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THE WRITER:
A MONTHLY MAGAZINE TO INTEREST AND HELP ALL LITERARY WORKERS.
VOL. VI. BOSTON, APRIL, 1892. No. 4.
Copyright, 1892, by WILLIAM H. HILLS. All rights reserved.
ENTERED AT THE BOSTON POST-OFFICE AS SECOND-CLASS MAIL MATTER.
CONTENTS: PAGE
WALT WHITMAN IN EUROPE. _Roman I Zubof_ 63
SHALL WRITERS COMBINE? _John Braincraft_ 65
NEWSPAPER COOKERY. _Anna Borrows_ 67
DO THE BEST WRITERS WRITE? _Gertrude F. Lynch_ 70
FASHIONS IN LITERATURE. _Pamela McArthur Cole_ 71
SNEAK REPORTING. _Herbert Corey_ 72
A PLEA FOR THE NOM DE PLUME. _Persis E. Darrow_ 73
TO WRITE OR NOT TO WRITE. _Susan Andrews Rice_ 74
THE DELUGE OF VERSE. _Douglas Dane_ 75
CONCERNING SONNETS. _F. D. Stickney_ 76
EDITORIAL. 78
Dr. Hale's Rules for Writing. 78
THE SCRAP BASKET. 78
THE USE AND MISUSE OF WORDS. 78
"Cenotaph." 78
BOOK REVIEWS. 79
HELPFUL HINTS AND SUGGESTIONS. 81
Envelope Pigeon-holes. 81
LITERARY ARTICLES IN PERIODICALS. 81
NEWS AND NOTES. 82
WALT WHITMAN IN EUROPE.
With the death and burial of Walt Whitman passes away the most
picturesque figure of contemporary literature.
It is true that in England the name of the poet is more familiar than
his poetry, and that students of literature are more conversant with the
nature of his writings than are the mass of general readers; yet the
character of the man and the spirit of his compositions were rapidly
beginning to be appreciated by, and to sway an influence over, the whole
higher intelligence of the country.
Considering the man and his works, it is almost surprising to find how
easily he did conquer for himself an audience, and even admirers, in
England. He was _par excellence_ a contemporary American. Not that
American who clings to the Puritanic traditions of his English
ancestors, but that characteristic product of the New World who looks
more with eagerness to the future than with satisfaction on the past,
and whose pre-eminent optimism is inspired by his ardent appreciation of
the living present. Walt Whitman stood forth as an innovator into such
realms, where the rigor of conditions demanded an abstract compliance
with rules which were based on absolute truths, and where a swerving
from them was evidence of impotence. His unconventional forms, the
rhymeless rhythm of his verses, which, in appearance, resembled more a
careless prosody than a delicately attuned poesy,--this alone was enough
to provoke, at first, an incredulous smile, even among those whose
tastes were endowed with more penetration. But Walt Whitman stood forth,
besides, as the representative of a principle which, as yet, is looked
upon with suspicion by the old world,--of the principle of a broad,
grand, all-embracing democracy, which elevates manhood above all forms,
all conditions, and all limitations.
The question where metre comes in in poetry, whether it is simply a
means of accentuating rhythm, and is not the rhythm itself, and whether
it is legitimate to do as Whitman did, to prolong the rhythmic phrase at
the expense of metre, until the sense is completed,--all this was a
problem for the professors and the critics to decide, and they might
wrangle as they pleased. But here was Walt Whitman, recognizing no
beauty higher than creative nature, recognizing no law greater than the
spontaneous dictates of the moral personality; here was Walt Whitman, a
pagan, a pantheist, who recognized more divinity in an outcast human
being than in a grandly ordained king, who acknowledged nothing higher
than the dignity of the human individuality,--all this was enough to
make sober people pause and think, if not shudder.
'Tis true that some, almost all the representative men of literature in
England, recognized in Walt Whitman, from the first, a beauty, a
grandeur, which appealed to and captivated their higher susceptibilities
and mental appreciation. Such critics as George Eliot, Dowden, and even
Matthew Arnold, and such poets as Tennyson, Swinburne, and even William
Morris, have uttered expressions of the warmest appreciation of his
great talent; but the class of general readers are not endowed with such
discrimination, and his works, till very recently, were excluded from
the shelves of libraries which were catholic enough to embrace the
writings of the earliest saints and the latest productions of Zola--on
the ground that his poetry was too demoralizing for the general public.
This is not a general statement. I have a specific instance in view,
when, in 1886, I went to the Leinster House in Dublin--the public
library of the place--and asked for Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass." On
being informed that they had no copy of it in the library, I put down
the book in the suggestion list. A number of Trinity students did the
same. The matter was brought before the directors at their monthly
meeting, and it appears it was strenuously objected to by the librarian,
who pleaded the exclusion of the book on the ground of its being
immoral, indecent! We carried the fight from private discussion to
correspondence in the press; the editor of the _Dublin University
Review_ put the pages of the magazine at our disposal, and it was not
until a year afterwards, and until considerable pressure was brought on
the directors, that "Leaves of Grass" was admitted into the catalogues
of the Dublin library.
But the genuine merit of Walt Whitman's works, as the true inspiration
of individualistic genius is always destined to do, is rapidly
conquering the opposition and prejudice even of those whose obtuse minds
seldom discover the intrinsic good motive frequently underlying an
indifferent form. Those whose objections rested on their incapacity of
penetrating further than the surface of the headline are rapidly
beginning to discern in Walt Whitman's writings a force, a sentiment, a
moral passion, and a natural grandeur that is amply compensating for the
occasional roughness or looseness of the expressions he mirrors them in.
Before his death the good old poet had not only the satisfaction of
knowing that his writings have been widely read and universally
commented on, but he had the pleasure of seeing his "Leaves of Grass"
translated into German by T. W. Rolleston, of Dublin, and Professor
Schwartz, of Dresden, of having parts of it translated into French, and
a few years ago Mr. Lee consulted me as to the advisability of rendering
them into Russian, parts of the book having already been published in
the periodicals of the Russian emigrés in Switzerland. Not only this,
but his innovations, his genius, have even founded a school, and has a
following. The little volume published some time ago in England, under
the title "Toward Democracy," by Ed. Carpenter, written in the same
style as "The Leaves of Grass," is also gradually finding its way to the
surface of the highest consideration. And such passages as this, when
Nature is calling to man:--
"I, Nature, stand and call to you, though you heed not:
"Have courage, come forth, O child of mine, that you may see me."
"As a nymph of the invisible air before her mortal beloved, so I glance
before you. I dart and stand in your path, and turn away from your
heedless eyes like one in pain. I am the ground; I listen to the sound
of your feet. They come nearer. I shut my eyes and feel their tread over
my face," etc. etc.; or such an outburst as this: "Ireland--liberty's
deathless flame leaping on her Atlantic shore,"--are enough to convince
the human mind that men who write them can be actuated only by impulses
of which genius alone is capable!
It is this impulse--this sober, solemn love pervading the writings of
Walt Whitman which has invested his compositions with a property far
transcending in genuine beauty the effusions of those poets whose object
in writing is more the display of a capacity for finished manipulation
of delicate form, than the manifestation of a free conception of a grand
spirit. Walt Whitman is spontaneous without being careless. His style is
unhesitating, his diction is flowing, smooth, without being searching or
verbose! It seems as if his soul were responsive--not plaintively, but
appreciatively responsive--to all the chords, influences, and objects of
nature; and that his imagination were absorptive enough to embrace and
love, and reflect all changes and transitions of light and shadow in
nature and life, particularly in the inner human life,--for Walt
Whitman's love for humanity, permeating all his writings, has more
grandeur than the most heroic of classic epics!
_Roman I. Zubof._
BOSTON, Mass.
SHALL WRITERS COMBINE?
Things in this world are often the precise opposite of what we should
expect. The shoemaker's wife and the blacksmith's horse frequently go
poorly shod. The man who makes his sole living from the product of his
brains does not use them in disposing of his wares. He remains the slave
of publishers who have enriched themselves from his labor, while he
thoughtlessly plods on, apparently content with a few crumbs from the
feast which he has provided for them.
One striking difference between the two halves of the nineteenth century
is the gigantic combination which the shuttle of these latter years is
weaving. The wealth of no single man was found sufficient to place a
railroad across the continent. Men combined their capital, and to-day we
can ride from New York to San Francisco in a car as luxuriously
furnished as a drawing-room. Had it not been for this union of dollars,
we should to-day be forced to use the stage coach or to walk. When the
railroads were once built, their owners found combination necessary to
keep them from cutting each other's throats and to maintain a good rate
of profit.
By combination the working man has reduced his hours of toil, obtained a
fairer share of the profits coming to capital from his labor, and made
his own life better worth the living. These concessions did not come
voluntarily: combination wrung them from capital, and then stood guard
over them.
The author stands almost alone with no union among his craft. The
refiners of sugar and coal oil, the makers of matches, lead-pencils,
screws,--in short, almost all other interests,--have some sort of
combination. The brewers stand by each other in fixing the price of
beer, and if a saloon keeper fails to pay one brewer, the others will
not furnish him with the product of their vats.
There is plenty of freemasonry among publishers. Their contracts read
very much alike. They resort to the same subterfuges to get the lion's
share of the profits. They care nothing for the logic of the situation.
What did a grasping palm ever care for logic which told against itself?
An American author has just shown by indisputable figures that many of
our publishers treat the writers of books as badly as the worst Hebrew
sweating shops do their employees. An author in one instance worked for
years upon a book which had every prospect of not being ephemeral. He
signed a contract with a firm of publishers to receive a ten-percent.
royalty only after the first thousand copies were sold. The work had
much free advertising and sold well, as many booksellers testified. More
than two years have elapsed since it appeared, and though clerks in book
stores still say it sells well, the author has never received a cent for
those weary years of labor. He knows there is an Indian lurking
somewhere in the forest, but one author is not powerful enough to enter
and dislodge the enemy.
It may do us good to know that the English Society of Authors protects
writers from dishonest publishers; but why should not our authors form a
union of their own and enjoy the same advantages? It has been shown that
our literary men have been repeatedly imposed upon; that the publisher
in many cases takes all the profits; that his accounts are not open to
the verifiable inspection of authors; and that this is one of the few
exceptions of the kind in all business, that one of two interested
partners is alone allowed to audit the accounts.
Mr. Besant has shown that in England the perfectly honest publisher is a
rare exception. Are Englishmen less honest than Americans? Or is it true
that human nature is very much alike everywhere and easily warped to
look at things only in the line of its own advantage, wherever that can
be done without coming to the knowledge of the world?
There will, of course, be strong opposition on the part of publishers to
the formation of any protective authors' association, which would insist
that the writer know the exact facts in those cases in which he is to be
a partner in the share of the profits from his own work. If only a few
authors joined the movement, publishers would undoubtedly combine to
boycott them; but here, as in England, safety will be found in numbers.
There is not a railroad in the United States that dares select any
special engineer and treat him unjustly. The Brotherhood of Locomotive
Engineers is too strong to admit that for one week.
Some hysterical publisher may exclaim, "If you think we are rascals, you
had better not deal with us." Ask him what he would think of the
president and the cashier of a national bank if they said to the
examiner, "You have come here to insult us by implying that we would
steal the depositors' money. We resent such treatment; we are honest."
"Why, then, do you object to a careful inspection of your methods?" asks
the examiner.
"Because it throws suspicion on us," is the reply.
"Are you aware that officials with reputations quite as good as yours
are now embezzlers in foreign lands? I want to remove from you the
temptation of making money in that way, so that nothing may rest heavily
on your consciences in the great hereafter."
"Nevertheless, we object to an examination."
"Then I had better at once go over your accounts thoroughly. I shall
probably be here several days."
History tells us that for a long time the English Parliament forbade any
newspaper to publish a line of what was said there. A disobedient editor
was speedily imprisoned. The members desired to receive bribes for their
votes in as many cases as possible. If a member could keep his
constituents in ignorance of the way he voted, he could often make money
by voting in opposition to their interests. Of course, he dreaded to
have the newspapers turn the light on his record, and he developed many
remarkable arguments against such privileges on the part of the press.
When more light streams in on certain publishers' methods, authors may
then be able to select better men to represent them.
It has been said that the jealousy of authors is such as to keep them
from working in harmony; that authors who have won their spurs have a
supreme contempt for one who has not; that they omit no opportunity of
indulging in sarcasm at his expense; that they would not throw him a
plank if he were drowning, unless they could so throw it as to strike
him on the head. If this were so, they would not differ much from the
world in general, for it will not give quarter to any man who cannot
claim it by his own might. But the case of Mr. Besant, the president of
the English Society, disproves these sweeping statements against
authors. He stands among the foremost of living novelists, and yet he is
willing to spend a great deal of his valuable time to assist a writer
just beginning to climb the tiresome ladder. This pure and undefiled
religion of being willing to help a fellow-toiler is far more common
than cynics will allow. It prevails among engineers, factory hands, and
miners. With the exception of a few cads, it is doubtful if authors have
sunk so low in the scale of humanity as to be unwilling to assist each
other, when by so doing they will help themselves.
Some authors have been dreaming of a time when they could control the
entire literary output of the United States in the same way that the
Standard Oil Company controls kerosene, or the chief of the Brotherhood
of Locomotive Engineers directs his men. He can tie up any railroad with
a snap of his finger if his men are not treated squarely. In such a
literary dreamland an author might do one-third of his present work and
get far more pay than now. Publishers and editors would not then have a
superfluity of matter. They would then have to bow to the authors' trust
before the desired material could be obtained.
It might be claimed that if writers would pool their issues, put their
manuscripts into a common stock, allow the publisher to select from them
at a good round figure, and after a certain lapse of time burn all the
rejected ones,--there would be less work and more money for all authors.
Of course, it would be necessary to have a committee to decide when an
author wrote well enough to be admitted to the pool, and also to
determine what greater portion of the common fund the authors of
specially meritorious work should receive.
Such a scheme certainly does work with sugar, kerosene, starch, and
numberless other articles; but it is more than doubtful if it would
prevail in literature. Some authors would be too desirous of seeing
themselves constantly before the public. They could not be prevailed
upon to limit the output of their brain, and they would be conceited
enough to demand that everything appear in print.
It is well to lay aside thoughts of such a Utopia until we have secured
an authors' protective association of wide membership, with permanent
headquarters, legal counsel, and agents to learn the publishing business
and expose unfair methods.
Let writers remember that Greece, in spite of her Æschylus, Sophocles,
Xenophon, Thucydides, Demosthenes, Plato, and Aristotle, perished
because her independent states would not combine against a common foe.
_John Braincraft._
LOUISVILLE, Ky.
NEWSPAPER COOKERY.
In a late number of a popular periodical, Mrs. Amelia E. Barr, while
telling of her childhood a half-century ago, incidentally remarks: "I
should have as soon thought of smoking my father's pipe as of reading
his newspaper. There were no papers at all for women and children, if I
except the _Court Journal_ for women of rank."
Just when cookery and household affairs became a part of the newspaper's
province, I do not know, nor is it my purpose to give its history. My
earliest recollection of anything in this line is connected with _Hearth
and Home_, an illustrated paper, the forerunner of the many household
periodicals of to-day. A leading feature was "Mrs. Hunnibee's Diary,"
furnished by Mrs. Lyman, afterward on the staff of the _New York
Tribune_. Her work was a worthy model for us to follow. Let us look at
the work as it is, and as it ought to be.
Count Rumford--one of the pioneers in the study of foods--has said: "The
number of inhabitants who may be supported in any country upon its
internal produce depends about as much upon the state of the art of
cookery as upon that of agriculture--these are the arts of civilized
nations; savages understand neither of them." Naturally, therefore, the
agricultural papers were the first to give space to cookery, and have
ever been generous in that way.
Newspaper cookery is not an inappropriate phrase, since too often the
"Home Column" in half our papers is simply a rehash of what has
appeared in the other papers of the country. The results of warming over
in the kitchen are very diverse, and they are equally so in newspaper
cookery; a rechauffé may be very sloppy or very dry, and give no hint of
its original components, when it should be a savory combination, the
ingredients of which have suffered no loss of flavor.
This does not include the class of articles which are made by careful
study of books of reference and form a new setting for fragmentary
information, such as is often lost if not rearranged; but what can be
said in favor of the sort of work where a standard recipe forms the
basis for a wishy-washy story?
Another variety of newspaper cookery to be avoided is the reporting of
demonstration lectures by those who know nothing of the subject and have
no conception of the lecturer's methods, or by those having a
superficial knowledge who attempt to interlard their own opinions
throughout the report.
Reporters having little or no knowledge of the literature of the kitchen
are apt to make rash claims for their favorite lecturers or for
themselves. In a recent paper an evident neophyte--in cookery at
least--claims to set right in a new and original way the curdling of a
mayonnaise dressing. She claims that none of the directions given in the
cook-books tell what should be done if it goes wrong, yet in at least
two standard works the whole thing is fully explained.
There are undoubtedly many recipes which belong to the whole world, and
have been in use for generations, yet some teachers may claim original
methods of combining these ingredients. Has a reporter any right to make
such ideas appear as her own, without due credit to the authors? Whether
this sort of work is done in newspapers, or appears in book form, or
whether it is in direct violation of copyright laws or not, it is at
least discourteous. Poems are sometimes stolen, but the literature of
the kitchen oftener suffers.
In these days of specialties, when one man devotes himself to politics,
another to finance, or music, or art, it would not seem that a woman,
because she is a woman, is therefore fitted to care for the household
department of a paper; yet this is usually the first work given into her
hands. Probably there are many teachers of cookery who could not write a
catchy newspaper article, but it may be questioned whether such writing
is desirable upon this subject.
The time is coming when the cooking-school graduate will be called for
to teach this art and science through the columns of the newspaper, as
well as in the schoolroom.
The religious papers choose graduates of the theological seminaries for
their editors, and medical journalism is conducted by physicians. If a
sporting editor is essential, why should not special training be
required for the cooking department?
Under present conditions, the best teachers can afford to do little
newspaper work; a demonstration requires little more time and effort
than the preparation of a newspaper column, and the compensation is
double or quadruple, and is promptly paid.
Some of the advertising agents of patent medicines have been wiser in
their generation than the newspaper men, and from the days of Mrs.
----'s Soothing Syrup until now their cook-books have been passports for
their medicines into many a home, not that a call for medicine was the
natural result of the use of these recipes, but that the name of the
medicine became a household word through the use of the cookbook, and
hence was the first thought when any panacea was required. Such good
prices have been paid by manufacturers that they have been able to
obtain the best writers, and the books distributed by various salves,
sarsaparillas, meat choppers, baking powders, etc., contain many
valuable recipes and suggestions. As a whole, they are far safer guides
than the average newspaper column of recipes.
Furnished by untrained hands, the newspaper recipe has become a synonym
for something utterly unreliable, and, therefore, a byword among those
so old-fashioned as to believe that a woman who holds a pen is, of
course, a poor housekeeper.
True, much of the blame for the uncertainty of the newspaper recipe must
be laid at the door of the typesetter and proof-reader--who else would
make a demonstrator whose programme included a "Frozen Rice Pudding"
responsible for a "Dozen Nice Puddings" in a single lecture.
Often the column headed "Dainty Dishes," "Hints for the Cuisine," etc.,
appears to be made up from recipes taken at random from the clippings of
the year before--so we have strawberry shortcake and asparagus omelet in
October, cauliflower in August, and blueberries in December. Without a
hint concerning the proper method of combining the ingredients, a string
of recipes are worthless, and mean as little as a column from the
dictionary.
So accustomed has the public vision become to this artificial,
improbable, housekeeping that it fails to recognize veritable facts and
pronounces them impossible.
Food is a subject which demands the careful consideration of every human
being daily, and therefore claims ample space in the newspapers. The
wise man of the Old Testament has said: "All the labor of man is for his
mouth, and yet the appetite is not filled."
We are not all interested in the success of either political party, nor
are we all thirsty for items of society gossip, nor are the details of
every murder or railroad accident more important than our daily bread.
Our physical natures and our food are not so ignoble as some would have
us think. We need only look at the thousand allusions to food in classic
writings to realize that it is our attitude toward an object, not the
thing itself, which makes it common and unclean.
Does it not seem strange that the art of cookery, which first
distinguished man from beasts, has been so underrated and neglected?
"The art of cookery drew us gently forth
From the ferocious light, when, void of faith,
The Anthropophaginian ate his brother;
To cookery we owe well-ordered states,
Assembling men in dear society."
Surely no one better than a newspaper reporter, who must snatch a bite
here and there of whatever is at hand, can appreciate the force of the
words of an old physician: "The faculty the stomach has of communicating
the impressions made by the various substances that are put into it is
such that it seems more like a nervous expansion of the brain, than a
mere receptacle for food."
Many a newspaper woman has found a safety-valve in doing her
housekeeping with her own hands, the needed reaction after prolonged
mental effort, and by the divine law of compensation has thus worked out
with her hands something of which the brain alone was not capable.
Michelet says that "A man always clears his head by doing something with
his hands." Can we not all bear testimony that some of our brightest
ideas have come when our hands were busy with rolling-pin or dish-pan?
The newspaper woman is expected to act as leader in many directions.
Though not always competent to do special newspaper cookery in the best
way, she may help mould public opinion in the right way on the great
questions of temperance, domestic economy, coöperative housekeeping,
and, above all, help to change the prevailing belief that work with the
hands is degrading.
The great social questions of the day are largely dependent upon the
food supply. Show the working men and women how to obtain attractive,
palatable, and nourishing food at less cost than that which is
unsatisfying, and their wages will really be doubled.
The temperance question is so closely connected with the food supply
that it is astonishing that more attention has not been given to this
side of it. We often ascribe the intemperance of the poor man to poor
food; but are not the excesses of the rich also due to food, poor
because it is too highly seasoned and improperly cooked?
Rev. T. De Witt Talmage has said: "The kitchen is the most important end
of the household. If that goes wrong, the whole establishment is wrong.
It decides the health of the household, and health settles almost
everything."
May we all live to see the day when every town shall have a food
experiment station, which shall do for the cook and the kitchen what the
agricultural stations do for the farmer and farm. The cooking schools
are a step in the right direction, but their work should be broadened
and put upon a more scientific basis.
Such an experimental kitchen should analyze and test food products as to
best methods of preparation; it should try new utensils; it should fit
young women for their own home life. Perhaps something in this line will
grow out of the New England Kitchen, so successfully started in Boston.
To bring about such a state of things, public opinion must be educated
in every direction, through the home, school, and newspapers, as well as
by individual effort.
The newspaper's cooking, like its editorials, must not be so narrow and
partisan but that it may command the respect of those who do not wholly
agree with it.
We must strive to separate the essentials from the non-essentials in our
housekeeping; to recognize the various conditions of life among those to
whom we are writing.
We do not want to copy the food fashions of any other land in a servile
manner; no French, Italian, or English teacher can best instruct us in
methods of cooking.
But, following our national motto, let us select the best from all, and
unite these principles to develop an American system of cooking that
shall produce a race so well proportioned physically that their mental
and moral natures cannot fail to be well balanced.
_Anna Barrows._
BOSTON, Mass.
DO THE BEST WRITERS WRITE?
A few years ago my attention was attracted by an article in one of the
leading magazines. It was an article of more than ordinary merit,
possessing that rarity, even then, a plot dramatically conceived and
executed. The scene was laid in a part of the world the truthful
picturing of which showed the writer to be a person who had travelled
much and observed keenly; the diction was "English pure and undefiled."
There was but one drawback, that the author's name was withheld, and I
was obliged to lay my offering of approval and admiration at an unknown
shrine.
Lately, in conversation with a man who forms one of the great majority
of those who gain a moderate competence in business life, his days spent
in the wearisome routine of mercantile life, his nights in painful
figurings about that delusive "deal" which is to settle satisfactorily
all questions of financial perplexity, our talk turned on books,
literary celebrities, the chat of the profession of letters. My friend
suddenly became communicative and reminiscent--rare expressions in him.
"A few years ago," he said. "I, too, had the literary craze. I wrote a
little--stray articles, stories, poems, the usual repertoire."
I wondered what kind of material this suave, cynical, reserved man could
have produced--in other words, what was his undercurrent. I
interrogated. To my surprise and consternation I had found at last the
author of my pedestal-placed masterpiece.
"But why," I said, "did you not keep on; why hide, deface, forget, a
talent like yours?"
"Allowing, for the sake of argument," he answered, "that I possessed
talent to the degree you imply, I should still have been forced to my
present attitude. I am not alone in this. I am convinced that the best
writers (of course, with notable exceptions) are the people who never
write, who could bring to the field varied experience, the results of
travel, thought, and cultivation, but who are driven away by the
knowledge that the wolf will have them if they attempt it.
Notwithstanding the fact that there has never been a time when
literature has been produced so prolifically, a man can only make a
moderate competence, and that after years of weary uncertainty and a
constant strain on the waiting nerves, and, even at the end, he gets
but a meagre reward: lots of newspaper notoriety and a scanty bank
account. I am not complaining; I looked the facts squarely in the face,
and chose what I regarded as the only sensible solution. I could not
conscientiously use literature as a safety-valve or time-passer, giving
to the world the result of tired brain and over-wrought nerves;
consequently, I sacrificed inclination to necessity, and have left my
muse alone. However,"--and he was once more the worldling,--"I have
reserved to myself the right to criticise; and when I see a young man of
talent enter the field of letters, I conclude he is like a man about to
marry, either a great hero or a great fool."
_Gertrude F. Lynch._
NEW YORK, N. Y.
FASHIONS IN LITERATURE.
A veteran novel reader has learned to detect a plot in its early stages;
to see from afar the marriage, the forgery, the hidden will; to him (or
should I rather say to her?) the true inwardness of the different
characters is manifest; no disguise, no blandishments, avail to conceal
from his piercing vision the true heir, the disguised villain, the timid
lover.
It has been stated by careful students that the original stories in the
world number but two hundred and fifty; but we have not forgotten our
arithmetic, and we have learned chess, so we know something of the
manifold combinations of numbers, and we take courage.
But the veteran novel reader finds little variety in incident and
machinery; there are fashions in fiction as in everything else, and the
prevailing "style" of the time is followed apparently without question.
The heroines of an earlier generation differed from those of the
present. They were slender creatures, living on delicate fare, and
fainting at every or no provocation. When these lovely beings died it
was usually of a broken heart, developing into consumption. They were
depicted clad in white and holding flowers, reclining at open windows,
regardless of draughts, and they lectured heart-broken friends and
faithless lovers with a command of language and strength of lung rare in
every-day life. For bringing about some needed explanation sprained
ankles have played a conspicuous part, and a strong-armed hero or
stalwart rival was ready to carry the fair sufferer
"Over hill, over dale,
Through bush, through briar,"
to some place of shelter, where friends and reader alike watched the
progress of recovery. Runaway horses have been vastly useful in bringing
matters to a crisis, and in New England stories a fierce bull is always
ready to threaten the life of the heroine.
These casualties were especially the lot of the heroines, but fevers
were open to all without distinction of "sex, race, or color." In the
wanderings of delirium the cleverly-disguised villain betrayed his dark
designs--the self-distrusting lover sighed his woes into the sympathetic
ear of the damsel of whom in his "normal state" he had said--
"'Twere all as one
That I should love some bright particular star
And seek to wed it."
With the modern dissemination of knowledge and of sanitary science, the
former ailments have become less fashionable; there has been a run of
diphtheria, and heart complaints are slaying their thousands.
Athletics are restricted to no sex,--the hero is less frequently called
to rescue his beloved from a watery grave. Indeed, her skill may be
superior to his,--witness Armorel, one of the fairest of modern
creations.
Now and then a leader has appeared,--an inventor,--but the new style is
imitated with no respect for patent right. Jane Eyre was _new_; here was
a heroine with neither wealth nor beauty, and forthwith appeared a long
train of ugly girls, and dark, middle-aged men promising henceforth "to
forswear sack and live cleanly," yet in confidential moments giving
glimpses of a past which caused all virtuous folks to shiver.
We have now the "novel of every-day life," wherein we are called to
"assist" at commonplace incidents; to listen to inane talk, where
adverbs, liberally bestowed, help our comprehension, as we are told that
certain things were "coarsely," "suggestively," "tentatively," said. It
is, indeed, "reading made easy."
Stuart Mill, lamenting the changes in the tendency of modern fiction,
wrote: "For the first time perhaps in history, the youth of both sexes
of the educated classes are universally growing up unromantic. What will
come in mature age from such a youth the world has not yet had time to
see."
These words were written half a century ago, the generation referred to
has reached "mature age," and the world has read its novels.
_Pamela McArthur Cole._
EAST BRIDGEWATER, Mass.
SNEAK REPORTING.
I do not beg the reader's pardon for the apparent egotism of this
article, for, though I use the first person throughout, I feel that I do
so as the spokesman of a large (if not an important) class.
To begin at the beginning, I have always believed that in time I could
succeed as a journalist, if I could but secure a position on a live
newspaper, where I could gain practical knowledge. In pursuance of this
idea, I haunted the doors of an afternoon paper, and finally, by dint of
perseverance, fairly worried the city editor into giving me an
assignment.
Naturally, a beginner was not given an important task, but it proved to
be a very embarrassing one. I was required, in the line of my duty, to
stick my impertinent nose into another man's business, and elicit from
him facts that he did not want published. I did not feel the least
curiosity about the matter, and, I am sure, looked as guilty as if I had
been a dog engaged in the sheep-stealing industry, and had been caught
with the wool in my teeth. I approached him with inward fear and
trembling, and requested information on a subject in connection with
which he had been held up before the public in an unenviable light. He
refused to talk, and when I persisted, as per orders, told me to go to
the residence of a personage whom I do not like to hear mentioned,
except by authority and by gentlemen who have the legal right to wear a
handle to their names.
I did not resent this as ordinarily I should have done. I was so humbled
and ashamed by my consciousness of the impudence of my errand, that if
he had pulled my nose, I am sure I should have commended the spirit with
which he did it.
It was in vain I represented to him that to withhold this matter of
public interest was to show an unpardonable disregard of the rights of
others, which, as contrary to public policy, could easily be construed
into an act of overt disloyalty. He did not seem to be interested in the
rights of others, and entirely refused to see the matter in the proper
light. He was not a rational man. When I attempted to argue the case
with him, he became violent, and roared at me until, I am sure, had the
bulls of Bashan heard him, they would have been tempted to "hide their
diminished heads." I decided that discretion was the better part of
valor, and left him to fight it out alone. I returned to the office,
rendered an account of the manner in which I had failed, and was the
recipient of a scathing rebuke from the city editor. It was in vain I
tried to get angry. Even to myself I could not simulate proper
indignation, so thoroughly had the starch been taken out of me by my
seance with an excusably irritated man, knowing the while that I was
trespassing on the bounds of courtesy.
That experience was enough for me. While I might become a successful
reporter, in doing so I fear I should lose that regard for the rights of
others, the petty conscience of every-day life, that is conspicuously
absent in so many of the men we meet.
While this incident has not altered my liking for newspaper work, it has
very materially modified my ideas concerning certain branches of it.
From the reporter's desk to the editor's chair is a natural and easy
transition; and the outsider, unless he possesses the genius of George
Kennan and his companions, must go through this stage of preliminary
training. Those of us who have no influence, no startling genius, and a
decided dislike to becoming inquisitive nuisances feel that we are
overweighted in the journalistic handicap.
What course shall we pursue, that what few merits we possess shall not
be overshadowed by the lack of one quality, which may be a useful one to
the reporter, but is usually known and avoided in the ordinary man under
the vulgar name of "gall"?
_Herbert Corey._
CINCINNATI, Ohio.
A PLEA FOR THE NOM DE PLUME.
Once upon a time there lived a good little girl whom everybody loved.
She had six aunts, four uncles, and twenty-seven cousins, besides a
brother and two sisters. All these relatives, of course, especially
loved her, for that was only natural. And they were all very glad,
indeed, to help her in every way possible.
She was a bright little thing as well as good, and by and by she thought
she would see whether any of the papers and magazines cared to know of
the things she thought, and she wrote a morsel of an article and timidly
sent it off.
But before she sent it to the editor she read it to her sisters, each of
whom had some slight correction to make; and she showed it to Aunt Emma,
who was quite of a literary turn of mind, and Aunt Emma read it to her
daughter Mabel, who had just left college.
These ladies so marked up the carefully written manuscript that the good
little girl had to copy it all before it was fit to be sent.
After it had been gone eight days the article was returned. This made
the little girl very sad, and she wept.
The other five aunts, and the uncles, and all the cousins were by this
time interested, and they comforted her with many words, and censured
her with a great many more, and gave her a great deal of good advice.
But the little girl finally got so confused by the many conflicting
opinions offered that she hardly knew what to do or say. One moment she
would think she would write this and another that, and some of the time
she declared that she would never write another line at all.
But one day a very pretty idea came into her mind all at once, and she
did think it too sweet to be lost. So she wrote it down just as it came
to her, and sent it away, and never told a soul a word about it.
By and by it was printed, and how happy the little girl was! She told
nobody but her parents and her sisters this time, but all her friends
saw her name in the paper, and they came running to her to talk about
it.
"I saw your name in the paper," said Cousin Ada.
"Did you?" said the good little girl, pleasantly.
"Yes; an' Bert an' I know who you meant by 'The Old Bad Man.'"
"But I didn't mean anybody," explained she; "that was only a little
story."
"Oh, we know you did. Mamma says it isn't a nice story at all, an'
Mabelle says, 'Ugh!'"
It was no wonder that the little girl felt hurt at these words. And it
was queer, but every time that any of the friends had any fault to find,
or any help to give her, which was the same thing, of course, they began
it by saying, "I saw your name in the paper."
At last the good little girl could endure it no longer, and she said to
herself, "They _sha'n't_ see my name in the paper any more"; and she sat
down on the green grass and thought of a nice new name that pleased her,
and she called herself by that name always when she wrote for the
papers. And as she never got famous so that she wanted to tell people
what her pen-name was, her friends never found it out, and she lived and
died in peace.
_Hæc fabula docet_--Don't be made to feel it's cowardly to use a nom de
plume if you want to. It isn't likely to do any harm, and it may save
you lots of bother.
_Persis E. Darrow._
WENTWORTH, N. H.
TO WRITE OR NOT TO WRITE.
When any one living in this age of the world feels that he has thoughts
clamoring for utterance, he seeks advice from some one who has attained
success in the profession of literature. In most instances he receives
no satisfactory criticism, and is compelled to act on innate conviction
of his right to enter the "thorny path" and fight his way up to the top,
where, we are told, there is always room.
There seem to be two literary factions pitted against each other. Those
of one class employ their best effort in dissuading young writers from
writing; those of another set forth an author's life in glowing colors.
One faction will tell you that half the manuscripts sent to editors are
not even accorded the courtesy of an examination unless signed by a
well-known name. Another says that editors are keenly on the outlook for
original matter, seizing with avidity anything that promises to make a
new element in current literature.
A noted author writes to a young aspirant: "Sweet and natural though
your utterance seems to be, let me ask you in the friendliest spirit not
to write at all. The toil is great, the pursuit incessant, the reward
not outward." To the same young woman writes another equally well-known
writer: "Your work is excellent; you _can_ and _will_ succeed."
The fact is obvious that there is a literary aristocracy in America.
Born in an intellectual atmosphere, with inherited talent, wrapped in
their own dreams, knowing little of the struggle and toil of their less
fortunate co-workers, its members stand aloof, saying: Thou shalt not
enter therein. The old Italian poet quaintly puts it:--
"For singing loudly is not singing well;
But ever by the song that's soft and low
The master singer's voice is plain to tell.
Few have it, and yet all are masters now,
And each of them can trill out what he calls
His ballads, canzonets, and madrigals.
The world with masters is so covered o'er
There is no room for pupils any more."
Therefore, the individual who contemplates becoming an author must be a
law unto himself. If he finds his truest expression, his greatest
delight in literary work, let him persevere, all the world to the
contrary notwithstanding.
"There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,
Can circumvent, can hinder, or control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gifts count for nothing; _will alone is great_."
An editor, noted for his gentleness and courtesy, tells us that all
writers must go through an evolutionary process of rejected manuscripts,
and cites the instance of Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford, who awoke one
morning to find herself famous. She had written "The Amber Gods." When
congratulated as the first author who had attained reputation by a
single effort, she replied:--
"No, that is not true. I have been writing for years under an assumed
name."
_Susan Andrews Rice._
WASHINGTON, D. C.
THE DELUGE OF VERSE.
A fragment of a conversation overheard the other evening, when the
writer, half-buried with the daily proof-sheets from which he knows no
escape, was hurrying westward on an afternoon train, is the _raison
d'être_ of this communication. The participants were two young and
pleasant-looking girls: they discussed matters feminine, of which only
the words "toque," "a bewitching little thing," and "pink velvet" had
reached my ears; but when I heard the question, "What became of your
last poem, Clara?"--and the reply, "_Youth's Companion_, came back with
a printed slip; _Independent_, ditto; then I tried the _Waverley
Magazine_, who accepted it, but did not pay young contributors"; I
became unthinkingly an interested eavesdropper, and just then, with
creak and clatter, the train stopped, the station, "Wellesley," was
called, and the fair ones departed, taking my thoughts (and all power of
concentration on work in hand) with them.
I mused in this wise: "Just why does the average young person give him
(or her) self out in verse, good, bad, and indifferent?" The _Youth's
Companion_ does not want a Wellesley girl's lucubrations; it has verse
on hand from many of the most skilled and charming writers in that line.
But it does, I know, want good stories for boys, for girls,--and where
can be a better "_locale_," materials for plot, sketches of life and
character, etc., than at a girls' college? One could surely range "from
grave to gay, from lively to severe," in such a field.