On Writing for the Club

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

Why do we love so well these back pages ? Why do we convene here regularly, happy in this obscure company of literary nonentities ? Is it not because here, in the common parlance of the day, we “get together,” you and I of literary aspiration; express our opinions freely and quite informally; use the personal pronoun liberally, and, in fine, enjoy ourselves in the egotistic fancies of our own conceit ?— all of which might be considered distinctly bad form, not to say vulgar, in that more formal and distinguished company gathered in the front pages. Those of us who have not as yet acquired that nicety of expression, or that elegance of style, de rigueur in the fashionable literary world of our time, and who, perhaps, do not as yet feel quite at ease in the more formal literary soirées of the day, nevertheless like much to sit here in this quiet ante-room, a little off the grand Salon, and breathe the rare and scented atmosphere environing its learned and aristocratic company, though we venture not our presence in their midst. Of course we have all had invitations, many of them, to be sure; and as for social standing, pooh! we could take our place with the best blood on the front page, but our modesty, our reserve, and, perhaps, a kindly thought of others who set more value by such trifles, deter us from claiming what is clearly our place. Candidly, fellow scribbler, speaking for myself, I am no great lover of formal gatherings, and find, among those persons assembled here in the modest obscurity of literary incognito, much pleasant and congenial company. Here we are protected from a vulgar notoriety, and from those offensive public attentions so annoying at the larger “functions;” our names are not bawled out in stentorian tones to a gaping crowd the instant we enter the room. Here we may glide in quite unnoticed, almost imperceptibly in fact, and gossip vaguely and ramblingly on our favorite topics with any chance acquaintance, without fear of being stopped on the street the next morning by some man we hate, and asked if we really meant all that nonsense we said last night. When I consider these things, fellow scribbler, I sometimes wish we were all back in the days of literary incognito, when a man could say what he thought on a public occasion and not be immediately taken to task in a private capacity. In those good old days there was less formality and more individuality displayed at literary gatherings. For when nobody knew a man’s name, but every one knew his personality, a man cared more to say what he thought than what people thought of what he said. Supposing the Saturday Reviewers might have been buttonholed by the first vulgar critic of the street and called to a reckoning, think you they would have concocted such splendid philippics ?

Again — in those palmy days an essay was an essay. It was no cut-and-dried affair of so many words, with a determined beginning and a logical and ultimate end. A man was not supposed to start out with a theme, and viciously track it down with an all-pursuing and implacable logic until it was clearly exhausted, and then to basely murder it in some final and ultimate judgment, a dead and wholly undone thing, of no further service to mortal man. It was, as it claimed to be, an essay, — a slight attempt, a trial, a sort of feint at the subject. It was something like a good fox hunt. You usually started out from some definite point, one, if possible, happily commanding a large and comprehensive view of the surrounding country, but you were never supposed to confine your chase within the limits of your first view of the field. Your purpose was to enjoy yourself, and to follow the wily fox into whatever new or strange paths he might lead you, being not too scrupulous either about cutting through the well-tilled fields of any thrifty husbandman if the way seemed promising, or seriously concerning yourself as to where or when the hunt should finally end. I don’t think Addison, or Swift, or Lamb ever bothered really very much about any particular theme; they just let themselves play around one in a light, fanciful way, never considering it very seriously, but merely letting the vagaries of their wit touch it now and again, then roving off on long and happy parentheses, in a sort of prolonged detour about the subject. How think you they could otherwise have written such ample, not to say copious essays, without becoming tiresome ? We follow the devious windings of their happy rambles because we never know just where they are going to turn up next, and what happy circumstance may enliven the occasion. Is it not this vagabond characteristic, combined with the delightful fascination of their personalities, which makes them such good company, and keeps our literary appetites whetted with impatience ?