The Delicious Vice Page 5
V. THE OPEN POLAR SEA OF NOVELS
WITH HIGHLY INCENDIARY ADVICE TO BOYS AND SOME MORE ANCIENT HISTORY
After the first novel has been read, somewhere under the seasoned ageof fourteen years, the beginner equipped with inherent genius for novelreading is afloat upon an open sea of literature, a master mariner ofhis own craft, having ports to make, to leave, to take, so splendidof variety and wonder as to make the voyages of Sinbad sing small bycomparison. It may be proper and even a duty here to suggest to theyoung novel reader that the Ten Commandments and all governmentalstatutes authorize the instant killing, without pity or remorse, ofany heavy-headed and intrusive person who presumes to map out for hima symmetrical and well-digested course of novel reading. The murder ofsuch folks is universally excused as self-defense and secretly applaudedas a public service. The born novel reader needs no guide, counselloror friend. He is his own "master." He can with perfect safety andindescribable delight shut his eyes, reach out his hand, pull down anyplum of a book and never make a mistake. Novel reading is the onlyone of the splendid occupations of life calling for no instruction oradvice. All that is necessary is to bite the apple with the largestfreedom possible to the intellectual and imaginative jaws, and let thetaste of it squander itself all the way down from the front teeth untilit is lost in the digestive joys of memory. There is no miserable quaillimit to novels--you can read thirty novels in thirty days or 365 novelsin 365 days for thirty years, and the last one will always have thedelicious taste of the pies of childhood.
If any honest-minded boy chances to read these lines, let him chargehis mind with full contempt for any misguided elders who have designs of"choosing only the best accepted novels" for his reading. There are no"best" novels except by the grace of the poor ones, and, if you don'tread the poor ones, the "best" will be as tasteless as unsalted rice.I say to boys that are worth growing up: don't let anybody give youpatronizing advice about novels. If your pastors and masters tryoppression, there is the orchard, the creek bank, the attic room, theroof of the woodshed (under the peach tree), and a thousand other placeswhere you may hide and maintain your natural independence. Don't letelderly and officious persons explain novels to you. They can nothonestly do so; so don't waste time. Every boy of fourteen, with thegenius to read 'em, is just as good a judge of novels and can understandthem quite as well as any gentleman of brains of any old age. Becausenovels mean entirely different things to every blessed reader.
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The main thing at the beginning is to be in the neighborhood of a good"novel orchard" and to nibble and eat, and even "gormandize," as yourfancy leads you. Only--as you value your soul and your honor as agentleman--bear in mind that what you read in every novel that pleasesyou is sacred truth. There are busy-bodies, pretenders to "culture," andsticklers for the multiplication table and Euclid's pestiferous theorem,who will tell you that novel reading is merely for entertainment andlight accomplishment, and that the histories of fiction are purelyimaginary and not to be taken seriously. That is pure falsehood. Thetruth of all humanity, as well as all its untruth, flows in a noblestream through the pages of fiction. Do not allow the elders to persuadeyou that pirate stories, battles, sieges, murders and sudden deaths, theroad to transgression and the face of dishonesty are not good for you.They are 90 per cent. pure nutriment to a healthy boy's mind, and anyother sort of boy ought particularly to read them and so learn theshortest cut to the penitentiary for the good of the world. Whenever youget hold of a novel that preaches and preaches and preaches, and can'tgive a poor ticket-of-leave man or the decentest sort of a villaincredit for one good trait--Gee, Whizz! how tiresome they are--lose it,you young scamp, at once, if you respect yourself. If you are pushed youcan say that Bill Jones took it away from you and threw it in the creek.The great Victor Hugo and the authors of that noble drama "The TwoOrphans," are my authorities for the statement that some fibs--not allfibs, but some proper fibs--are entered in heaven on both debit andcredit sides of the book of fate.
There is one book, the Book of Books, swelling rich and full withthe wisdom and beauty and joy and sorrow of humanity--a book that sethumility like a diamond in the forehead of virtue; that found mercy andcharity outcasts among the minds of men and left them radiant queens inthe world's heart; that stickled not to describe the gorgeous esotery ofcorroding passion and shamed it with the purity of Mary Magdelen; thatdragged from the despair of old Job the uttermost poison-drop of doubtand answered it with the noble problem of organized existence; thatteems with murder and mistake and glows with all goodness and honestaspiration--that is the Book of Books. There hasn't been one writtensince that has crossed the boundary of its scope. What would thatbook be after some goody-goody had expurgated it of evil and left itsterilized in butter and sugar? Let no ignorant paternal Czar, rulingover cottage or mansion, presume to keep from the mind and heart ofyouth the vigorous knowledge and observation of evil and good, crime andvirtue together. No chaff, no wheat; no dross, no gold; no human faultsand weaknesses, no heavenly hope. And if any gentleman does not likethe sentiment, he can find me at my usual place of residence, unless heintends violence--and be hanged, also, to him!
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A novel is a novel, and there are no bad ones in the world, except thoseyou do not happen to like. Suppose a boy started with Robinson Crusoeand was scientifically and criminally steered by the hand of misguided"culture" to Scott and Dickens and Cooper and Hawthorne--all theclassics, in fact, so that he would escape the vulgar thousands? Answera straight question, ye old rooters between a thousand miles of muslinlids--would you have been willing to miss "The Gunmaker of Moscow" backyonder in the green days of say forty years ago? What do you think ofProf. William Henry Peck's "Cryptogram?" Were not Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.,and Emerson Bennett authors of renown--honor to their dust, wherever itlies! Didn't you read Mrs. Southworth's "Capitola" or the "Hidden Hand"long before "Vashti" was dreamed of? Don't you remember that No. 52of Beadle's Dime Library (light yellowish red paper covers) was"Silverheels, the Delaware," and that No. 77 was "Schinderhannes,the Outlaw of the Black Forest?" I yield to no man in affection andreverence for M. Dumas, Mr. Thackeray and others of the higher circles,but what's the matter with Ned Buntline, honest, breezy, vigorous,swinging old Ned? Put the "Three Guardsmen" where you will, but there isalso room for "Buffalo Bill, the Scout." When I first saw Col. Cody, anornament to the theatre and a painful trial to the drama, and realizedthat he was Buffalo Bill in the flesh--why, I was glad I had also read"Buffalo Bill's Last Shot"--(may he never shoot it). The day has passedforever, probably, when Buffalo Bill shall shout to his other scouts,"You set fire to the girl while I take care of the house!" or viceversa, and so saying, bear the fainting heroine triumphantly off fromthe treacherous redskins. But the story has lived.
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It was a happy and honored custom in the old days for subscribers tothe New York Ledger and the New York Weekly to unite in requests forthe serial republication of favorite stories in those great firesideluminaries. They were the old-fashioned, broadside sheets and, ofcourse, there were insuperable difficulties against preserving thenumbers. After a year or two, therefore, there would awaken a generalhunger among the loyal hosts to "read the story over," and when thedemand was sufficiently strong the publishers would repeat it, cuts,divisions, and all, just as at first. How many times the "Gunmakerof Moscow" was repeated in the Ledger, heaven knows. I remember Ipetitioned repeatedly for "Buffalo Bill" in the Weekly, and we gotit, too, and waded through it again. By wading, I don't mean pushinglaboriously and tediously through, but, by George! half immersion in thejoy. It was a week between numbers, and a studious and appreciative boymade no bones of reading the current weekly chapters half a dozen timesover while waiting for the next.
It must have been ten years later that I felt a thrill at the coming ofBuffalo Bill himself in his first play. I had risen to the dignity ofdramatic critic upon
a journal of limited civilization and boundlesspolitics, and was privileged to go behind the scenes at the theatre andactually speak to the actors. (I interviewed Mary Anderson during herfirst season, in the parlor of the local hotel, where honest GeorgeBristow--who kept the cigar stand and could not keep a healthyappetite--always gave a Thanksgiving order for "two-whole-roast turkeysand a piece of breast," and they were served, too, the whole ones goingto some near-by hospital, and the piece of breast to George's honeststomach--good, kind soul that he was. And Miss Anderson chewed gumduring the whole period of the interview to the intense amusement ofmy elder and brother dramatic critic, who has since become the honoredgovernor of his adopted state, and toward whom I beg to look withaffectionate memory of those days.) Now, when a man has known novelsintimately, has been dramatic critic, and has traveled with a circus, itseems to me in all reason he can not fairly have any other earthlyjoys to desire. At fifteen I was walking on tip-toe about the houseon Sundays, and going off to the end of the garden to softly whistle"weekday" tunes, and at twenty I stood off the wings L. U. E., and hadtwenty "Black Crook" coryphees in silk tights and tarletan squeezepast in line, and nod and say, "Is it going all right in front?"They--knew--I--was--the--Critic! When you can do that you can laugh atByron, roosting around upon inaccessible mountain crags and formulatingsolitude and indigestion into poetry!
I waited for Buffalo Bill's coming with feelings that can not bedescribed. It was impossible to expect to meet Sir William Wallacein the flesh, or Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe, or Capt. D'Artagnan, orUmslopogaas, or any one of a thousand great fighting heroes; but herewas Buffalo Bill, just as great and glorious and dashing and handsomeas any of them, and my right hand tingled to be grasped in that of theBayard of the Prairies. And that hand's desire was attained. In hisdressing-room between acts I sat nervously on a chair while the splendidApollo of frontiersmen, in buckskin and beads, sat on his trunk, withhis long, shapely legs sprawled gracefully out, his head thrown back sothat the mane of brown hair should hang behind. It was glistening withoil and redolent of barber's perfume. And we talked there as one manto another, each apparently without fear. I was certainly nervous andtimid, but he did not notice it, and I am frank to say he did not appearto feel the slightest personal fear of me. Thus, face to face, I saw theman with whom I had trod Ned Buntline's boundless plains and had seenand encountered a thousand perils and redskins. When the act call came,and I rose to go, a man stopped at the door and said to him:
"What shall it be to-night, Colonel?"
"A big beef-steak and a bottle of Bass!" answered Buffalo Bill heartily,"and tell 'ern to have it hot and ready at 11:15."
The beef-steak and Bass' ale were the watchwords of true heroism.The real hero requires substantial filling. He must have a head and aheart--but no less a good, healthy and impatient stomach.
In the daily paper the morning I write this I see the announcement ofBuffalo Bill's "Wild West Show" coming two week's hence. Good luck tohim! He can't charge prices too steep for me, and there are six seatsnecessary--the best in the amphitheater. And I wish I could be sure thevigorous spirit of Ned Buntline would be looking down from the blue skyoverhead to see his hero charge the hill of San Juan at the head of theRough Riders.
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This digression may be wide of the subject of novel reading, butthe real novel reader is at home anywhere. He has thoughts, dreams,reveries, fancies. All the world is his novel and all actions arestories and all the actors are characters. When Lucile Western, theexcellent American actress, was at the height of her powers, not longbefore her last appearances, she had as her leading man a big, slouchyand careless person, who was advertised as "the talented young Englishactor, William Whally." In the intimacies of private association hewas known as Bill Whally, and his descent was straight down from "MountSinai's awful height." He was a Hebrew and no better or more uneven andreckless actor ever played melodramatic "heavies." He had a love forShakespeare, but could not play him; he had a love of drink and couldgratify it. His vigorous talents purchased for him much forbearance.I've seen Mr. Whally play the fastidious and elegant "Sir ArchibaldLevison" in shiny black doe-skin trousers and old-fashioned clothgaiters, because his condition rendered the problem of dressing somewhatdoubtful, though it could not obscure his acting. He was the onlywalking embodiment of "Bill Sykes" I ever saw, and I contracted thehabit of going to see him kill Miss Western as "Nancy" because hebutchered that young woman with a broken chair more satisfactorily thananybody else I ever saw. There was a murderer for you--BillSykes! Bad as he was in most things, let us not forgetthat--he--killed--Nancy--and--killed--her--well and--thoroughly. If thatyoung woman didn't snivel herself under a just sentence of death, I'm nofit householder to serve on a jury. Every time Miss Western came aroundit was my custom to read up fresh on "Oliver Twist" and hurry around andenjoy Bill Whally's happy application of retribution with the aid ofthe old property chair. There were six other persons whom I succeeded inpersuading to applaud the scene with me every time it was acted.
But there's a separate chapter for villains.
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Let us return to the old novels. What curious pranks time plays withtastes and vogues. Forty years ago N. P. Willis was just faded. Yet hewas long a great comet of literary glitter and obscured many men of muchgreater ability. Everybody read him; the annuals hung upon his name; theladies regarded him as a finer and more dashing Byron than Byron.The place he filled was much like that of Congreve, before whomShakespeare's great nose was out of joint for a long time; Congreve, whowas the margarita aluminata major of English poesy and drama and publiclife, and is now found in junk stores and in the back line on bookshelves and whom nobody reads now. Willis had his languid affectations,his superficial cynicism and added to them ostentatious sentimentality.
Does anybody read William Gilmore Simm's elaborate rhetoric disguisedas novels? He must have written two dozen of them, the Richardson of theUnited States. Lovers of delicious wit and intellectual humor stillread Dr. Holmes' essays, but it would probably take a physician'sprescription to make them swallow the novels. In what dark corners ofthe library are Bayard Taylor's novels and travels hidden? Will you comeinto the garden, Maud, and read Chancellor Walworth's mighty tragediesand Miss Mulock's Swiss-toy historical novels, or will you beg off,like the honest girl you are, and take a nap? Your sleepiness, dear MissMaud, does you credit. By the way, what the deuce is the name of anyoneof these novels? I can recall "Elsie Vernier," by Dr. Holmes and thenthere is a blank.
But what classics they were--then! In the thick of them had appeared anewspaper story that struggled through and was printed in book form. Oldfriends have told me how they waited at the country post-offices toget a copy, delayed for weeks. It was a scandal to read it in somelocalities. It was fiercely attacked as an outrageous exaggerationproduced by temporary excitement and hostile feeling, or praised as anew gospel. It has been translated into every tongue having a printingpress, and has sold by millions of copies. It was "Uncle Tom's Cabin."It was not a classic, but what a vigorous immortal mongrel of humansentiment it was! What a row was kicked up over Miss Braddon's"Octoroon," and what an impossible yellowback it was! The toughest pieceof fiction I met with as a boy was "Sanford and Merton," and I've beenaching to say so for four pages. If this world were full of Sanfordsand Mertons, then give me Jupiter or some other comfortable planet at asecure sanitary distance removed.
I can't even remember the writers who were grammatically andrhetorically perfect forty years ago, and also very dull with it all.Is there a bookshelf that holds "Leni Leoti, or The Flower of thePrairies?" There are "Jane Eyre," "Lady Audley's Secret," and "JohnHalifax, Gentleman," which will go with many and are all well worth thereading, too. Are Mrs. Eliza A. Dupuy, Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth,Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz and Augusta J. Evans dead? Their novels stilllive--look at the book stores. "Linda, or the Young Pilot of the BelleCreole," "India, the Pearl of Pearl River," "The Pla
nter's NorthernBride," "St. Elmo"--they were fiction for you! A boy old enough to havea first sweetheart could swallow them by the mile.
You remember, when we were boys, the circus acrobats always--always,remember--rubbed young children with snake-oil and walloped them with arawhide to educate them in tumbling and contortion? Well, if I could getthe snake-oil for the joints and a curly young wig, I'd like to get backat five hundred of those books and devour them again--"as of yore!"