The Bell-Ringer of Angel's, and Other Stories

The book appeared—a pretty little volume typographically, and externally a credit to pioneer book-making. Copies were liberally supplied to the press, and authors and publishers self-complacently awaited the result. To the latter this should have been satisfactory; the book sold readily from his well-known counters to purchasers who seemed to be drawn by a singular curiosity, unaccompanied, however, by any critical comment. People would lounge in to the shop, turn over the leaves of other volumes, say carelessly, “Got a new book of California poetry out, haven’t you?” purchase it, and quietly depart. There were as yet no notices from the press; the big dailies were silent; there was something ominous in this calm.

Out of it the bolt fell. A well-known mining weekly, which I here poetically veil under the title of the Red Dog “Jay Hawk,” was first to swoop down upon the tuneful and unsuspecting quarry. At this century-end of fastidious and complaisant criticism, it may be interesting to recall the direct style of the Californian “sixties.” “The hogwash and ‘purp’-stuff ladled out from the slop-bucket of Messrs. – and Co., of ‘Frisco, by some lop-eared Eastern apprentice, and called ‘A Compilation of Californian Verse,’ might be passed over, so far as criticism goes. A club in the hands of any able-bodied citizen of Red Dog, and a steamboat ticket to the Bay, cheerfully contributed from this office, would be all-sufficient. But when an imported greenhorn dares to call his flapdoodle mixture ‘Californian,’ it is an insult to the State that has produced the gifted ‘Yellow Hammer,’ whose lofty flights have from time to time dazzled our readers in the columns of the ‘Jay Hawk.’ That this complacent editorial jackass, browsing among the dock and thistles which he has served up in this volume, should make no allusion to California’s greatest bard, is rather a confession of his idiocy than a slur upon the genius of our esteemed contributor.” I turned hurriedly to my pile of rejected contributions—the nom de plume of “Yellow Hammer” did NOT appear among them; certainly I had never heard of its existence. Later, when a friend showed me one of that gifted bard’s pieces, I was inwardly relieved! It was so like the majority of the other verses, in and out of the volume, that the mysterious poet might have written under a hundred aliases. But the Dutch Flat “Clarion,” following, with no uncertain sound, left me small time for consideration. “We doubt,” said that journal, “if a more feeble collection of drivel could have been made, even if taken exclusively from the editor’s own verses, which we note he has, by an equal editorial incompetency, left out of the volume. When we add that, by a felicity of idiotic selection, this person has chosen only one, and the least characteristic, of the really clever poems of Adoniram Skaggs, which have so often graced these columns, we have said enough to satisfy our readers.” The Mormon Hill “Quartz Crusher” relieved this simple directness with more fancy: “We don’t know why Messrs. – and Co. send us, under the title of ‘Selections of Californian Poetry,’ a quantity of slumgullion which really belongs to the sluices of a placer mining camp, or the ditches of the rural districts. We have sometimes been compelled to run a lot of tailings through our stamps, but never of the grade of the samples offered, which, we should say, would average about 33-1/3 cents per ton. We have, however, come across a single specimen of pure gold evidently overlooked by the serene ass who has compiled this volume. We copy it with pleasure, as it has already shone in the ‘Poet’s Corner’ of the ‘Crusher’ as the gifted effusion of the talented Manager of the Excelsior Mill, otherwise known to our delighted readers as ‘Outcrop.’” The Green Springs “Arcadian” was no less fanciful in imagery: “Messrs. – and Co. send us a gaudy green-and-yellow, parrot-colored volume, which is supposed to contain the first callow ‘cheepings’ and ‘peepings’ of Californian songsters. From the flavor of the specimens before us we should say that the nest had been disturbed prematurely. There seems to be a good deal of the parrot inside as well as outside the covers, and we congratulate our own sweet singer ‘Blue Bird,’ who has so often made these columns melodious, that she has escaped the ignominy of being exhibited in Messrs. – and Co.‘s aviary.” I should add that this simile of the aviary and its occupants was ominous, for my tuneful choir was relentlessly slaughtered; the bottom of the cage was strewn with feathers! The big dailies collected the criticisms and published them in their own columns with the grim irony of exaggerated head-lines. The book sold tremendously on account of this abuse, but I am afraid that the public was disappointed. The fun and interest lay in the criticisms, and not in any pointedly ludicrous quality in the rather commonplace collection, and I fear I cannot claim for it even that merit. And it will be observed that the animus of the criticism appeared to be the omission rather than the retention of certain writers.

But this brings me to the most extraordinary feature of this singular demonstration. I do not think that the publishers were at all troubled by it; I cannot conscientiously say that I was; I have every reason to believe that the poets themselves, in and out of the volume, were not displeased at the notoriety they had not expected, and I have long since been convinced that my most remorseless critics were not in earnest, but were obeying some sudden impulse started by the first attacking journal. The extravagance of the Red Dog “Jay Hawk” was emulated by others: it was a large, contagious joke, passed from journal to journal in a peculiar cyclonic Western fashion. And there still lingers, not unpleasantly, in my memory the conclusion of a cheerfully scathing review of the book which may make my meaning clearer: “If we have said anything in this article which might cause a single pang to the poetically sensitive nature of the youthful individual calling himself Mr. Francis Bret Harte—but who, we believe, occasionally parts his name and his hair in the middle—we will feel that we have not labored in vain, and are ready to sing Nunc Dimittis, and hand in our checks. We have no doubt of the absolutely pellucid and lacteal purity of Franky’s intentions. He means well to the Pacific Coast, and we return the compliment. But he has strayed away from his parents and guardians while he was too fresh. He will not keep without a little salt.”

It was thirty years ago. The book and its Rabelaisian criticisms have been long since forgotten. Alas! I fear that even the capacity for that Gargantuan laughter which met them, in those days, exists no longer. The names I have used are necessarily fictitious, but where I have been obliged to quote the criticisms from memory I have, I believe, only softened their asperity. I do not know that this story has any moral. The criticisms here recorded never hurt a reputation nor repressed a single honest aspiration. A few contributors to the volume, who were of original merit, have made their mark, independently of it or its critics. The editor, who was for two months the most abused man on the Pacific slope, within the year became the editor of its first successful magazine. Even the publisher prospered, and died respected!