The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1883-04-12

tuat publishers were more severe race, and
that it were not SO easy thing to put out a
book.
In former days the publisher was more
hedged about. There protraded from his
formidable person sharp quilts that pricked
those who came too near and dared to brush
their manuscript against his sleeve. He
frowned more often than he smiled and
pushed the too pushing from his presence.
Now he is more easy bird of prey, whom
all may peck at, and instead of managing his
slaves he is managed by them. He rejects
too little; he accepts too much. What is the
consequence? We are deluged with books,
until almost we cry out, who shall deliver
us from the prlnting-pressp II is crushing
us with mediocrity and its abortive litera.
ture." The American novelsts are reaplng
now the reaction of too-premature and in
fiated success. We have had no novelist
since Hawthorne, though so many are forced
upon us, Perhaps the fault lies in the coun-
try itself. II Is too crude yet for written
romance. There is nothing to build upon.
We are deluged with books that are born
and fret their hour upon tho counter and
then are heard no more. Books--not ac-
count books, but books of no account Books
catalogued in the commonplace. Every one
takes his turn at novel or a drama. and SO
ciety is the loser by it; for what might pass
current IN sponta--lus way for cleverneSs,
when saved ne and dealt out in book formu-
IA loses ground and proves itself not worth
the saving. People are nlggardly Of being
bright, clever and witty in society because
they are saving up for the coming book that
shall surely yet be written, and that every
one is supposed to be writing. All the bon
aaots are carefully tucked away, nothing is
given out OF itself. Every story has a price
in the book market, and the vapid conse-
quence of all this is that In general society
conversation has ceased 10 exist. PEOPLE no
longer meet to converse. Life is too absorb
ing. Quiet groups in pleasant parlors have
passed away. A larger scale of entertain
ment interrupts all this. Parties are of the
past receptions are the only wear--very
crushy, very vapid, very, very mnch all alike,
unless deliberate stand is taken by some
wearied soul and a form of entertainment Is
fixed upon, and IN such case one is invited
TO be the privileged guest at the unfolding of
the statue OIL. O.. Mr.. rs MS, twenty
foolscap pages, read by the author; or, Il
may be, Mrs. IS blank verse, or some
body will strain forth Browning. Society
has little spontaneity since the whole world
turned author, and publishers have taken
from 1t what they cannot pay back. No
longer "Cest Pdm0ur, ramoatr, rdmour.o
that makes the world turn round; eject Fdts-
tear, Pouteur, P0nteur, The wings of Gu
pid by the publishing shears are clipped, and
the wheel of the printing press has crushed
the seeds of romance under the records of
"woman's rights The Immortal like
fonn and the ''Fipsshihis" are more common
sacrifices now than In the days of Goldsmith.
''The puny pedant who finds one undiscov-
cred property in the polyp'' is multiplied for
these days by thousands. "Ail equally inn
agine themselves walking forward to immor-
tality, and desire the crowd behind them to
look on"
There are times when il Is refreshment
beyond all conception to fall into company
of dullards-people that know nothing and
pretend to nothing. For the dullest OF all
society is the sol disdnt literary-the hang
out-their-sign literary, as the haberdasher
hangs out stocking. They who set up to
be something above the commonplace-the
hterary-intellectual, who talk literature in
set form and OF such small sort, who drag
it forth on all occasions, who never regard
the time or the place, aud who would be
ashamed TO talk of the weather or the wind
except to speak OF ''cl0udn from Words
worth or a breath from paradise Lost
they who belong to the clique, who say of
such an one, rs he one of us?''-ahl these
be the small creatures to fly from, annoying
as the knell of the gnat, or the creaking Of 9
gate on windy night. OF all bores is not
the literary pretender the most of a bore?
he can worry and fret, and play upon ones
finer senses as none else can. Has he not
always something, be 1t large or small, in
the shape of an MS in his pocket Is be not
always wanting to read ssjust this bit?',
How viii it do, eh?n He feels that worlds
are born or die of the self-made sentences
he carries in his pocket. Whom call we lit
erary? He who steals poem of a British
bard OF fifty years ago and fits it to a mod
ern journal by new title, and sixteen alter
atoms in the text, and three forged ini-
tials for signature, such as Ihave seen with
In week in literary paper-he, in his own
set, is a litterGtear. Any one who sets down
nowadays. There is a modern fashion of
publishing poem under the name of Shell
ley or Tennyson, not a parody or travesty.
but so ingeniOusly concealed that there are
hose who might be misled by It. This is
literary pastime. They who indulge Ia it
are farcears-lttt6rdteurs. The "dullard'' is
the rare bird that / have lately been chasing
he is charming company, never says any
thing TO offend, never makes quotations,
doesn't know how to connect III and S, and
never carries imprinted things in his pocket.
could always sympathize with the mortal
who passed the winter in Boston In liter
airy circle. OF spring morning the mortal
set out for his home among the hills by way
OF carriage, and after driving beyond the
suburbs the first living object that appeared
strolliDg along the highway was foolish
feliow-such an one as grows In all respect
able country towns. ''Oh, how good it
seems to see foolp' exclaimed the mortal.
Who cannot understand this feeling has
never passed a season among soi-disant lit
erary folk in New England, Of whom some
have emigrated to Chicago. Calling once at
house 10 Boston, and desiring to wait for
the return Of the hostess, the servant maid
brought me book to while away the hour
withal.
won't you like book?'' "'Tis Dante.
a ConiedyF'
Should Queen Victoria get hold OF this she
would say as she said to Longfelow of his
poems, why, all my servants read you y
Why, in Boston all the servant girls know
Dantel
Do we not all know the legend of the pub.
fishers? A few years ago family Of hien
social rank had simple child; not exactly
idiotic-but Predetermined. The parents de-
sired literature for it. There was nothing
in all the Libraries to fit this child's mind .
The parents informed the publishers of
their need. Straightway the whole Ameri-
can male and female public set itself to writ
ing matter suitable to the quality Of the sim
pleton mind, and TO this child In particular.
The child read omewhat, but soon sickened
and died, but the pens have kept on. Those
who have not died have become chemically
invalid under the pressure of periodic sim
pletonianism; still the pens have kept on,
and whole libraries are now filled with It,
and 1t is so telling upon the mental fibre
that we are rapidly growing into a puerie
people. This literature, ostensibly written
for youth, tells ON the adult generation,
which makes no difference betwixt the jew
and the Greek. Froth Is such easy reading |
Little four-year-old's last bon mot Is $50
cunningp' Have you heard 1t? Every day
| am offered some juvenile volume, with the
recommendation to read IL! It's so sweet,
so life-like! Little Birdie is such darling
creature; and as for Pinkie Wrinkle, he's too
lawfully clever for anythingl feel, when
offered these books as IL mine host had
brought me forward to bowl of pap, and
asked me to make my dinner Of It. /, In
good healthl Modern youth are surfeited
with commonplaceness until novel Of
Scott is too wofully old fashioned for any
body to think Of reading. "Ivanhoe'' and
"The Fortunes Of Nigel'' are heavy BUSH
ness; and Goldsmith and our own Irving are
prigs Of the past. One can scarcely rouse
an American youngling TO peep behind the
nraannf which Ia eo ovarwhaIrufuo In tic da