AND OTHER TALES (continued 2)

Persons of this description are found in large numbers in the rural districts, and, therefore, any story tending to cast ridicule on the city man who puts on airs, or, in other words, affects the amenities of civilized life, is sure to be appreciated.

For example: It is the delight of sportsmen to fish for trout with fly-rods and tackle of an elaborate description, to the intense amusement of the yokel who catches fish, not for sport, but in order that he may sell them at an exorbitant price to some ignorant stranger. Now it is a very easy matter to compose a story on this basis suited to the comprehension of such a rustic.

The following is a fair specimen of a story of the class I have described:

“He was a real sportsman, just from the city, and he had come down into the country to show the benighted inhabitants how to catch fish. He had a new patent rod in his right hand and a brand-new basket over his left shoulder. In his coat-tail pocket he carried a silver flask, and in his breast-pocket a big wallet filled with all the latest devices in newfangled flies. He walked down the road with the air of a man who had come to catch fish and knew just how to do it.

“It was growing dark when he returned to the hotel, wet, muddy, and weary, and sadly laid aside his implements of sport.

“‘Fish don’t bite in this blawsted country, yer know,’ was his reply to the landlord’s cheery inquiry, ‘What luck?’

“And just at this moment who should come along but old Bill Simons’s sandy-haired, freckle-faced boy Jim, with his birch-pole over his shoulder, and a fine string of the speckled beauties in his brown paw.

“‘Good Gawd!’ exclaimed the dude, ‘how did you catch those, me boy?’

“‘Hook ’n’ line, yer fool! How d’yer s’pose?’ was Jim’s answer, as he pulled a handful of angleworms, the last of his bait, from his pocket, and threw them out of the window.”

McCLURE’S MODEL VILLAGE FOR LITERARY TOILERS.

I paid a visit yesterday to the model village of Syndicate, founded by Mr. S. S. McClure for the benefit of the literary hands employed in his great enterprises, and I am bound to say that in point of neatness, order, and the completeness of its sanitary arrangements it is infinitely superior to the similar town of Pullman or any of the colonies established by the late Baron Hirsch.

It is situated on a bit of rising ground that overlooks the Hackensack River, the site having been chosen with a view to economy and convenience in the shipping of material by water. The village has been in existence a little less than two years, but it already has a population of nearly four thousand able-bodied authors, poets and syndicate hands, together with their wives and families, most of whom do their work in the village, though fully a hundred go each day to the McClure factory, in Twenty-fifth Street, returning in the evening in time to take part in the social life of the community.

On the banks of the river Mr. McClure has built a dock and warehouse for the reception and storage of goods. Yesterday the scene on the water-front was an animated one. A bark from Palestine, manned by the swarthy children of the East, was discharging its cargo of photographs of the Holy Land, reminiscences of the Hebrew patriarchs, bales of straw garnered by Boaz especially for the McClure monthly, and other raw materials to be used in the literary works. In the offing I saw the fleet canal-boat Potato Bug, hailing from Galesburg, Ill., and laden with hitherto unpublished photographs of Ulysses S. Grant and recollections of that warrior, and of his uncles, his aunts, his progenitors, his progeny, his man-servant, his maid-servant, his cattle, and the reporter within his gates.

At the same time a stanch schooner was receiving its cargo of serials, short stories, poems, and memoirs, destined for the New York office. I observed that the greatest care was exercised by the men in the work of stowing away the cargo, the ship having previously been ballasted with humorous articles and pungent literary reviews.

I found the village apparently deserted; only the smoke from the chimneys showed me that the place was inhabited. But very soon the noon whistle blew, and almost immediately the streets swarmed with well-fed, cheerful literary toilers. I was deeply impressed with the evidences of contentment and happiness that greeted me on every side. In the bright faces that smiled into mine I saw nothing to remind me of the sullen, low-browed, haggard literary weavers that one encounters at the Authors’ Club, or that may be seen lurking in the doorways of Union Square, with poems clutched in their toil-stained hands.

Some of the work is done in the shops under the supervision of foremen, but there is a great deal of piece-work given out and taken by the authors to their homes. Nearly a hundred hands are kept constantly busy on the Grant memoirs, under the careful supervision of Mr. Hamlin Garland. Near by, working under glass, I saw half a dozen pallid young men, all recent discoveries of Mr. W. D. Howells. The work of these spring lambs will be placed upon Mr. McClure’s counters at an early day.

With Mr. McClure’s permission I talked with several of the authors and questioned them closely in regard to the wages paid them and the conveniences and luxuries that the village of Syndicate affords to its inhabitants. Nearly every one of these frankly said that he preferred his life there to the more diverting existence in the congested sections of New York. “And,” he replied, “Mr. McClure frequently drafts off a squad of us for some special work in New York, and that makes a very pleasant variety in our lives. We are conveyed in a small steamboat from here to the foot of Twenty-fifth Street, and then transferred to the factory, near Lexington Avenue, where we work until four o’clock, when we are returned in the same manner. Sometimes, when there is a great pressure of work on hand, the cabin of the steamboat is fitted up with benches and we do piece-work, both coming and going, thus adding considerably to our pay.”

At one o’clock the factory whistle blew again and the men returned to their work. Mr. McClure took me through one of the large buildings and explained every detail of the work to me. Every morning the foreman goes from bench to bench and gives an idea to each author. Just before noon he passes along again and carefully examines the unfinished work, and, late in the afternoon, a final inspection is made, after which the goods are packed and sent down to the wharf for shipment.

I inquired whether there was any truth in the report that several authors had been taken with severe illness immediately after beginning work at Syndicate, whereupon the foreman explained that this had happened several times, but it had always resulted from giving an author a whole idea all at once—something to which very few of them had ever been accustomed.

I learned, also, that child labor is strictly prohibited on the McClure property. This was rather a surprise to me, for I have been a diligent reader of “McClure’s Magazine” ever since it was started. The art department has not been put into working order yet, but there is a large blacksmith shop near the village, which is celebrated for the inferior quality of its work, and, as its proprietor and foreman are both drinking, shiftless men, the place will probably develop into an art shop, in which case it will turn out all the pictures for the magazine and syndicate.

As I was taking my leave, my attention was drawn to several large oat fields in the neighborhood of the village, and I was thereby led to suspect that Mr. McClure was turning out literature by horse-power.

“Not at all,” he said, when I questioned him on the subject. “Everything here is made by hand, but I have made a contract with a padrone for a force of Scotch dialect authors, whom I must feed, clothe, and house while they are writing for me. I expect them within a week. I shall put them at once on a serial called ‘Blithe Jockie’s Gane Awee,’ which will be my ‘feature’ for the coming year.”

ARRIVAL OF THE SCOTCH AUTHORS AT McCLURE’S LITERARY COLONY.

Yesterday morning, at a very early hour, I was awakened by an imperative summons from one of the trusty sleuths that patrol the river-front in the interest of the paper on which I am employed and informed that a band of celebrated literary men had just been landed from a tramp steamer at a Hoboken pier.

The reticence of actors, singers, authors, practical evangelists, and female temperance agitators concerning their movements renders it necessary for a great daily paper to maintain a corps of reliable spies, whose duty it is to meet every incoming steamer and see that neither Henry Irving nor Steve Brodie nor Lady Henry Somerset lands unobserved and unchronicled on our hospitable shores.

The human ferret who aroused me from my slumbers declared that the newly arrived authors were met at the pier by an active, enthusiastic little man, who instantly departed with them in the direction of the setting sun.

“And what makes you think that they were literary men?” I inquired. “Are they entered on the ship’s papers as able-bodied authors?”

“Naw,” rejoined the sleuth. “They’re beatin’ the contract labor law. I knew they was authors the minute I seen the little man that met them at the dock. He’s a regular author’s padrone. He’s got a hull town full of ’em back in Jersey some place. I’ve known him this five year or more.”

I waited to hear no more, for I knew that the active little man could be none other than McClure; and so I started without a moment’s delay for the village of Syndicate on the banks of the fragrant Hackensack.

On my way to the station for the authors’ settlement I met a small boy hurrying along the dusty highway. I recognized him as the son of an author who is now acting as timekeeper of the Grant memoir gang, and stopped him to inquire about Mr. McClure.

“That’s him a-coming there now, I think,” replied the urchin.

I looked in the direction indicated, and saw what seemed to be a drove of cattle slowly approaching and enveloped in a cloud of dust. I sauntered along to meet them, and in a quarter of an hour at a sharp turn in the road, I encountered the strangest literary gathering that it has ever been my fortune to behold; and when I say this I do not forget that I have frequented some of the most brilliant literary and artistic salons that New York has ever known. At the head of the cavalcade marched Mr. S. S. McClure, the noted philanthropist, magazine editor, and founder of the model village of Syndicate. He carried a pair of bagpipes under his arm, and presented such a jaded and travel-stained appearance that I was involuntarily reminded of the Wandering Jew. Behind him marched a band of strange-looking men, attired in kilts and wearing broad whiskers, long bristly hair, and bare knees. A collie dog, panting and dust-covered, but still sharp-eyed and vigilant, trotted along beside them to prevent them from straying away and losing themselves in the New Jersey prairies.

As soon as Mr. McClure’s eyes fell upon me a bright smile lit up his face, and he stopped short in the road, raised the pipe to his lips, and burst into a triumphant strain of Scotch music. Those that followed him paused in their course, and with one accord began a masterly saltatorial effort, which, I have since learned, enjoys great vogue in Glasgow and Dundee under the name of the “Sawbath Fling.” While they danced the collie squatted on his hindquarters and watched them with bright, sleepless eyes.

“McClure,” I cried, “in the name of all that is monthly and serial, what does this mean?”

“Ford,” he replied solemnly, as he advanced and took me by the hand, “you know that I have published Lincoln and Napoleon and Grant and Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Dodge and Company Ward, but I have something far greater than all these for the year 1897. Can you not guess the meaning of this brave cavalcade that you see before you?”

“What! Have you actually secured Professor Garnier’s ‘Equatorial Conversational Class’ as contributors to your monthly? That is, indeed, a literary triumph!”

“Equatorial nothing,” retorted the great editor, testily. “I have just imported a herd of blooded Scotch dialect authors under a one year’s contract. We had to walk all the way out from Hoboken, because I only agreed to pay their fares to that point, and you know it’s thirty cents from there out, and a Scotchman always likes to walk and see scenery when he can. The result was that I had to walk, too, for fear Scribner or some of those pirates would coax them away from me, and I swear that if it hadn’t been for that dog of mine I don’t think I could have got them out here at all.”

At this moment the authors resumed their march, for they were eager to reach their journey’s end, and we followed behind them, with the faithful collie trotting contentedly along.

As we walked Mr. McClure continued: “We passed through a suburban town about an hour ago, where one of those other Scotch authors was giving a morning lecture, and, before I knew it, we were in front of the very church in which he was at work. They heard him bleating, and there would have been a regular stampede if it hadn’t been for that dog. He had the leader of them by the throat before you could say ‘bawbee,’ and then he barked and growled and snapped at them, and finally chased the whole pack off the church steps and up the street. I got him of a firm of Edinboro’ publishers, and I am going to have a kennel for him in my New York office and use him in a dozen different ways. Look at him now, will you!”

I glanced around and saw that one of the authors had contrived to detach himself from the drove and was leaning over the fence engrossed in the contemplation of an advertisement of Glenlivet whiskey, which had caught his wandering eye, and as I looked, the dog came hurrying up from behind, nipped him, with a snarl of assumed ferocity, in the calf of his leg, and sent him scampering back to his place with the others.

We were now entering the principal thoroughfare of Syndicate, and the authors looked about in wonder at the silent streets and long rows of neat white cottages in which the literary toilers dwell. From the large brick factory, where the posthumous works of great authors are prepared, came the sound of busy, whirring wheels and the scratching of steam pens. In the art department the sledge-hammers were falling on the anvils in measured cadence—in short, everything told the story of cheerful literary activity. Mr. McClure threw open the door of a large whitewashed building, gave the word of command to the dog, and in less than a minute the sagacious quadruped had rounded up the herd of authors and driven them into their corral.

“Good-by,” said the editor as he closed and bolted the door and turned to take my outstretched hand. “Good-by,” he continued solemnly, and then raised his hands above my head. I took off my hat.

“Now is the time to subscribe,” said Mr. McClure, impressively.

THE CANNING OF PERISHABLE LITERATURE.

Saturday is a half holiday at Mr. McClure’s village of Syndicate. On that day the noon whistle means complete cessation of work, as it always has in every one of the departments of Mr. McClure’s great enterprise.

On the occasion of a recent Saturday visit to this model settlement I found scores of well-fed, happy-looking prosers and poets riding their bicycles up and down the village street or sitting in rows on the fence rails eagerly discussing the condition of the literary market and the business prospects for the coming year. In the large playground which lies to the north of the village an exciting game of football was in progress between two picked elevens, one selected from the various “reminiscence-of-celebrities” gangs employed about the works, and the other made up from the day shift of “two-rhyme-to-the-quatrain” poets.

The Scotch dialect authors were seated on the piazza in front of their quarters, mending their shoes, washing their clothes, and preparing in other ways for the impending “Sawbath.” Mr. McClure tells me that they are very shy and suspicious, and refuse to mingle socially with the other hands. One of them, Dr. Bawbee MacFudd, was confined to his room with brain fever, the result of having been asked to spend something the last time he went out of the house.

Just beyond the barn devoted to the Scotchmen Mr. McClure showed me a building which he erected last spring and which is now used as a canning factory and warehouse for the storage of perishable goods.

“You see,” said Mr. McClure, “we are doing a very large business here, and supplying not only my own magazine and newspaper syndicate with matter, but also various other publications, which I cannot name for obvious reasons, so it frequently happens that we find ourselves at the close of some holiday season with a number of poems, stories, or essays relating to that particular holiday left on our hands. These ‘perishable goods,’ as we call them in the trade, were formerly a total loss, but now we can and preserve them until the holiday comes round again.”

Mr. McClure directed my attention to the wooden shelves which encircled the main room of the building, and which contained long rows of neat tin cans and glass jars, hermetically sealed and appropriately labelled. In the Thanksgiving department were to be found cans containing comic turkey dinners in prose and verse, “First Thanksgiving in America” stories of the old Plymouth Rock brand so popular in New England, serious verses designed for “Woman and Home” departments in provincial newspapers, and other seasonable goods. Some of these were marked with a red X, indicating, as Mr. McClure informed me, that they were of the patent adjustable brand, made popular throughout the country by his syndicate, and could be changed into Christmas goods by merely altering the name of the holiday.

We were still standing there, when one of the hands, who seemed to be working overtime, appeared with a step-ladder, climbed up to one of the highest shelves, and brought down three dusty Washington’s Birthday jars, which he opened on the spot. Two were in good condition, but the third containing a poem on “Our Uncrowned King,” was found to be in a bad state of preservation and emitted such a frightful odor that the workman hastily carried it outside the building, Mr. McClure and I following to see what was the matter with it. The poem was lifted out with a pair of pincers, and we saw in an instant that decay had started in the third verse, in which “Mount Vernon” was made to rhyme with “burning,” and had spread until the whole thing was ruined.

“I am very lucky to get off as easily as this,” said Mr. McClure, as he noted the name of the author of the defective rhyme, “because it sometimes happens that these jars containing rotten poetry explode and do a great deal of damage.

“These are our odd lots,” he explained, as we continued our tour of inspection. “Here are a few cans of ‘Envois’ for use in the repair shops, and here are a lot of hitherto unpublished portraits of people and pictures of houses and babies and all sorts of things that have been left over from our serials, and will come in handy for the Grant memoirs. Those pictures of the children of old Zachariah Corncob, who used to live next door to Lincoln, will do very well for Benjamin Franklin or Henry Clay in infancy, and there is that house that Mr. and Mrs. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward used to live in, left over from a lot of forty that I contracted for last year; that will look well as the house that would be occupied by Andrew Jackson if he were alive now and lived in Massachusetts. You see, I am reducing the literary business to a system, and my plan is to have nothing go to waste.”

“It seems to me, McClure,” I remarked, as we left the building, “that you have everything here but love poems; won’t they bear canning, too?”

“Certainly,” replied the great manufacturer, “but I have to put them all in cold storage, even during the winter months.”

LITERARY LEAVES BY MANACLED HANDS.

The attempt of Warden Sage, of Sing Sing, to provide literary labor for the idle convicts has excited so much interest that yesterday morning a party of well-known literary men visited the state prison on invitation of the warden, and made a careful inspection of the methods employed in turning out convict-labor prose and verse.

Some of this work is done in the cells, and some is carried on in the shops formerly devoted to the manufacture of clothing, brushes, shoes, and other articles turned out under the old contract system. In the corridors outside the cells and in the shops were to be seen “trusties” going about with dictionaries, both Webster and rhyming, which they supplied to any convict who raised his hand as a signal.

The visitors proceeded down one of the corridors, and, at the request of the warden, examined some of the pieces of manuscript that were passed out to them through the cell bars. On one tier they found a squad of short-term men hard at work on a job intended for the “Home and Fireside” department of a new weekly. They examined with much interest a serviceable article called “How to Dress Well for Very Little Money,” which bore the signature of “Fairy Casey,” and were much pleased with its style and texture. Mr. Gilder, who was of the party, and has had long experience in reading manuscript, was inclined to criticise the paragraph which stated that linemen’s boots could be worn at all times after dark, but it was explained to him that that was merely carelessness on the part of Mr. Casey, who is a second-story man, and who forgot he was not writing exclusively for his own profession.

At the next cell they stopped to look at an essay called “Umbrellas and Cake Baskets, Spoons and Candlesticks, or How to Make Home Beautiful,” the work of “Slippery Dutch,” the prominent sneak thief.

Other specimens of manuscript examined by the visitors were “How to Keep the Feet Warm, or What to Do with Our Kerosene and Shingles,” by Mordecai Slevinsky, the only long-term man in the gang, and having thirty-seven years yet to serve; “Safe Storage for Negotiable Railroad Bonds,” by “Jimmy the Cracksman,” and a two-thousand-word poem in hexameter named “Throwing the Scare, or the Chasing of the Comeback,” an extremely creditable job turned out by Chauncey Throwdown, formerly a ward detective, who partially reformed two years ago, and was caught and sentenced while trying to lead a better life and earn a more honest living as a bank thief. Mr. McClure, who was of the party, was very much pleased with this poem, and asked permission to buy it of the convict, saying that it was just wide enough to fit the pages of his magazine; but his offer was refused on the ground that the verses were part of the job contracted for by the editor of a new periodical. A slight discussion on the higher ethics of poetry followed, to which such of the convicts as were within earshot listened with deep interest. Mr. Gilder claimed that the best, most serviceable, and ornamental poetry to be had in the market was that which came in five or six inch lengths, not counting the title or signature, and bore the well-known “As One Who” brand that the “Century Magazine” has done so much to popularize. Poems of this description, he explained, are known to the trade as A1 sonnets, and are very beautiful when printed directly after a section of continued story, affording, as they do, a great relief to tired eyes.

“Do you think the idea and the verses should appear on the same page?” inquired the warden, who is eager to learn all that he can of the profession of letters.

“It has not been my practice to print them in that fashion,” replied Mr. Gilder, “and in my own poems I am always careful to avoid such a combination, believing it to be thoroughly inharmonious.”

At this moment the conversation was interrupted by the noise of a desperate struggle at the other end of the tier, and a moment later four keepers appeared, dragging with them one of the most desperate convicts in the prison. It was ascertained that he had expressed his willingness to devote himself to literary work at the closing of the quarries, but had requested that the fact should be kept a secret, as it might be used against him in after life. He had been furnished with pen and paper and a pan of Scotch dialect, but instead of taking hold with the rest of the gang and working on his section of the serial story, “The Gude Mon o’ Linkumdoodie,” he secretly constructed a fine saw and was caught in the very act of cutting through the bars of his cell.

The warden, who is a very just man, rebuked the keepers severely for their carelessness in putting such temptation in the way of any prisoner. He bade them take the offending convict down to the dark cell and keep him there until he could find a rhyme for “sidewalk.”

“And remember,” he called after them, “in future see that no dialect of any kind is issued to the prisoners until it is thoroughly boiled.”

The visitors then made their way to the shops, where they found gangs of convicts at work under the supervision of keepers. The prison choir was practising some new hymns and, at the warden’s request, rendered a beautiful new song composed not long ago by the Rev. Gideon Shackles, the prison chaplain, and entitled “Shall We Gather Up the River?”

They had just finished, when the tramp of heavy feet was heard, and in a moment there came around the corner a line of men in prison dress walking, single file, in lock-step. Under the leadership of two trusties they made their way to a long table, seated themselves at it, and began to write with great diligence.

“Who are those men?” inquired Mr. McClure, with some interest. “I hope you are not putting any of your gangs on Washington or Lincoln or Grant this winter, for that would throw a great many of my writers out of employment.”

“No,” replied the warden, “that is simply the regular eight-hour shift of Cuban war correspondents, and very busy we keep them, too. You see, a number of newspaper editors are finding out that we can furnish just as good an article of Cuban news here in Sing Sing as they can get from Key West, where the bulk of the work has been done heretofore.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Mr. McClure remarked in a very low voice, “I’ll take the names of some of those fellows down. One of these days they’ll be good for reminiscences of ‘How I Freed Cuba,’ or ‘The True Story of the Great Conflict at Our Very Gates,’ or something of that sort.”

McCLURE’S BIRTHDAY AT SYNDICATE VILLAGE.

Never since the foundation of McClure’s model village of Syndicate has the valley of the Hackensack rung with such hearty, innocent mirth as it did yesterday, when McClure’s birthday was observed in a fitting manner by the inhabitants of the literary village. Mr. McClure, who generously bore the entire expense of the merrymaking, arrived in the village nearly a week ago, and since then has been engrossed in his preparations for what he declared should be the most notable literary gathering ever seen on this continent; and when the factories closed at six o’clock on Saturday evening all the hands were notified that they would not be opened again until Tuesday morning, and that the piece-workers would be paid for Monday as if they were salaried employees, in order that the holiday might cost them nothing. It is by such acts of generosity that Mr. McClure has made himself beloved by all literary workers whose good fortune it has been to do business with him.

And it is because of this and many other acts of generosity on Mr. McClure’s part that that upright and discriminating manufacturer found no difficulty in securing a score of willing volunteers at an early hour on Monday morning, when it became necessary to transfer to the lighter Paragraph several cases of Daniel Webster portraits and a section of the new Kipling serial for immediate shipment to New York. This work accomplished, the hands returned to the village in time to prepare for the merrymaking, which began shortly after one o’clock.

At precisely twelve o’clock a special train arrived from New York laden with invited guests, among whom were a great many men and women well known in literary and artistic circles. Mr. McClure welcomed us cordially as we alighted at the station, and then led the way to the art department, where a toothsome collation had been spread. The fires had been put out in the forges, the huge bellows were all motionless, and the anvils now served to support the wide boards which were used as a banqueting table. It was difficult for me to realize that this well-swept, neatly garnished room was the smoky, noisy art department, with fierce flames leaping from a dozen banks of glowing coals, that I had visited but a few days before.

At the conclusion of the banquet the guests were escorted to seats which had been reserved for them on the village green, and immediately afterward the sports began.

The first athletic event was the putting of the twenty-pound joke from “Harper’s Bazar.” There were eight competitors in this contest, including Mr. Hamlin Garland, who mistook a block of wood for the joke, threw it, and was disbarred, as were two other contestants who were unable to see the jokes after they had put them.

The next event was an obstacle race for the cashier’s window, open to members of the artistic as well as the literary section of the settlement, the former being subjected to a handicap of three extra “O. K.’s” on account of their superior sprinting qualities with such a goal in sight. This contest was won by a one-legged man, whose infirmity was offset by the fact of his long experience in cashier chasing in the office of the “Illustrated American.”

Then came what was called a “Park Row contest,” open to all ex-journalists, in the form of a collar-and-elbow wrestling match for the city editor’s desk, catch as catch can. There were seven contestants in this match, each of whom was obliged to catch all the others in the act of doing something wrong and report the same at headquarters. The prize was given to a gentleman who had filled every position on the “Herald” from window-cleaner to editor-in-chief, and is now spending his declining years at the copy desk in that establishment, and taking a morose and embittered view of life.

The running high jump next occupied the attention of the spectators. A huge pile of reminiscences of prominent statesmen, writers, and other famous characters was placed on the ground, the prize to be awarded to the author who could jump over the greatest number of them without touching the top of the heap. This proved to be an exceedingly spirited and interesting contest, and the pile slowly increased in height until there was but one contestant left who could clear it. He proved to be a complete outsider, the grand-uncle of one of the poets, who had asked permission to take part in the sports as a guest of Mr. McClure’s. The old gentleman was visibly affected when the prize was handed to him, and explained his success by remarking that for many years he had been in the habit of skipping all the reminiscences in “McClure’s Magazine” whenever he came across them, and this habit, coupled with his regular mode of life, had enabled him to lead all his competitors, even at his advanced age.

Mr. Gilder, of the “Century Magazine,” was kind enough to lend his aid in the manuscript-throwing contest which followed. Forty poets, armed to the teeth with their wares, assailed the “Century” editor with poems, and got them all back again without an instant’s delay. The speed with which the experienced editor returned each wad of manuscript to its sender was the subject of general admiring comment to all present except the poets themselves, who found themselves unable to land a single verse. Mr. Gilder was so fatigued with his efforts that he asked to be excused from playing the part of the bag in the bag-punching contest which the poets were anxious to have given.

The sports closed with a novel and interesting game, in which everybody joined with hearty good-will and enthusiasm. This game was called “Chasing the Greased Publisher.” An agile Harper, having been greased from head to foot, was let loose on the common and pursued for twenty minutes by the excited literary citizens. The skill which he displayed in eluding his pursuers, doubling on his tracks and breaking away from the insecure hold of some ravenous poet, served to make the contest the most exciting and enjoyable event of the whole day’s programme. He was finally caught by Mr. Joel Benton, who floored him with a Thanksgiving ode, delivered between the eyes.

It was 4:30 o’clock when the games closed, and I was compelled to return to the city without waiting to enjoy the literary exercises which were held during the evening.

I had a short conversation with Mr. McClure, however, and asked him if he did not find that it paid him to keep his workmen in good health and spirits the year round. Mr. McClure replied that he did, and that he proposed to encourage all sorts of innocent pastimes—of the kind that we had witnessed—and permit his literary and artistic hands to enjoy festivals and merrymakings at frequent intervals throughout the year.

As the train steamed out of the depot I heard the inhabitants begin their evening hymn:

LITERATURE BY PRISON CONTRACT LABOR.

The enforced idleness of state prison convicts has led some of the large manufacturers and dealers to seriously consider the advisability of giving employment to some of them in the different branches of their literary establishments.

Mr. Bok recently purchased a quantity of “Just Among Ourselves” goods, but found them to be inferior in quality to the samples from which they were ordered, so he refused to accept them, and they were subsequently sold at a reduced rate to Mr. Peter Parley, who is now editing the Sunday supplement of the “New York Times.” The Harpers have been more successful, having had more experience in this peculiar line. It is an open secret that the ten acres of historical and other foreign matter contracted for two or three years ago and signed with the nom de plume “Poultney Bigelow” are really the work of a gang of long-term men in the Kings County Penitentiary, while fully half their poetry comes from the same institution.

Not long ago, however, the long-termers, hoping by working overtime to secure a little money for themselves, prepared and offered to the proprietors of the Franklin Square foundry a short story, which those discerning publishers were compelled to decline because they did not like its moral. The story is as follows, and is called:

CAFÉ THROWOUT; OR, THE HEY RUBE’S DREAM.

It was a cold, blustering night in the very heart of the bitter month of January, and the stranger who entered the front door of the Café Throwout, on Sixth Avenue, let in after him a fierce gust of wind that brought a chill to the two men who were seated at a table in the corner, engaged in earnest conversation, and caused the bartender—the only other occupant of the room—to look up quickly from the sporting paper which engrossed his attention and closely scan the face of the newcomer.

“Gimme a hot apple toddy, an’ put a little nutmeg on the top of it,” said the newcomer as he dropped into an arm-chair by the stove and stretched out his hands to catch some of the genial warmth.

The bartender silently prepared the drink, and the two men in the corner continued their conversation, but in lowered tones and with less eagerness than before, for both of them were sharply watching the new arrival. It was a strange pair to find in a Tenderloin bar-room, and it was not easy to conceive of two men, differing so widely in appearance and manner, having anything in common. The elder of the two wore a black broadcloth suit of clerical cut, deaconish whiskers of iron-gray, a white lawn tie, and a mouth so devoid of expression that its owner was perfectly safe in exposing it without the precautionary covering of beard or mustache. His companion looked as if he might have come in that very afternoon, in his best clothes, from some point midway between Rochester and Elmira. He wore a checked suit of distinctly provincial cut, a cloth cap similar to those worn by rustic milkmen on cold mornings, a high, turn-down collar, and no cravat, and, for ornament, a rather conspicuous bit of jewelry, which might have been an heirloom known to the family as “gran’pa’s buzzom pin.”

As the bartender handed the hot drink to the man beside the stove, the clergyman whispered in a low voice to his companion, “I wonder what his graft is!”

“Graft—nothing!” retorted the other; “there’s one of him born every hour—didn’t I tell you? Look at the roll he’s flashing up! He handles money as if he’d never heard of the Café Throwout before.”

It was true. The newcomer, in paying for his drink, had drawn from his pocket a large roll of greenbacks, displaying them as carelessly as if he had been in a banking house instead of in one of the most famous resorts for smart people that the Tenderloin precinct contains.

Of course by this time the reader has discovered that the man in clerical garb and his companion of provincial aspect were “smart” people, each working his own particular graft with skill and success. The faces of both brightened when their eyes fell upon the newcomer, who was a sucker of the kind sometimes sent by a beneficent Providence to his afflicted people in times of drought.

The elder of the two men was known to those who contributed to the orphan asylum that he conducted in Dreamland as the Rev. William Cassock, but the workers of the town called him “Soapy Sam.” His companion’s face adorns the largest and most interesting gallery of portraits that the city contains, and is labelled in the catalogue and explanatory text-book pertaining to the gallery, “Crooked Charlie, the man of many grafts.”

The two had, indeed, known hard times since the close of the summer and were now in no mood to let any stranger go unscathed. A sudden gleam of intelligence came into “Crooked Charlie’s” face, and at the same moment a bright light gilded the tips of the Rev. William Cassock’s iron-gray whiskers.

“Gimme another o’ them toddies and don’t forgit the nutmeg,” cried the stranger, and then the two smart people rose in their places and made a mysterious signal to the bartender.

As the sucker by the stove slowly sipped his second drink, the red-hot iron in front of him changed into the glowing base of the old wood-burner that has warmed two generations of loafers in the little manufacturing town of Bilkville Centre, Conn. He could hear the voice of old Hiram Goodsell inviting him to a game of “setback” in the back room of the tavern, and then some invisible force bore him up to the big hall over the schoolhouse, where the firemen’s ball was in progress, and he found himself balancing to corners with Mirandy Tucker, her that was a Larrabee.

“Cross over! Cross back! Balance all and swing your partners!” chanted old Bill Cady, and the sucker went swinging down the room and out into the cold field and across the snow to the railroad train which whirled him on to New York. He was filled with glad anticipations: he would go to see Lydia Thompson, he would plunge into the heart of the gay and beautiful Tenderloin, where the corks pop merrily all night long and the ivory chips rattle, and the music of the banjo and piano fills the air. Yes, here was New York at last, and here was the kindly old gentleman, known affectionately as Grand Central Pete, who has directed the urban revels of many a lonely stranger. The old man welcomes him and explains that the city pays him to look after unsuspecting visitors and keep them from being robbed before they get to Forty-first Street. Arm in arm, the two bend their steps toward what is believed in the provinces to be the merry quarter of the town, stopping only at a saloon to enable the sucker to change a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill for an obliging gentleman who hopes he will enjoy his stay in the city.

They are in the midst of gayety now, and as he sits there by the stove, unconscious of where he is, he is living over again the delights of many memorable nights in the great metropolis. He hears the glad strains of the piano, the merry shouts of feminine laughter, and sees the whirling skirts and flying feet of myriad fleet dancers. His throat is parched and he must have wine, and so must they all, at his expense. Kindly faces cluster around him, kind hands help to pull his money from his pocket, and, lest he should lose them, his watch from his fob, his rings from his fingers, his pin and studs from his shirt. These are indeed swift passing, merry hours——

“Have to wake up, sir; it’s one o’clock, and I’ve got to close up! Didn’t you have a watch-chain on when you came in here first?”

It is the bartender who has broken the spell, and the sucker’s glad dream is over.

“Well, suppose you take the watch, and I’ll take the pin and studs, and we’ll divide the sleeve buttons,” says Crooked Charlie to his companion as the two enter a saloon a few blocks away from the Café Throwout.

“That’s all right, that’s all right,” rejoins the Rev. William Cassock as he stuffs his share of the bills away in an inside pocket, “but in the meantime let us not forget that the same Providence that caused the manna to fall in the desert and sent the ravens down to feed Elisha brought this sucker to the Café Throwout and cast over him the mystic spell of deep, painless sleep. By the way, let me compliment you on a certain detail in your make-up which has attracted my attention. I notice that you wear one of those dude collars, without either cravat or pin. That is in keeping with your part. A jay would be content with such a collar, but one of us would get a cravat and pin first.”

CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE SYNDICATE VILLAGE.

One bright morning about six weeks before Christmas Day the spirit of diligence in well-doing descended like a dove and took complete possession of the brain and soul of Mr. S. S. McClure, the benevolent founder of the thriving literary village of Syndicate, which stands on the banks of the Hackensack River, an enduring monument to his far-seeing philanthropy.

From that moment he seemed to lose interest in the great loom-room, where busy hands made the shuttles fly to and fro as they wove their reminiscences of Abraham Lincoln. At midnight, when the foreman opened the furnace door and the fierce flames lit up the grimy but intellectual faces of the workmen who stood watching the History of Our War with Spain, as it was run into the moulds, Mr. McClure was not present. His face was seen no more in the noisy blacksmith-shop, where strong arms forged the hitherto unpublished portraits of American statesmen. Even when a careless workman in the packing-room dropped a railroad story and shivered that fragile bit of literary bric-à-brac into a thousand pieces, the great Master forgot to reprimand him, so busy was he with his own thoughts.

But the literary workmen did not take advantage of the preoccupation of the great Master Mechanic of all modern letters and slight the tasks that had been intrusted to them. On the contrary, they plunged into their tasks with redoubled energy, for well they knew that it was some plan for their happiness that filled the busy mind of the Master, some scheme for the fitting celebration of Christmas Eve, which, next to McClure’s Birthday, is the chief holiday in the literary calendar. And so, into the web and woof of many a Recollection of Daniel Webster and Later Life of Lincoln were woven bright anticipations of the merry Christmas which S. S. McClure was preparing for his trusty employees.

Each year Mr. McClure devises a new form of holiday celebration, and this year his bounty took the shape of a huge Christmas tree, from whose branches hung the packages that contained presents for his guests.

Christmas Eve is always a half-holiday at the McClure works; and at precisely noon on Saturday the factory whistle blew, the great wheels began to slow up, the dynamos, which furnish light, heat, and ideas for the entire factory, ceased to throb, and the cheerful workers put aside their uncompleted tasks and set about the welcome labor of making ready for their Christmas celebration. In less time than it takes to tell it, the huge store-room, in which the winter supply of literature had already begun to accumulate, was swept clean, garnished with boughs of evergreen, and brightened with sprigs of holly. Scarcely had this work been completed when a shout told of the arrival of the Christmas tree, drawn by four oxen, on the huge extension-wagon used in transporting Scotch serial stories from the foundry to the steamboat landing. In the twinkling of an eye, a score of able-bodied bards seized the great evergreen and placed it upright in the curtained recess at one end of the room, and then every one withdrew, leaving Mr. McClure himself, with four trustworthy aids, to deck the tree and hang the presents on its limbs.

During the afternoon the happy littérateurs, released from their daily toil, threw themselves heartily into the enjoyment of all kinds of winter sport. Some put on skates and sped up and down the frozen surface of the Hackensack, while others coasted downhill, threw snowballs at one another, and even made little sliding-places on the sidewalk, where they enjoyed themselves to their hearts’ content. When twilight fell upon the settlement they all entered their homes, to emerge half an hour later clothed in Sunday attire, with their faces and hands as clean as soap and water could make them, ready to sit down to the great Christmas banquet provided for them by their employer.

It is doubtful if there has ever been as large a number of literary men seated at any banquet-table as gathered on this evening as the guests of Master Mechanic McClure. The host sat at the upper end of the great horseshoe table, and beside him were invited guests representing the literary profession in its many phases. The guests were deftly and quickly served by a corps of one-rhyme-to-the-quatrain poets who had formerly been contributors to Mr. Spencer’s organ of thought, the Illustrated American, and were thoroughly accustomed to waiting.

At the close of the feast a huge pie was placed upon the table, and instantly opened by Mr. McClure. Thereupon, to the delight of all the guests, Mr. J. K. Bangs sprang forth and sang a solemn and beautiful hallelujah in praise of the Harper publications.

After the applause which followed this unexpected encomium of the great publishing-house had subsided, Mr. McClure introduced to his employees the literary centipede, Mr. Harry Thurston Peck, who stood up in his place, with a pen in each claw, and explained how it was possible not only to work with all his tentacles at once, but also to give the lie to the old story of the Crow and the Fox, by editing a magazine with his teeth, and at the same time lecturing to the Columbia College students without letting go of his job.

During Mr. Peck’s remarks the giver of the feast quietly withdrew, and, as the speaker ended, the curtains were withdrawn, revealing the great, brilliantly lighted tree, and Mr. McClure himself in the garb of Santa Claus, ready to distribute the Christmas gifts. There was a present for every one, and all had been chosen with special reference to individual tastes. To one was given a sled, to another a pair of skates, to a third a suit of warm underwear, and to a fourth a silver-mounted ivory foot-rule for scanning poetry.

To such of the workmen as held an unusually high record for a year of industrious work, not marred by any breakage of valuable goods, Mr. McClure gave also an order for some article which could easily be prepared in odd moments, and which would be liberally paid for when completed and packed for shipment.

Among the orders thus given were twelve for plain, hand-sewed, unbleached Christmas stories for actors, to sign in the holiday numbers of the dramatic weeklies. The great annual syndicate article, “Christmas in Many Lands,” was ordered from the foreman of each department, in recognition of the high quality of goods turned out in every part of the shop.

Other literary plums given out for the picking were “Christmas Eve on the East Side,” “Christmas at the North Pole,” “Christmas in Patagonia,” “Christmas at the South Pole,” “Christmas in the Lunatic Asylum,” “Christmas in the Siberian Mines,” “Christmas with Hall Caine,” and “Christmas in the Condemned Cell.”

While the delighted guests were opening their bundles and examining their presents, the noble-hearted Master Mechanic stepped forward and announced that the Christmas prize offered by the New York Journal, to be competed for by the inhabitants of Syndicate, had been awarded to the author of “Christmas Inside the Anaconda,” described by a Journal representative who got swallowed on Christmas Eve.

Santa Claus then announced that there was still one present to be given, but that the person for whom it was intended had been prevented by reason of rheumatism and other infirmities incidental to old age from being present. This person, he explained, was the oldest poet in his employ, one who had for years innumerable labored faithfully at bench and lap-stone, and had been one of the first to find employment in the now bustling model village of Syndicate. “His poems,” cried Mr. McClure, warmly, “lie scattered throughout the valley of American letters, from the earliest pages of Petersons’ and Godey’s down to the very latest of the Century and Scribner’s. Unlike the distinguished gentleman who has already addressed you, he became wedded in early life to the literary customs of an older generation, and has never been able to learn how to write with his feet. For that reason his output is limited. I am sure that you will all rejoice with him over a gift which is designed to make him comfortable during the rest of his days, and I call upon a committee of his friends to bear to his humble home these nice warm blankets, these thick woolen socks, and an order to write a weekly article on ‘Books that have Helped Me,’ so long as the breath remains in his body.”

At this new instance of generosity on the part of their beloved employer the entire company uttered a mighty shout of approval, and, seizing the gifts from the hands of Santa Claus, departed in a body to inform worthy old bedridden Peleg Scan of his good fortune.