With the hitherto unreached magazine circulation of a million copies a
month in sight, Edward Bok decided to give a broader scope to the
periodical. He was determined to lay under contribution not only the
most famous writers of the day, but also to seek out those well-known
persons who usually did not contribute to the magazines; always keeping
in mind the popular appeal of his material, but likewise aiming
constantly to widen its scope and gradually to lift its standard.
Sailing again for England, he sought and secured the acquaintance of
Rudyard Kipling, whose alert mind was at once keenly interested in what
Bok was trying to do. He was willing to co-operate, with the result that
Bok secured the author's new story, William the Conqueror. When Bok read
the manuscript, he was delighted; he had for some time been reading
Kipling's work with enthusiasm, and he saw at once that here was one of
the author's best tales.
At that time, Frances E. Willard had brought her agitation for
temperance prominently before the public, and Bok had promised to aid
her by eliminating from his magazine, so far as possible, all scenes
which represented alcoholic drinking. It was not an iron-clad rule, but,
both from the principle fixed for his own life and in the interest of
the thousands of young people who read his magazine, he believed it
would be better to minimize all incidents portraying alcoholic drinking
or drunkenness. Kipling's story depicted several such scenes; so when
Bok sent the proofs he suggested that if Kipling could moderate some of
these scenes, it would be more in line with the policy of the magazine.
Bok did not make a special point of the matter, leaving it to Kipling's
judgment to decide how far he could make such changes and preserve the
atmosphere of his story.
From this incident arose the widely published story that Bok cabled
Kipling, asking permission to omit a certain drinking reference, and
substitute something else, whereupon Kipling cabled back: "Substitute
Mellin's Food." As a matter of fact (although it is a pity to kill such
a clever story), no such cable was ever sent and no such reply ever
received. As Kipling himself wrote to Bok: "No, I said nothing about
Mellin's Food. I wish I had." An American author in London happened to
hear of the correspondence between the editor and the author, it
appealed to his sense of humor, and the published story was the result.
If it mattered, it is possible that Brander Matthews could accurately
reveal the originator of the much-published yarn.
From Kipling's house Bok went to Tunbridge Wells to visit Mary Anderson,
the one-time popular American actress, who had married Antonio de
Navarro and retired from the stage. A goodly number of editors had tried
to induce the retired actress to write, just as a number of managers had
tried to induce her to return to the stage. All had failed. But Bok
never accepted the failure of others as a final decision for himself;
and after two or three visits, he persuaded Madame de Navarro to write
her reminiscences, which he published with marked success in the
magazine.
The editor was very desirous of securing something for his magazine that
would delight children, and he hit upon the idea of trying to induce
Lewis Carroll to write another Alice in Wonderland series. He was told
by English friends that this would be difficult, since the author led a
secluded life at Oxford and hardly ever admitted any one into his
confidence. But Bok wanted to beard the lion in his den, and an Oxford
graduate volunteered to introduce him to an Oxford don through whom, if
it were at all possible, he could reach the author. The journey to
Oxford was made, and Bok was introduced to the don, who turned out to be
no less a person than the original possessor of the highly colored
vocabulary of the "White Rabbit" of the Alice stories.
"Impossible," immediately declared the don. "You couldn't persuade
Dodgson to consider it." Bok, however, persisted, and it so happened
that the don liked what he called "American perseverance."
"Well, come along," he said. "We'll beard the lion in his den, as you
say, and see what happens. You know, of course, that it is the Reverend
Charles L. Dodgson that we are going to see, and I must introduce you to
that person, not to Lewis Carroll. He is a tutor in mathematics here, as
you doubtless know; lives a rigidly secluded life; dislikes strangers;
makes no friends; and yet withal is one of the most delightful men in
the world if he wants to be."
But as it happened upon this special occasion when Bok was introduced to
him in his chambers in Tom Quad, Mr. Dodgson did not "want to be"
delightful. There was no doubt that back of the studied reserve was a
kindly, charming, gracious gentleman, but Bok's profession had been
mentioned and the author was on rigid guard.
When Bok explained that one of the special reasons for his journey from
America this summer was to see him, the Oxford mathematician
sufficiently softened to ask the editor to sit down.
Bok then broached his mission.
"You are quite in error, Mr. Bok," was the Dodgson comment. "You are not
speaking to the person you think you are addressing."
For a moment Bok was taken aback. Then he decided to go right to the
point.
"Do I understand, Mr. Dodgson, that you are not 'Lewis Carroll'; that
you did not write Alice in Wonderland?"
For an answer the tutor rose, went into another room, and returned with
a book which he handed to Bok. "This is my book," he said simply. It was
entitled An Elementary Treatise on Determinants, by C. L. Dodgson. When
he looked up, Bok found the author's eyes riveted on him.
"Yes," said Bok. "I know, Mr. Dodgson. If I remember correctly, this is
the same book of which you sent a copy to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria,
when she wrote to you for a personal copy of your Alice."
Dodgson made no comment. The face was absolutely without expression save
a kindly compassion intended to convey to the editor that he was making
a terrible mistake.
"As I said to you in the beginning, Mr. Bok, you are in error. You are
not speaking to 'Lewis Carroll.'" And then: "Is this the first time you
have visited Oxford?"
Bok said it was; and there followed the most delightful two hours with
the Oxford mathematician and the Oxford don, walking about and into the
wonderful college buildings, and afterward the three had a bite of lunch
together. But all efforts to return to "Lewis Carroll" were futile.
While saying good-by to his host, Bok remarked:
"I can't help expressing my disappointment, Mr. Dodgson, in my quest in
behalf of the thousands of American children who love you and who would
so gladly welcome 'Lewis Carroll' back."
The mention of children and their love for him momentarily had its
effect. For an instant a different light came into the eyes, and Bok
instinctively realized Dodgson was about to say something. But he
checked himself. Bok had almost caught him off his guard.
"I am sorry," he finally said at the parting at the door, "that you
should be disappointed, for the sake of the children as well as for your
own sake. I only regret that I cannot remove the disappointment."
And as the trio walked to the station, the don said: "That is his
attitude toward all, even toward me. He is not 'Lewis Carroll' to any
one; is extremely sensitive on the point, and will not acknowledge his
identity. That is why he lives so much to himself. He is in daily dread
that some one will mention Alice in his presence. Curious, but there it
is."
Edward Bok's next quest was to be even more disappointing; he was never
even to reach the presence of the person he sought. This was Florence
Nightingale, the Crimean nurse. Bok was desirous of securing her own
story of her experiences, but on every hand he found an unwillingness
even to take him to her house. "No use," said everybody. "She won't see
any one. Hates publicity and all that sort of thing, and shuns the
public." Nevertheless, the editor journeyed to the famous nurse's home
on South Street, in the West End of London, only to be told that "Miss
Nightingale never receives strangers."
"But I am not a stranger," insisted the editor. "I am one of her friends
from America. Please take my card to her."
This mollified the faithful secretary, but the word instantly came back
that Miss Nightingale was not receiving any one that day. Bok wrote her
a letter asking for an appointment, which was never answered. Then he
wrote another, took it personally to the house, and awaited an answer,
only to receive the message that "Miss Nightingale says there is no
answer to the letter."
Bok had with such remarkable uniformity secured whatever he sought, that
these experiences were new to him. Frankly, they puzzled him. He was not
easily baffled, but baffled he now was, and that twice in succession.
Turn as he might, he could find no way in which to reopen an approach to
either the Oxford tutor or the Crimean nurse. They were plainly too much
for him, and he had to acknowledge his defeat. The experience was good
for him; he did not realize this at the time, nor did he enjoy the
sensation of not getting what he wanted. Nevertheless, a reverse or two
was due. Not that his success was having any undesirable effect upon
him; his Dutch common sense saved him from any such calamity. But at
thirty years of age it is not good for any one, no matter how well
balanced, to have things come his way too fast and too consistently. And
here were breaks. He could not have everything he wanted, and it was
just as well that he should find that out.
In his next quest he found himself again opposed by his London friends.
Unable to secure a new Alice in Wonderland for his child readers, he
determined to give them Kate Greenaway. But here he had selected another
recluse. Everybody discouraged him. The artist never saw visitors, he
was told, and she particularly shunned editors and publishers. Her own
publishers confessed that Miss Greenaway was inaccessible to them. "We
conduct all our business with her by correspondence. I have never seen
her personally myself," said a member of the firm.
Bok inwardly decided that two failures in two days were sufficient, and
he made up his mind that there should not be a third. He took a bus for
the long ride to Hampstead Heath, where the illustrator lived, and
finally stood before a picturesque Queen Anne house that one would have
recognized at once, with its lower story of red brick, its upper part
covered with red tiles, its windows of every size and shape, as the
inspiration of Kate Greenaway's pictures. As it turned out later, Miss
Greenaway's sister opened the door and told the visitor that Miss
Greenaway was not at home.
"But, pardon me, has not Miss Greenaway returned? Is not that she?"
asked Bok, as he indicated a figure just coming down the stairs. And as
the sister turned to see, Bok stepped into the hall. At least he was
inside! Bok had never seen a photograph of Miss Greenaway, he did not
know that the figure coming downstairs was the artist; but his instinct
had led him right, and good fortune was with him.
He now introduced himself to Kate Greenaway, and explained that one of
his objects in coming to London was to see her on behalf of thousands of
American children. Naturally there was nothing for the illustrator to do
but to welcome her visitor. She took him into the garden, where he saw
at once that he was seated under the apple-tree of Miss Greenaway's
pictures. It was in full bloom, a veritable picture of spring
loveliness. Bok's love for nature pleased the artist and when he
recognized the cat that sauntered up, he could see that he was making
headway. But when he explained his profession and stated his errand, the
atmosphere instantly changed. Miss Greenaway conveyed the unmistakable
impression that she had been trapped, and Bok realized at once that he
had a long and difficult road ahead.
Still, negotiate it he must and he did! And after luncheon in the
garden, with the cat in his lap, Miss Greenaway perceptibly thawed out,
and when the editor left late that afternoon he had the promise of the
artist that she would do her first magazine work for him. That promise
was kept monthly, and for nearly two years her articles appeared, with
satisfaction to Miss Greenaway and with great success to the magazine.
The next opposition to Bok's plans arose from the soreness generated by
the absence of copyright laws between the United States and Great
Britain and Europe. The editor, who had been publishing a series of
musical compositions, solicited the aid of Sir Arthur Sullivan. But it
so happened that Sir Arthur's most famous composition, "The Lost Chord,"
had been taken without leave by American music publishers, and sold by
the hundreds of thousands with the composer left out on pay-day. Sir
Arthur held forth on this injustice, and said further that no accurate
copy of "The Lost Chord" had, so far as he knew, ever been printed in
the United States. Bok saw his chance, and also an opportunity for a
little Americanization.
"Very well, Sir Arthur," suggested Bok; "with your consent, I will
rectify both the inaccuracy and the injustice. Write out a correct
version of 'The Lost Chord'; I will give it to nearly a million readers,
and so render obsolete the incorrect copies; and I shall be only too
happy to pay you the first honorarium for an American publication of the
song. You can add to the copy the statement that this is the first
American honorarium you have ever received, and so shame the American
publishers for their dishonesty."
This argument appealed strongly to the composer, who made a correct
transcript of his famous song, and published it with the following note:
"This is the first and only copy of "The Lost Chord" which has ever been
sent by me to an American publisher. I believe all the reprints in
America are more or less incorrect. I have pleasure in sending this copy
to my friend, Mr. Edward W. Bok, for publication in The Ladies' Home
Journal for which he gives me an honorarium, the only one I have ever
received from an American publisher for this song.
"Arthur Sullivan."
At least, thought Bok, he had healed one man's soreness toward America.
But the next day he encountered another. On his way to Paris, he stopped
at Amiens to see Jules Verne. Here he found special difficulty in that
the aged author could not speak English, and Bok knew only a few words
of casual French. Finally a neighbor's servant who knew a handful of
English words was commandeered, and a halting three-cornered
conversation was begun.
Bok found two grievances here: the author was incensed at the American
public because it had insisted on classing his books as juveniles, and
accepting them as stories of adventure, whereas he desired them to be
recognized as prophetic stories based on scientific facts--an insistence
which, as all the world knows, has since been justified. Bok explained,
however, that the popular acceptance of the author's books as stories of
adventure was by no means confined to America; that even in his own
country the same was true. But Jules Verne came back with the rejoinder
that if the French were a pack of fools, that was no reason why the
Americans should also be.
The argument weighed somewhat with the author, however, for he then
changed the conversation, and pointed out how he had been robbed by
American publishers who had stolen his books. So Bok was once more face
to face with the old non-copyright conditions; and although he explained
the existence then of a new protective law, the old man was not
mollified. He did not take kindly to Bok's suggestion for new work, and
closed the talk, extremely difficult to all three, by declaring that his
writing days were over.
But Bok was by no means through with non-copyright echoes, for he was
destined next day to take part in an even stormier interview on the same
subject with Alexander Dumas fils. Bok had been publishing a series of
articles in which authors had told how they had been led to write their
most famous books, and he wanted Dumas to tell "How I Came to Write
'Camille.'"
To act as translator this time, Bok took a trusted friend with him,
whose services he found were needed, as Dumas was absolutely without
knowledge of English. No sooner was the editor's request made known to
him than the storm broke. Dumas, hotly excited, denounced the Americans
as robbers who had deprived him of his rightful returns on his book and
play, and ended by declaring that he would trust no American editor or
publisher.
The mutual friend explained the new copyright conditions and declared
that Bok intended to treat the author honorably. But Dumas was not to be
mollified. He launched forth upon a new arraignment of the Americans;
dishonesty was bred in their bones! and they were robbers by instinct.
All of this distinctly nettled Bok's Americanism. The interpreting
friend finally suggested that the article should be written while Bok
was in Paris; that he should be notified when the manuscript was ready,
that he should then appear with the actual money in hand in French
notes; and that Dumas should give Bok the manuscript when Bok handed
Dumas the money.
"After I count it," said Dumas.
This was the last straw!
"Pray ask him," Bok suggested to the interpreter, "what assurance I have
that he will deliver the manuscript to me after he has the money." The
friend protested against translating this thrust, but Bok insisted, and
Dumas, not knowing what was coming, insisted that the message be given
him. When it was, the man was a study; he became livid with rage.
"But," persisted Bok, "say to Monsieur Dumas that I have the same
privilege of distrusting him as he apparently has of distrusting me."
And Bok can still see the violent gesticulations of the storming French
author, his face burning with passionate anger, as the two left him.
Edward Bok now sincerely hoped that his encounters with the absence of a
law that has been met were at an end!
Rosa Bonheur, the painter of "The Horse Fair," had been represented to
Bok as another recluse who was as inaccessible as Kate Greenaway. He had
known of the painter's intimate relations with the ex-Empress Eugenie,
and desired to get these reminiscences. Everybody dissuaded him; but
again taking a French friend he made the journey to Fontainebleau, where
the artist lived in a chateau in the little village of By.
A group of dogs, great, magnificent tawny creatures, welcomed the two
visitors to the chateau; and the most powerful door that Bok had ever
seen, as securely bolted as that of a cell, told of the inaccessibility
of the mistress of the house. Two blue-frocked peasants explained how
impossible it was for any one to see their mistress, so Bok asked
permission to come in and write her a note.
This was granted; and then, as in the case of Kate Greenaway, Rosa
Bonheur herself walked into the hall, in a velvet jacket, dressed, as
she always was, in man's attire. A delightful smile lighted the strong
face, surmounted by a shock of gray hair, cut short at the back; and
from the moment of her first welcome there was no doubt of her
cordiality to the few who were fortunate enough to work their way into
her presence. It was a wonderful afternoon, spent in the painter's
studio in the upper part of the chateau; and Bok carried away with him
the promise of Rosa Bonheur to write the story of her life for
publication in the magazine.
On his return to London the editor found that Charles Dana Gibson had
settled down there for a time. Bok had always wanted Gibson to depict
the characters of Dickens; and he felt that this was the opportunity,
while the artist was in London and could get the atmosphere for his
work. Gibson was as keen for the idea as was Bok, and so the two
arranged the series which was subsequently published.
On his way to his steamer to sail for home, Bok visited "Ian Maclaren,"
whose Bonnie Brier Bush stories were then in great vogue, and not only
contracted for Doctor Watson's stories of the immediate future, but
arranged with him for a series of articles which, for two years
thereafter, was published in the magazine.
The editor now sailed for home, content with his assembly of foreign
"features."
On the steamer, Bok heard of the recent discovery of some unpublished
letters by Louisa May Alcott, written to five girls, and before
returning to Philadelphia, he went to Boston, got into touch with the
executors of the will of Miss Alcott, brought the letters back with him
to read, and upon reaching Philadelphia, wired his acceptance of them
for publication.
But the traveller was not at once to enjoy his home. After only a day in
Philadelphia he took a train for Indianapolis. Here lived the most
thoroughly American writer of the day, in Bok's estimation: James
Whitcomb Riley. An arrangement, perfected before his European visit, had
secured to Bok practically exclusive rights to all the output of his
Chicago friend Eugene Field, and he felt that Riley's work would
admirably complement that of Field. This Bok explained to Riley, who
readily fell in with the idea, and the editor returned to Philadelphia
with a contract to see Riley's next dozen poems. A little later Field
passed away. His last poem, "The Dream Ship," and his posthumous story
"The Werewolf" appeared in The Ladies' Home Journal.
A second series of articles was also arranged for with Mr. Harrison, in
which he was to depict, in a personal way, the life of a President of
the United States, the domestic life of the White House, and the
financial arrangements made by the government for the care of the chief
executive and his family. The first series of articles by the former
President had been very successful; Bok felt that they had accomplished
much in making his women readers familiar with their country and the
machinery of its government. After this, which had been undeniably solid
reading, Bok reasoned that the supplementary articles, in lighter vein,
would serve as a sort of dessert. And so it proved.
Bok now devoted his attention to strengthening the fiction in his
magazine. He sought Mark Twain, and bought his two new stories; he
secured from Bret Harte a tale which he had just finished; and then ran
the gamut of the best fiction writers of the day, and secured their best
output. Marion Crawford, Conan Doyle, Sarah Orne Jewett, John Kendrick
Bangs, Kate Douglas Wiggin, Hamlin Garland, Mrs. Burton Harrison,
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, Mary E. Wilkins, Jerome K. Jerome, Anthony
Hope, Joel Chandler Harris, and others followed in rapid succession.
He next turned for a moment to his religious department, decided that it
needed a freshening of interest, and secured Dwight L. Moody, whose
evangelical work was then so prominently in the public eye, to conduct
"Mr. Moody's Bible Class" in the magazine--practically a study of the
stated Bible lesson of the month with explanation in Moody's simple and
effective style.
The authors for whom the Journal was now publishing attracted the
attention of all the writers of the day, and the supply of good material
became too great for its capacity. Bok studied the mechanical makeup,
and felt that by some method he must find more room in the front
portion. He had allotted the first third of the magazine to the general
literary contents and the latter two-thirds to departmental features.
Toward the close of the number, the departments narrowed down from full
pages to single columns with advertisements on each side.
One day Bok was handling a story by Rudyard Kipling which had overrun
the space allowed for it in the front. The story had come late, and the
rest of the front portion of the magazine had gone to press. The editor
was in a quandary what to do with the two remaining columns of the
Kipling tale. There were only two pages open, and these were at the
back. He remade those pages, and continued the story from pages 6 and 7
to pages 38 and 39.
At once Bok saw that this was an instance where "necessity was the
mother of invention." He realized that if he could run some of his front
material over to the back he would relieve the pressure at the front,
present a more varied contents there, and make his advertisements more
valuable by putting them next to the most expensive material in the
magazine.
In the next issue he combined some of his smaller departments in the
back; and thus, in 1896, he inaugurated the method of "running over into
the back" which has now become a recognized principle in the make-up of
magazines of larger size. At first, Bok's readers objected, but he
explained why he did it; that they were the benefiters by the plan; and,
so far as readers can be satisfied with what is, at best, an awkward
method of presentation, they were content. Today the practice is
undoubtedly followed to excess, some magazines carrying as much as
eighty and ninety columns over from the front to the back; from such
abuse it will, of course, free itself either by a return to the original
method of make-up or by the adoption of some other less-irritating plan.
In his reading about the America of the past, Bok had been impressed by
the unusual amount of interesting personal material that constituted
what is termed unwritten history--original events of tremendous personal
appeal in which great personalities figured but which had not sufficient
historical importance to have been included in American history. Bok
determined to please his older readers by harking back to the past and
at the same time acquainting the younger generation with the picturesque
events which had preceded their time.
He also believed that if he could "dress up" the past, he could arrest
the attention of a generation which was too likely to boast of its
interest only in the present and the future. He took a course of reading
and consulted with Mr. Charles A. Dana, editor of the New York Sun, who
had become interested in his work and had written him several voluntary
letters of commendation. Mr. Dana gave material help in the selection of
subjects and writers; and was intensely amused and interested by the
manner in which his youthful confrere "dressed up" the titles of what
might otherwise have looked like commonplace articles.
"I know," said Bok to the elder editor, "it smacks a little of the
sensational, Mr. Dana, but the purpose I have in mind of showing the
young people of to-day that some great things happened before they came
on the stage seems to me to make it worth while."
Mr. Dana agreed with this view, supplemented every effort of the
Philadelphia editor in several subsequent talks, and in 1897 The Ladies'
Home Journal began one of the most popular series it ever published. It
was called "Great Personal Events," and the picturesque titles explained
them. He first pictured the enthusiastic evening "When Jenny Lind Sang
in Castle Garden," and, as Bok added to pique curiosity, "when people
paid $20 to sit in rowboats to hear the Swedish nightingale."
This was followed by an account of the astonishing episode "When Henry
Ward Beecher Sold Slaves in Plymouth Pulpit"; the picturesque journey
"When Louis Kossuth Rode Up Broadway"; the triumphant tour "When General
Grant Went Round the World"; the forgotten story of "When an Actress Was
the Lady of the White House"; the sensational striking of the gold vein
in 1849, "When Mackay Struck the Great Bonanza"; the hitherto
little-known instance "When Louis Philippe Taught School in
Philadelphia"; and even the lesser-known fact of the residence of the
brother of Napoleon Bonaparte in America, "When the King of Spain Lived
on the Banks of the Schuylkill"; while the story of "When John Wesley
Preached in Georgia" surprised nearly every Methodist, as so few had
known that the founder of their church had ever visited America. Each
month picturesque event followed graphic happening, and never was
unwritten history more readily read by the young, or the memories of the
older folk more catered to than in this series which won new friends for
the magazine on every hand.