The Literary Shop, and Other Tales

by James L. Ford

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 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 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 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 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, 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 minutiæ 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 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, 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 women who were absolutely unknown outside their own limited circles of friends.