It must be remembered that at this time no signatures were allowed in the Harpers’ publications, and the matter published in the Monthly was either of foreign manufacture or else prepared in the Franklin Square Foundry by poets employed by the week at fair but not exorbitant wages. The Ledger principles were observed here to a certain extent, but were not enforced as rigidly as they were by Mr. Bonner in his own establishment. I think, myself, that the Pfaff poets were more directly accountable for the introduction of the Bonnerian maxims than were the Harpers themselves, because they had become so accustomed to eliminate stepmothers, sisters, fast trotters, and other objectionable features from their work that they had come to regard them as quite as much outside the pale of ordinary fiction as if they were dwellers on the planet Mars. Moreover a poem or story constructed on the Bonner plan might, if rejected by the Harpers, still prove acceptable to the Ledger.
From the very first Dr. Holland showed a commendable purpose to raise the tone of the new Monthly above that of Mr. Bonner’s story-paper, and although we see distinct evidences, in his earlier numbers, of Ledger influences, it was not long before a gradual emancipation from the strictest and most literal interpretation of Mr. Bonner’s iron-clad rules began. Horses soon began to strike a swifter gait in the serial stories, and in “Wilfred Cumbermede” one of these quadrupeds has the hardihood to throw its rider over its head. But that would never have happened if George Macdonald had been trained in the modern Ledger school of fiction.
Looking over these old numbers in the light of ripened knowledge, I can see Dr. Holland slowly groping his way along an untrodden pathway leading from the Ledger office to the broad fields of literature, where our magazine barons hold undisputed sway. That he kept a watchful eye on his rural subscribers is shown by an extended illustrated article on Fairmount Park, and another one descriptive of Philadelphia—subjects which possess about as much interest for metropolitan readers as that masterpiece of bucolic romance, The Opening of a Chestnut Burr. Among the writers whose names appear in these numbers are Alice Cary, Edward Eggleston, J. T. Headley, and Washington Gladden—all graduates or disciples of the great Ledger school.
Of these I consider Washington Gladden entitled to the highest rank as an exponent of mediocrity. Indeed, after a careful survey of the magazine barons’ wide domain, I must award the palm of merit to this popular manufacturer of literary wares for even mediocrity, unspoiled by the slightest sense of humor. It is that very lack of humor which has brought success to many a man whose mission in life has been to write for the great, simple-minded public. The poets and humorists of the Jack Moran school, who were compelled to descend to the commonplace and the stupid because of their temporal necessities, never really became thorough masters of the divine art of writing mediocrity, because their sense of the ludicrous brought them to a halt before those Alpine heights of tedious imbecility which people like E. P. Roe and Washington Gladden scaled with unblanched cheeks.
But to return to Washington Gladden. If any of the large and thoughtful circle whom I have the honor to address have never read a story from this gentleman’s pen, entitled The Christian League of Connecticut, I implore them to seek out the numbers of the Century in which it appeared about a decade ago, and sit down to the enjoyment of one of the finest specimens of unconscious humor that our generation has known.
This story deals with a league composed of all the Protestant churches in a small Connecticut town, for the promotion of large-hearted geniality and mutual aid in the work of evangelization. It contains a description of a scene in the Methodist Church at the moment when it seems that the congregation will be unable to raise the debt which has long weighed them down. They are about to abandon the attempt, when the other churches in the town learn of their distress and proceed to help them out. The First Congregational Church pledges $1675, the Universalist Church sends $500, and finally the Second Congregational Church raises the ante to $1810, while the people burst forth into shouts of “Hallelujah!” and fervent songs of praise.
If any one were to write a wild burlesque on the ecclesiastical methods in vogue in Connecticut he would fall far short of Mr. Gladden’s account of this extraordinary meeting. The New England country parson who gets his salary regularly is a fortunate man, and as to subscriptions for the church, they are usually collected with the aid of a stomach-pump. I have never yet heard of a man giving anything toward any church save that in which he had a pew, but I do remember the scene which ensued one morning in a little country meeting-house, when the richest man in the congregation relaxed his grip on three hundred dollars—and there was a string tied to every bill, too.
Another chapter of The Christian League tells us how Judge Beeswax returned to his native village from the city in which he had grown wealthy, and generously gave a thousand dollars to save the old church, in which he had worshiped as a boy, from being sold for old timber.
And this dénouement bears such a wonderful resemblance to that in eight of the sixteen “Two Brothers” poems that I am half inclined to suspect that in his younger days Mr. Gladden was one of the poets who turned up at the Ledger office every Friday and waited for the verdict.
And I am sure that Dr. Holland had been, in his time, a close student of the Bonnerian maxims, and especially of that which I have already alluded to—“In real life, yes; but not in the New York Ledger!” To which might be added, “nor in the old Scribner’s either.” All through the Holland period we find evidences of the deep hold that this maxim had taken on the minds of both writers and barons.