And yet let us not forget that France was not always a republic nor Germany a united empire; nor has there always been a Guelph on the throne of Edward the Confessor. During the past year a new literary power has arisen among us in the shape of the cheap magazines—McClure’s, the Cosmopolitan, and Munsey’s—a power which is making itself felt more strongly every day, and may in the near future prove a serious menace to the established order of things. The rapidity with which these cheap monthlies have established themselves in the popular esteem is due primarily to the low price at which they are offered, and also, in a measure, to the fact that their conductors have not grown up in the Ledger or Johnson school, and therefore are not accomplished in the sort of editing which has reached its highest development in the offices of the leading monthlies. But it happens that each one of these cheap periodicals is controlled by a man of restless, energetic temperament—what is known in common parlance as a “hustler”—and if I am not much mistaken each one of these hustlers is firmly imbued with the American fancy for exploring new and untried fields. Several of the stories published in these cheap magazines are of a sort forbidden in their more venerable contemporaries; and while I am not prepared to say that these stories are equal in point of merit to the ones which have been subjected to the Johnsonian process of selection and elimination, they have attracted attention because people found them different from those to which they had been accustomed.
Personally I have a profound faith in American hustlers. To me the term hustling is synonymous with those which describe cable-laying, bridge-building, and material progress of every kind, and when hustlers go into the business of publishing magazines it is time to be on the lookout for change of some sort. That the conductors of their older contemporaries appreciate this fact and are getting ready to trim sail if necessary is made evident to me by the Harpers’ publication of “Trilby,” and Mr. Gilder’s journey to the populous kraals of the east side.
I will say no more regarding the cheap monthlies and their possible importance in the near future, because I do not wish to run the risk of being put on trial for high treason; and so I will bring my chapter to a close with a few words on a subject which I am sure lies close to the heart of every true woman in the land—the unexampled philanthropy shown by Mr. Bok in placing his photographs within reach of the humblest and poorest of his admirers. The editor’s philanthropy is exceeded only by the diffidence betrayed in his announcement of the address of the photographer and the low price charged for the portraits.
The code of etiquette which governs the conduct of the dime-museum lecturer ordains that no brutally frank or emphatic allusions shall be made to the pictures of the different human “freaks” which are offered for sale. “I believe,” says the lecturer, in a tone of complete indifference, as he brings his glowing eulogy of the “Tattooed Queen” to a fitting close, “that the lady has a few of her photographs which she wishes to dispose of.” And as the lady has eight of them in each hand, and twenty-two more arranged along the edge of the platform in front of her, even the most skeptical audience is forced to admit that the professor’s surmise is correct.
“I believe,” says the diffident Mr. Bok, “that there are some fair likenesses of myself for sale on Chestnut Street, and I understand that they cost a quarter apiece.”
My readers can depend upon it that what Mr. Bok has to say about those photographs is absolutely true.
CHAPTER XI.
THE CONCLUSION OF THE WHOLE MATTER.
Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter. But first of all let us think of the many mercies for which we have to be thankful, and then let us be just as well as generous; for certainly the magazines have been of enormous benefit to the reading public as well as to those whose profession it is to entertain, amuse, or instruct that public.