A New Tithe

THERE are plenty of people nowadays who tithe their incomes: so much for eating and housing, so much for raiment, for travel, for a rainy day; even, if they be true old-fashioned souls, so much for the Lord’s Treasury. I have a new tithe to recommend; one that will not be popular, but that I believe to be just and seemly. It will be the less popular, because the persons who should practice it have notoriously ragged pocketbooks and uncertain incomes. They are, namely, the People Who Write Poetry for Magazines.

I can see them bristling up their backs, as who would say, ‘Now, what is this base person who would snatch from us one penny of the paltry cheques we earn with our hearts’ blood? Certainly this must be some undiscerning missionary, who thinks the natives of Zamboanga need more Bibles; or some cynical editor, who wants to devise a new fashion of reducing our pay and killing us off altogether, and we will have none of this new Tithe.’

Not so: for I am just one of themselves: a humble Person who Writes a little Poetry for Magazines, and to whom the cheques are keys to Paradise. I agree with them perfectly that ten, or even fifty, dollars are queer cold returns for so many lines of heart’s blood and spirit’s vision and brain’s patchwork-labor; but the ten or fifty dollars are pleasant to behold, none the less. So let them pay me heed, and take notice that I myself will suffer by this tithing even as my fellow craftsfolk.

Here, then, is my argument.

It is a long-accepted fact that Books of Poetry do Not Pay. The very few that do pay seem to be either no Poetry at all, or else rare exceptions, popularized by some good lucky turn of Fortune more than by their undenied worth.

Now, I have not wished to believe all this. It seemed a poor comment on the ideals of the modern reading public; and it made me feel with terrible keenness that there was no actual call for the work that I and my artistic kin might do, even if we succeeded in saying the things that we so often fail even to whisper. But the other day, in a talk with the head of a certain authoritative firm that publishes much of the best current poetry, I made bold to ask plainly what had been the financial success of one book of poems hailed by critics and poets all over the country as the Real Right Thing, with the dew of Heaven on its wings. He smiled sadly. ‘It has been a perfect failure,’ he said. ‘It is a great risk to put out a book of poems. Publishers have to hesitate a long time before taking one on, even one of the first order of merit. There is no public that buys poetry; although there must be many who read.'

I left his office very slow and sorrowful, cursing the Materialism of the Age, and wishing I had been born a gypsy improvisatrice, or a druid-woman of old Ireland. For what, I thought, is the use of confiding a few of my dreams to the fugitive pages of the magazines, if they may never sit well-ordered in a book, with pleasant margins and indexes, to be rustled over and marked and digested by even two or three choice spirits? For if —“s book with all its choirs of angels had so fallen by the way, what good things ever would come to my small cricketsongs?

But as I walked, dragging my feet and bumping into the passers-by, an unhappy yet cleansing shame began to burn within me. I began to realize that I myself, with all my fine, exalted ideas about the Calling of the Poet, with all my belief in the Quest of the Vision, and my avowed willingness that I should decrease if only others might increase, and speak the flaming Word in its season — I myself, I say it with shame, never bought one Single Book of Modern Poetry.

I began to catechize myself. Since of a certainty I had bought no Modern Poetry, where then had I read it? And behold, I found that I had done no less a crime than to steal it; even as in the street-cars I steal the morning news from the back of another’s Globe or Herald. I had read it in libraries, I had snatched it guiltily from bookshop counters, I had borrowed it from friends, I had culled it unfairly from critical reviews in the monthlies and garbled quotations in the dailies, I had heard people repeat scraps of it in lectures and conversations; in short, I had dealt basely with it,tall the time deceiving myself with the belief that I loved it and would uphold its honor with my last breath.

With that horrid yet salutary conviction of sin, came the swift desire to set myself right; both that I might no more be guilty of such crooked theft, and that I might myself deserve more honest treatment, should my verses ever sit well-ordered in a Book. And the best reparation I could think of was this: which brings me back again presently to my first proposition regarding the new tithe I would lay upon the Writers of Poetry for Magazines. Let me put it under headings, lest I ramble away from the point.

A. That I would henceforth make a business of knowing with fair certainty about, the poetry that gets into books; that I would rely not only on advertisements and reviews, but would myself dig for it, as for hid treasure.

B. That having found— if it might be — a Book of Great Poetry (some say there is none, but I will have faith); yea, and even a Book of Good Poetry that has the soul of the matter in it so that it be worthy to endure, I would forthwith buy it, cash down, and bear it home and set it in an honorable place, not so far from the Browning and Whitman and Lanier that I bought readily. (And indeed, the New Poetry would cause no greater diversity of Tongues than those already on my shelf.)

C. And this is most important of all. That the money wherewith I would pay for these Books should be set aside as a Tithe, — to the Lord and to my Calling, — from what I should receive in payment for my flitting magazine-poems; and that I would, if needs be, deny myself a new pair of gloves, a pot of daffodils, or a recital, to keep true to my tithing.

When I had decided upon this course of action, my shame was much abated; but I reflected that land my purchase of books of poems made but one least drop in the bucket. So it came to me clearly that it was the duty of all writers of Magazine Poetry, — save indeed those whose songs must actually keep the wolf from the door, and to whom, I fear, my attitude seems unpardonably easy-going, — to set aside some portion, even if it be very small, of the income from this poetry, quite soberly, yet I hope joyfully, for this purpose. In truth, it might not make much difference in the sale of the books of poems; although there are many Magazine Poets — too many, each separate one is inclined to think. But it would at least be just, and brotherly; and it would strengthen the bonds of knowledge and comprehension between those who write poems, often, I think, far too fain to hold their hearts and songs apart from each other, in a sort of pitiable petty jealousy.

Yes, this appears to me a seemly tithe to lay upon the Writers of Magazine Poetry. One only provision must I make, but that a notable one. Let no one buy without conviction that what he buys is high and worthy. For to buy Trash were as great a shame as not to buy Treasure; and the Trash of Poetry is seven times trashier, methinks, than that of any other art. ‘Prove all things; hold fast that which is good:’

Now let the People who Write Poetry for the Magazines think of me without bitterness; and know, all of them, that I turn from this writing to tithe my latest cheque: yea, though it go sorely against the grain, and the pair of gloves is much needed to make me fit and neat. But I know what I shall buy: two books are they, and one of them is that book of—’s that, the publisher said, was so complete a failure, but that sings so well. A shame upon me if ever again I steal its music by counters or in library-stalls; and may the public do so to me, and more also, if ever I come to Be a Book!