literature—pawed and unpawed; and the crown-prince thereof.
“see here!” cried a friend of mine the other day, “you’re always crying down the magazines, but i’ll bet you couldn’t write a magazine story to save your neck!”
my dear boy, i never said i could write one—in fact, i am very sure i couldn’t; it’s all i can do to read them after the other people have written them. that is an infirmity which has, i am sure, interfered seriously with my labors as a critic—this inability to wade through everything that the magazine editors are kind enough to set before us. but i contrive[pg 100] to keep in touch with contemporary fiction by frequenting the mercantile library, where i can not only read and write undisturbed, but also take note of what others are reading and writing. and toward the close of each month i make it a point to arrive very early of a morning and take a superficial glance at the pages of the different periodicals, in order to gain an idea of the relative popularity of each one, and of the stories which they contain. when i find a story that is smeared with the grime of innumerable hands, or a magazine that has been torn almost to shreds by scores of eager readers, i retire to a corner and try to find out the cause of all the trouble.
but this labor-saving system, excellent as it is in many ways, has its defects; and so it happened that i came very near missing one of the most charming stories that i have ever found in the pages of a magazine.
[pg 101]one bleak autumnal morning not many years ago i paid one of my periodical early visits to the library, and had just finished my examination of the literary market when my eye happened to fall on the name of fran?ois coppée printed in about the last place in the world that one would be apt to look for it—namely, in the table of contents of harper’s magazine. it was signed to a story called “the rivals,” and although the pages of that story were neither torn by nervous feminine claws nor blackened by grimy hands i began to read it, and as i read new york slipped away from me, the wheezing of the asthmatic patrons of the library became inaudible to me, for i was in paris with the young poet and his two loves. when i had finished the book i looked up and saw that i was still in the library, for there were the shelves full of what are termed the “leading periodicals of the day,” and two elderly ladies were racing[pg 102] across the room for the new number of life.
and then in the fullness of my heart i gave thanks to the great firm of publishers that had dared to violate all the sacred traditions that have been handed down from the bonnerian to the johnsonian age of letters and print a story that could make me forget for half an hour that i had a thousand words of “humorous matter” to write before twelve o’clock.
it was sad to come back from the coulisses of the vaudeville and find myself directly opposite the shelf containing the chautauquan magazine and within earshot of the rustling of harper’s bazar; but i turned to my work in a better spirit because of m. coppée and the harpers, and i have reason to believe that the quality of the “humorous matter” which i constructed that afternoon was superior in fibre and durability to the ordinary products of my hands. i know that a[pg 103] dealer to whom i occasionally brought a basketful of my wares gave me an order the very next day to serve him once a week regularly thereafter, and as he has been a steady and prompt-paying customer ever since i have special cause to feel grateful to the famous house of harper for the literary stimulus which the story gave me.
i have already alluded to the fact that the pages on which “the rivals” was printed were not torn and discolored like those containing other much-read and widely discussed romances. it was this circumstance which led me to reflect on the difficulties and discouragement which confront the editor whose ambition it is to give his subscribers fiction of the very best literary quality. in this instance the experiment had been fairly tried and yet at the end of the month the virgin purity of these pages was, to me at least, sadly significant of the fact that coppée’s delightful[pg 104] work had not met with the appreciation which it deserved.
i did not, of course, lose sight of the fact that the story appealed almost exclusively to a class of people who keep their fingers clean (and have cleanly minds also), and that it was, therefore, not improbable that it had found more readers than the condition of its pages would indicate; but nevertheless i was forced to the reluctant admission that from a commercial point of view the publication of “the rivals” had proved a failure; nor has the opinion which i formed then been upset by later observation and knowledge. all of which served to heighten my admiration for the enlightened policy which gave this unusual bit of fiction to the american public.
i said something of this sort to a friend of mine, who, although rather given to fault-finding, had to admit that the harpers had done a praiseworthy and courageous[pg 105] thing in printing m. coppée’s story. “yes,” said my friend, rather grudgingly, “it was a big thing of alden to buy that story; but if that story had been offered to them by an american they wouldn’t have touched it with a forty-foot pole.”
my friend was quite right, for if that story, or one like it, were offered in the literary market by an american writer, the editor to whom it was offered would know at once that it had been stolen, and would be perfectly justified in locking his office door and calling for the police. coppée has simply told the story of a young poet beloved of two women, a shop-girl and an actress; and he has told it truthfully as well as artistically—so truthfully, in fact, that i shudder when i think of the number of people of the “christian endeavor” type who must have withdrawn their names from the monthly’s subscription-list because of it. if i could be assured that the number of these[pg 106] wretched philistines were far exceeded by that of the intelligent men and women who added their names because of this important step in the direction of true art, i would feel far more confident than i do now of a bright near future for american letters.
the very next day after that on which i read “the rivals” i was aroused by a sudden agitation which spread through the reading-room of the quiet library in which i was at work. the table on which my books and papers were spread shook so that the thought of a possible earthquake flashed across my startled mind, and i looked up in time to see the young woman opposite to me drop the tattered remnants of harper’s bazar, from which she had just deciphered an intricate pattern, rush across the room, and pounce upon a periodical which had just been placed on its shelf by the librarian. if she had been a second later the three other[pg 107] women who approached at the same moment from three different parts of the room would have fought for this paper like ravening wolves.
the christmas number of the ladies’ home journal had arrived.
i do not know of any magazine which so truthfully reflects the literary tendency of the age as this extraordinary philadelphia publication, and i am not surprised to learn, as i have on undisputed authority, that it has a larger circulation than any other journal of its class in this country. it is conducted by that gifted literary exploiter and brilliant romancer, mr. e. w. bok, the legitimate successor to mr. johnson, and the present crown-prince of american letters.
i took the trouble to examine the number which the librarian had removed, and found that it had been pawed perfectly black, while many of its pages were torn and frayed in a way that indicated that[pg 108] they had found a host of eager readers. here was pawed literature with a vengeance, and so, after leaving the library that afternoon, i purchased a copy of the christmas number, thrust it under my coat, and skulked home.
all that evening until well into the early hours of the new day, i sat with that marvelous literary production before me, eagerly devouring every line of its contents, and honestly admiring the number of high-priced advertisements which met my eye, and the high literary quality of many of them. when i finally pushed the christmas number away and rose from my table it was with a feeling of enthusiasm tempered with awe for the many-sided genius that controlled and had devised this widely circulated and incomparable journal. i must confess, also, to a feeling of admiration tinged with envy that took possession of my soul as i read the serials to which were affixed the names[pg 109] of some of the most distinguished writers in america. i have spoken in an earlier chapter of the “good bad stuff” produced by my friend the poet, and in which he took such honest pride; and i would like nothing better than to ask him his opinion of the “bad bad stuff” which the acknowledged leaders of our national school of letters had unblushingly contributed, and for which, as i have since learned, they were paid wages that were commensurate with their shame. now the author who writes a good story is entitled to his just mead of praise, but what shall we say of the author who succeeds in selling for a large sum the serial that he wrote during his sophomore year in college? i say, and i am sure my friend the practical poet will agree with me, that he ought to be the president of an industrial life-insurance company.
as for the literary huckster who succeeds in distending the circulation of an[pg 110] almost moribund weekly journal to unheard-of limits by the infusion of this and other equally bad bad stuff, i am at a loss for terms that will do fitting tribute to his ability, and must leave that duty for some more comprehensive reviewer of a future generation who will do full justice to the genius of our great contemporary in an exhaustive treatise on english literature from chaucer to bok.
although as yet only the heir apparent to the crown of letters, mr. bok has acquired an undeniable and far-reaching influence in the realm which he will one day be called upon to govern, and has strongly impressed his individuality on contemporaneous literature, in which respect his position is not unlike that of the prince of wales in england. among the more noteworthy of the literary products which have added lustre to the period of his minority may be mentioned “heart-to-heart talks about pillow-shams”; “why[pg 111] my father loved muffins,” by mamie dickens; “where the tidies blow”; “the needs of a canary,” by the rev. elijah gas; and “how i blow my nose,” by the countess of aberdeen. mr. bok has also made a strong bid for the favor of the sex which is always gentle and fair by his vigorous championship of what is termed an “evening musicale,” an abomination which still flourishes in spite of the persistent and systematic efforts of strong, brave men to suppress it. a timely christmas article on the subject, published about a year ago, was found to be almost illegible before it had been on the mercantile library shelves a fortnight. this article is by the wife of an eminent specialist in nervous diseases—it may be that she has an eye on her husband’s practice—and it contains elaborate instructions as to the best way of inflicting the evening musicale on peaceful communities. how to entrap the guests, what indigestibles to serve,[pg 112] how to prevent the men from escaping when the bass viol begins its deadly work, and how to make them believe they have had a pleasant time, are among the minuti? treated in this invaluable essay.
it is by sheer force of tireless industry and a complete mastery of every detail of his prodigious literary enterprise that mr. bok has placed himself in the proud position which he occupies to-day. he is the acknowledged authority on such subjects as the bringing up of young girls, the care of infants, the cleansing of flannel garments, and the crocheting of door-mats. in the gentle art of tatting he has no superior, and has long held the medal as the champion light-weight tatter of america. in his leisure moments he “chats with mrs. burnett,” “spends evenings with mark twain,” and interviews the clever progeny of distinguished men in the interest of his widely circulated monthly.
the homely qualities to which i have[pg 113] alluded in the preceding paragraph have made mr. bok our crown-prince, but he will live in history as the discoverer of a new force in literary mechanics—a force which may, with justice, be compared to the sound-waves which have been the mainspring of mr. edison’s inventions, and one which is destined to produce results so far-reaching and important that the most acute literary observer is utterly unable to make any estimate of them.
the use of the names of distinguished men and women to lend interest to worthless or uninteresting articles on topics of current interest dates back to the most remote period of the world’s history, but it was mr. bok who discovered, during a temporary depression in the celebrity market, that a vast horde of their relations were available for literary purposes, and that there was not much greater “pull” in the name of a citizen who had won distinction in commerce, art, literature,[pg 114] in the pulpit or on the bench, than there was in those of his wife, his aunt, his sister, and his children even unto the third and fourth generation.
it was this discovery that led to the publication of the popular and apparently endless series of essays bearing such titles as “the wives of famous pastors,” “bright daughters of well-known men,” “proud uncles of promising young story-writers,” and “invalid aunts of daring athletes.” the masterpiece of these biographical batches was the one bearing the general head of “faces we seldom see,” and it was this one which established beyond all question or doubt the permanent worth and importance of mr. bok’s discovery. the faces of those whom we often see have been described in the public prints from time immemorial, but it was the editor of the ladies’ home journal who discovered the great commercial value that lurked in the faces of men and[pg 115] women who were absolutely unknown outside their own limited circles of friends.
then the relations of the celebrities became writers on their own account, and straightway the pages of mr. bok’s invaluable magazine glistened with “how my wife’s great-uncle wrote ‘rip van winkle,’” by peter pointdexter; “my childhood in the white house,” by ruth mckee; “how much money my uncle is worth,” by cornelius waldorf astorbilt: and “recollections of r. b. hayes,” by his ox and his ass.
even a well-trained mind becomes stunned and bewildered in an attempt to estimate the extent to which this newly discovered force can be carried. the imagination can no more grasp it than it can grasp the idea of either space or eternity, and it is my firm belief that under the impetus already acquired in the ladies’ home journal the hoofs of the relations of celebrities[pg 116] will go clattering down through the literature of centuries as yet unborn.
in the mind of a celebrity the prospect is one calculated to rob the grave of half its repose; nevertheless it must be a comfort to pass away in the great white light of fame, cheered by the thought that the stricken wife, the orphaned children, and the consumptive aunt are left with a perpetual source of income at their fingers’ ends.
a well-thumbed paragraph in a recent number of the journal announces that mr. bok has trampled upon his diffident, sensitive nature to the extent of permitting “what he considers a very satisfactory portrait” of himself to be offered to his admirers at the low price of a quarter of a dollar apiece. this offer, which bears the significant heading “the girl who loves art,” is made with the express stipulation that intending purchasers shall not deepen the blush on the gifted editor’s[pg 117] cheek by sending their orders direct to the home journal office, but shall address them direct to the photographer, mr. c. m. gilbert, of 926 chestnut street, philadelphia.
i desire to add that i reprint this generous proposition of my own free will and without either solicitation on the part of mr. bok or hope of reward from the photographer whose precious privilege it has been to transmit to the cabinet-sized cardboard the likeness of america’s crown-prince. i would not do this for mr. gilder, for mr. scribner, or for any of the harpers. i would do it only for mr. e. w. bok.
