Gave another yawn and said,
"Well! I guess it's time for bed!"
THE END.
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE ON ST. ABE AND HIS SEVEN WIVES.
St. Abe and his Seven Wives was written in 1870, at a time when all the Cockney bastions of criticism were swarming with sharp-shooters on the look-out for "the d———d Scotchman" who had dared to denounce Logrolling. It was published anonymously, and simultaneously The Drama of Kings appeared with the author's name. The Drama was torn to shreds in every newspaper; the Satire, because no one suspected who had written it, was at once hailed as a masterpiece. Even the Athenaum cried "all hail" to the illustrious Unknown. The Pall Mall Gazette avowed in one breath that Robert Buchanan was utterly devoid of dramatic power, while the author of St. Abe was a man of dramatic genius. The secret was well kept, and the bewildered Cocknies did not cease braying their hosannahs even when another anonymous work, White Rose and Red, was issued by the same publisher. St. Abe went through numerous editions in a very short space of time.
To one familiar with the process of book-reviewing, and aware of the curious futility of even honest literary judgments, there is nothing extraordinary in the facts which I have just stated. Printed cackle about books will always be about as valuable as spoken cackle about them, and the history of literature is one long record of the march of genius through regions of mountainous stupidity. But there were some points about the treatment of St. Abe which are worth noting, as illustrating the way in which reviewing "is done" for leading newspapers. Example. The publisher sent out "early sheets" to the great dailies, several of which printed eulogistic reviews. The Daily Telegraph, however, was cautious. After receiving the sheets, the acting or sub-editor sent a message round to the publisher saying that a cordial review had been written and was in type, but that "the Chief" wanted to be assured, before committing himself to such an advertisement, about the authorship of the work. "Is it by Lowell?" queried the jack-in-office; "only inform us in confidence, and the review shall appear." Mr. Strahan either did not reply, or refused to answer the question. Result—the cordial review never appeared at all!
The general impression, however, was that the poem was written by James Russell Lowell. One or two kind critics suggested Bret Harte, but these were in a minority. No one suspected for one moment that the work was written by a Scotchman who, up to that date, had never even visited America. The Spectator (A Daniel come to judgment!) devoted a long leading article to proving that humour of this particular kind could have been produced only in the Far West, while a leading magazine bewailed the fact that we had no such humourists in England, since "with Thackeray our last writer of humour left us."
In America itself, the success of the book was less remarkable, and the explanation was given to me in a letter from a publisher in the States, who asserted that public feeling against the Mormons was so fierce and bitter that even a joke at their expense could not be appreciated. "The very subject of Mormondom," wrote my friend, "is regarded as indecent, unsavoury, and offensive." In spite of all, the satire was appreciated, even in America.