lips
were ready for a full draught of gore; yet, I give you my word, there
was nothing in the whole story worse than a bankruptcy.
This is what makes the success of penny fiction so remarkable; there is
nothing whatever in the way of dramatic interest to account for it; nor
of impropriety either. Like the lady friend of Dr. Johnson, who
congratulated him that there were no improper words in his dictionary,
and received from that unconciliatory sage the reply, 'You have been
looking for them, have you?' I have carefully searched my fifty samples
of penny fiction for something wrong, and have not found it. It is as
pure as milk, or, at all events, as milk-and-water. Unlike the Minerva
Press, too, it does not deal with eminent persons: wicked peers are
rare; fraud is usually confined within what may be called its natural
limits—the lawyer's office; the attention paid to the heroines not only
by their heroes, but by their unsuccessful and objectionable rivals, is
generally of the most honourable kind; and platitude and dulness hold
undisputed sway.
In one or two of these periodicals there is indeed an example of the
mediaeval melodrama; but 'Ralpho the Mysterious' is by no means
thrilling. Indeed, when I remember that 'Ivanhoe' was once published in
a penny journal and proved a total failure, and then contemplate the
popularity of 'Ralpho,' I am more at sea as to what it is that attracts
the million than ever.
'Noble youth,' cried the King as he embraced Ralpho, 'to you we must
entrust the training of our cavalry. I hold here the list which has
been made out of the troops which will come at the signal. To certain
of our nobles we have entrusted certain of our _corps d'armée_, but
unto you, Ralpho, we must entrust our horse, for in that service you
can display that wonderful dexterity with the sword which has made your
name so famous.'
'Sire,' cried our hero, as he dropped on one knee and took the
King's hand, pressing it to his lips, 'thou hast indeed honoured me
by such a reward, but I cannot accept it.'
'How!' cried the King; 'hast thou so soon tired of my service?'
'Not so, sire. To serve you I would shed the last drop of my blood.
But if I were to accept this command, I should cease to do the
service for the cause which now it has pleased you to say I have
done. No, sire, let me remain the guardian of my King—his secret
agent. I, with my sword alone, will defend my country and my King.'
'Be not rash, Ralpho; already hast thou done more than any man ever
did before. Run no more danger.'
'Sire, if I have served you, grant my request. Let it be as I have
said.'
'It shall be so, mysterious youth. Thou shalt be my secret agent.
Take this ring, and wear it for my sake; and, hark ye, gentlemen,
when Ralpho shows that ring, obey him as if he were ourselves.'
'We will,' cried the nobles.
Then the King took the Star of St. Stanislaus, and fixed it on our
hero's breast.
Now, to my mind, though his preferring to be 'a secret agent' to
becoming a generalissimo of the Polish cavalry is as modest as it is
original, Ralpho is too 'goody-goody' to be called 'the Mysterious.' He
reminds me, too, in his way of mixing chivalry with self-interest, of
those enterprising officers in fighting regiments who send in
applications for their own V.C.s while their comrades remain in modest
expectation of them.
I am inclined to think, however, from the following advertisement, that
some author has been recently piling up the virtues of his hero too
strongly for the very delicate stomachs of the penny public, who, it is
evident, resent superlatives of all kinds, and are commonplace and
conventional to the marrow of their bones: 'T.B. TIMMINS is informed
that he cannot be promised another story like "Mandragora," since, in
deciding the contents of our journal, the tastes of readers have to be
considered whose interest cannot be aroused by the impossible deeds of
impossible creatures.' Alas! I wish from my heart I knew what 'deeds'
or 'creatures' _do_ arouse the interest of this (to me) inexplicable
public; for though I have before me the stories they obviously take
delight in, why they do so I cannot tell.
At the 'Answers to Correspondents,' indeed, which form a leading
feature in most of these penny journals, one may exclaim, with the
colonel in 'Woodstock,' when, after many ghosts, he grapples with
Wildrake: 'Thou at least art palpable.' Here we have the real readers,
asking questions upon matters that concern them, and from these we
shall surely get at the back of their minds. But it is unfortunately
not so certain that these 'Answers to Correspondents' are not
themselves fictions, like all the rest—only invented by the editor
instead of the author, and coming in handy to fill up a vacant page. It
is, to my mind, incredible that a public so every way different from
that of the Mechanic's Institute, and to whom mere information is
likely to be anything but attractive, should be genuinely solicitous to
learn that 'Needles were first made in England in Cheapside, in the
reign of Queen Mary, by a negro from Spain;' or that 'The family name
of the Duke of Norfolk is Howard, although the younger members of it
call themselves Talbot.'
Even the remonstrance of 'Our Correspondence Editor' with a gentleman
who wishes to learn 'How to manufacture dynamite' seems to me
artificial; as though the idea of saying a few words in season against
explosive compounds had occurred to him, without any particular
opportunity having really offered itself for the expression of his
views.
There are, however, one or two advertisements decidedly genuine, and
which prove that the readers of penny fiction are not so immersed in
romance but that they have their eyes open to the main chance and their
material responsibilities. 'ANXIOUS TO KNOW,' for example, is informed
that 'The widow, unless otherwise decreed, keeps possession of
furniture on her marriage, and the daughter cannot claim it;' while
SKIBBS is assured that 'After such a lapse of time there will be no
danger of a warrant being issued for leaving his wife and family
chargeable to the parish.'
As when Mr. Wilkie Collins made his first voyage of discovery into
these unknown latitudes, the penny journals are largely used for
forming matrimonial engagements, and for adjudicating upon all
questions of propriety in connection with the affections. 'It is just
bordering on folly,' 'NANCY BLAKE' is informed, 'to marry a man six
years your junior.' In answer to an inquiry from 'LOVING OLIVIA'
whether 'an engaged gentleman is at liberty to go to a theatre without
taking his young lady with him,' she is told 'Yes; but we imagine he
would not often do so.'
Some tender questions are mixed up with others of a more practical
sort. 'LADY HILDA' is informed that 'it is very seldom children are
born healthy whose father has married before he is three-and-twenty;
that long engagements are not only unnecessary but injurious; and that
washing the head will remove the scurf.' 'LEONE' is assured that 'it is
not necessary to be married in two churches, one being quite
sufficient;' that 'there is no truth in the saying that it is unlucky
to marry a person of the same complexion;' and that 'a gentle aperient
will remove nettle-rash.'
'VIRGINIE' (who, by the way, should surely be VIRGINIUS) is thus
tenderly sympathised with:
'It does seem rather hard that you should be deprived of all
opportunity of having a _tête-à-tête_ with your betrothed, owing to her
being obliged to entertain other company, although there are others of
the family who can do so; still, as her mother insists upon it, and
will not let you enjoy the society of her daughter uninterrupted, you
might resort to a little harmless strategy, and whenever your stated
evenings for calling are broken in on that way, ask the young lady to
take a walk with you, or go to a place of amusement. She can then
excuse herself to her friends without a breach of etiquette, and you
can enjoy your _tête-à-tête_ undisturbed.'
The photographs of lady correspondents which are received by the
editors of most of these journals are apparently very numerous, and, if
we may believe their description of them, all ravishingly beautiful. It
is no wonder they receive many applications of the following nature:
'CLYDE, a rising young doctor, twenty-two, fair, with a nice house and
servants; being tired of bachelor life, wishes to receive the
carte-de-visite of a dark, fascinating young lady, of from seventeen to
twenty years of age; no money essential, but good birth indispensable.
She must be fond of music and children, and very loving and
affectionate.'
Another doctor:
'Twenty-nine, of a loving and amiable disposition, and who has at
present an income of £120 a year, is desirous to make an immediate
engagement with a lady about his own age, who must be possessed of a
little money, so that by their united efforts he may soon become a
member of a lucrative and honourable profession.'
How the 'united efforts' of two young people, however enthusiastic, can
make a man an M.D. or an M.R.C.S. (except that love conquers all
things) is more than one can understand. The last advertisement I shall
quote affects me nearly, for it is from an eminent member of my own
profession:
'ALEXIS, a popular author in the prime of life, of an affectionate
disposition, and fond of home, and the extent and pressing nature of
whose work have prevented him from mixing much in society, would be
glad to correspond with a young lady not above thirty. She must be of a
pleasing appearance, amiable, intelligent, and domestic.'
If it is with the readers of penny fiction that Alexis has established
his popularity, I would like to know how he did it, and who he is. To
discover this last is, however, an impossibility. These novelists all
write anonymously, nor do their works ever appear before the public in
another guise. There is sometimes a melancholy pretence to the contrary
put forth in the 'Answers to Correspondents.' 'PHOENIX,' for example,
is informed that 'The story about which he inquires will not be
published in book form at the time he mentions.' But the fact is it
will never be so published at all. It has been written, like all its
congeners, for the unknown millions and for no one else.
Some years ago, in a certain great literary organ, it was stated of one
of these penny journals (which has not forgotten to advertise the
eulogy) that 'its novels, are equal to the best works of fiction to be
got at the circulating libraries.' The critic who so expressed himself
must have done so in a moment of hilarity which I trust was not
produced by liquor; for 'the best works of fiction to be got at the
circulating libraries' obviously include those of George Eliot,
Trollope, Reade, Black, and Blackmore, while the novels I am discussing
are inferior to the worst. They are as crude and ineffective in their
pictures of domestic life as they are deficient in dramatic incident;
they are vapid, they are dull. Indeed, the total absence of humour, and
even of the least attempt at it, is most remarkable. There is now and
then a description of the playing of some practical joke, such as tying
two Chinamen's tails together, the effect of the relation of which is
melancholy in the extreme, but there is no approach to fun in the whole
penny library. And yet it attracts, it is calculated, four millions of
readers—a fact which makes my mouth water like that of Tantalus.
When Mr. Wilkie Collins wrote of the Unknown Public it is clear he was
still hopeful of them. He thought it 'a question of time' only. 'The
largest audience,' he says, 'for periodical literature in this age of
periodicals must obey the universal law of progress, and sooner or
later learn to discriminate. When that period comes the readers who
rank by millions will be the readers who give the widest reputations,
who return the richest rewards, and who will therefore command the
services of the best writers of their time.' This prophecy has,
curiously enough, been fulfilled in a different direction from that
anticipated by him who uttered it. The penny papers—that is, the
provincial penny newspapers—_do_ now, under the syndicate system,
command the services of our most eminent novel writers; but Penny
Fiction proper—that is to say, the fiction published in the penny
literary journals—is just where it was a quarter of a century ago.
With the opportunity of comparison afforded to its readers one would
say this would be impossible, but as a matter of fact, the opportunity
is _not_ offered. The readers of Penny Fiction do not read newspapers;
political events do not interest them, nor even social events, unless
they are of the class described in the _Police News_, which, I
remark—and the fact is not without significance—does not need to add
fiction to its varied attractions.
But who, it will be asked, _are_ the public who don't read newspapers,
and whose mental calibre is such that they require to be told by a
correspondence editor that 'any number over the two thousand will
certainly be in the three thousand'?
I believe, though the vendors of the commodity in question profess to
be unable to give any information on the matter, that the majority are
female domestic servants.
As to what attracts them in their favourite literature, that is a much
more knotty question. My own theory is that, just as Mr. Tupper
achieved his immense popularity by never going over the heads of his
readers, and showing that poetry was, after all, not such a difficult
thing to be understood, so the writers of Penny Fiction, in clothing
very conventional thoughts in rather high-faluting English, have found
the secret of success. Each reader says to himself (or herself), 'That
is _my_ thought, which I would have myself expressed in those identical
words, if I had only known how.