A Number of Things

NEW YORK, Sept. 21.

Every once in a while a book comes along which I like to hold in my hand while I curl up on a sofa and settle back in good, old-fashioned enjoyment.

Such a volume is Hamlin Garland’s Companions on the Trail, which Macmillan has just brought out. It is a rich record of Mr. Garland’s literary friends and acquaintances, packed with personal reminiscences, alive with pictures of a vanished New York in the early years of this century. “An old man’s book,” Mr. Garland genially calls it; “but, then, why not? Old men for reminiscences and young men for jazz.”

Even Chicago was nothing but a small town at the time of which Mr. Garland writes. New York had become the literary center of the country, and Boston had second place. All the young writers came out of the West — men like Edwin Markham, bravely on the strength of the success of one poem, “The Man With the Hoe,” and Frank Norris, handsome and debonnair, for whom a remarkable career was predicted. And there was Irving Bacheller, and Ernest Thompson-Seton, and Lloyd Osbourne; and at the Poetry Society one could see Bliss Carman, Richard Le Gallienne and Ella Wheeler Wilcox, among others.

Stedman and Howells and Mark Twain were growing old, and so was Gilder, of The Century. Mark Sullivan was editing Collier’s Weekly, and it was he who accepted Mr. Garland’s serial, “Sons of the Middle Border.” Twenty-five hundred dollars was the price; and this sum Mr. Garland had also received from the Saturday Evening Post for “The Captain of the Gray Horse Troop.” The high rates which authors afterward obtained were not in force then; or at least Mr. Garland was not receiving his share of princely profit. But he remained calm and secure, and was the earnest worker, content to live on three thousand a year and do his valiant best in the name of Art.

Source of Income

Motion picture rights were, of course, unheard of, and a writer had to be satisfied with his serial sales, and live in the hope that the book rights would bring in a goodly sum.

This happened in the case of “The Captain of the Gray Horse Troop,” which the newly-organized house of Harper published; and Garland tells modestly how pleased he was when he saw his countenance blazoned on the elevated railway stations the day after his volume came out. He was feted much, and he boyishly enjoyed every moment of his first astonishing success — for he did not know how long his vogue would continue.

Already there was a younger group of writers and publishers coming over the hill. More action was required by the readers, so the editors said. John Phillips was pouring his energy into the American Magazine, after his split with McClure; and Collier’s was forging ahead, seeking the bizarre and unusual. New York was stirring, like a lion girding its loins, and one had to keep pace with the unquiet time.

Loved Players’ Club

Garland loved the Players’ Club down on Gramercy Park. He lunched and dined there frequently with his friends. Edward MacDowell was close to him; and there are many glimpses of the plays of the period, of political campaigns, of contacts with men like Roosevelt. The latter had always liked literary men; and Garland tells of a luncheon at the Century Club when T. R., then running for vice president, announced that he would not speak of politics, but only of Indians and literature.

And there are many wise talks recorded with Howells and Mark Twain. New Yorkers had more time then to see one another. There were few skyscrapers, and many homes. Kate Douglas Wiggin lived with her husband, George Riggs, in one of the old, high-ceilinged apartments on W. Fifty-eighth st., and on a memorable New Year’s eve she read aloud a chapter from her latest book. Imagine any one doing that now in our hectic city!

Kept a Diary

For many years Mr. Garland tells us that he kept a sort of running diary of the important happenings of every day. He jotted down the high spots, and so he does not have to trust too much to a treacherous memory in telling of his reaction to certain personalities of those sadly distant days. He quotes verbatim from these diaries, so that one is sure of the authentic picture he paints. Each entry was succinct; yet it contained all the necessary elements to give a complete story of the time.

It is a novel and interesting way of looking backward; and though the years have swept along, one has the feeling that Mr. Garland has held firmly on to his youth. He looks back wistfully, it is true—who would not?—but he is not sad, or weary, or discontented today. He even promises us another volume to begin where this one leaves off; and I, for one, shall await its appearance with eagerness and enthusiasm.

In 1907 Garland met Tesla, and says of this encounter:

“We got on famously. After dinner he drew me into a corner and there talked for nearly an hour. In speaking of his inventions, he said, ‘I predict that we shall soon be able to speak from one end of the world to the other without wires.’ I listened to this as I listened to those who believe in spirit communication — and on my return to my hotel registered this judgment: ‘Tesla is a dreamer; to some he is a boaster — perhaps a little crazy; but he is undoubtedly a genius.’ I liked him, even though I considered him unbalanced and visionary. Yet all that he predicted that night has come true. He foresaw radio!”

Meetings with Modjeska, Forbes-Robertson, Henry James, St. Gaudens, Booth Tarkington, Oliver Herford — in fact, with every one of importance in the artistic world—are told with rare charm. And I could not help feeling, as I laid this rich volume down, how much we shall lose when Hamlin Garland leaves the literary scene. He is a striking figure in the world of letters, one of the last who have clung to the finer traditions, always.

There is a warm serenity in this volume, and a brave spirit shines through its pages.