(INTRODUCES OUR HERO)
Loitering perchance on the western pavement of Madison avenue, between the streets numbered 38 and 39, and gazing with an observant eye upon the pedestrians1 passing southward, you would be likely to see, about 8:40 o'clock of the morning, a gentleman of remarkable2 presence approaching with no bird-like tread. This creature, clad in a suit of subfuse respectable weave, bearing in his hand a cane3 of stout4 timber with a right-angled hornblende grip, and upon his head a hat of rich texture5, would probably also carry in one hand (the left) a leather case filled with valuable papers, and in the other hand (the right, which also held the cane) a cigarette, lit upon leaving the Grand Central subway station. This cigarette the person of our tale would frequentatively apply to his lips, and then withdraw with a quick, swooping6 motion. With a rapid, somewhat sidelong gait (at first somehow clumsy, yet upon closer observation a mode of motion seen to embrace certain elements of harmony) this gentleman would converge7 upon the southwest corner of Madison avenue and 38th street; and the intent observer, noting the menacing contours of the face, would conclude that he was going to work.
Man with cane and leather case
This gentleman, beneath his sober but excellently haberdashered surtout, was plainly a man of large frame, of a Sam Johnsonian mould, but, to the surprise of the calculating observer, it would be noted8 that his volume (or mass) was not what his bony structure implied. Spiritually, in deed, this interesting individual conveyed to the world a sensation of stoutness9, of bulk and solidity, which (upon scrutiny) was not (or would not be) verified by measurement. Evidently, you will conclude, a stout man grown thin; or, at any rate, grown less stout. His molded depth, one might assess at 20 inches between the eaves; his longitude10, say, five feet eleven; his registered tonnage, 170; his cargo11, literary; and his destination, the editorial sancta of a well-known publishing house.
This gentleman, in brief, is Mr. Robert Cortes Holliday (but not the "stout Cortes" of the poet), the editor of The Bookman.
CHAPTER II
(OUR HERO BEGINS A CAREER)
"It would seem that whenever Nature had a man of letters up her sleeve, the first gift with which she has felt necessary to dower him has been a preacher sire."
R.C.H. of N.B. Tarkington.
Mr. Holliday was born in Indianapolis on July 18, 1880. It is evident that ink, piety12 and copious13 speech circulated in the veins14 of his clan15, for at least two of his grandfathers were parsons, and one of them, Dr. Ferdinand Cortez Holliday, was the author of a volume called "Indiana Methodism" in which he was the biographer of the Rev16. Joseph Tarkington, the grandfather of Newton B. Tarkington, sometimes heard of as Booth Tarkington, a novelist. Thus the hand of Robert C. Holliday was linked by the manacle of destiny to the hand of Newton B. Tarkington, and it is a quaint17 satisfaction to note that Mr. Holliday's first book was that volume "Booth Tarkington," one of the liveliest and soundest critical memoirs18 it has been our fortune to enjoy.
Like all denizens20 of Indianapolis—"Tarkingtonapolis," Mr. Holliday calls it—our subject will discourse21 at considerable volume of his youth in that high-spirited city. His recollections, both sacred and profane22, are, however, not in our present channel. After a reputable schooling23 young Robert proceeded to New York in 1899 to study art at the Art Students' League, and later became a pupil of Twachtman. The present commentator24 is not in a position to say how severely25 either art or Mr. Holliday suffered in the mutual26 embrace. I have seen some of his black and white posters which seemed to me robust27 and considerably28 lively. At any rate, Mr. Holliday exhibited drawings on Fifth avenue and had illustrative work published by Scribner's Magazine. He did commercial designs and comic pictures for juvenile29 readers. At this time he lived in a rural community of artists in Connecticut, and did his own cooking. Also, he is proud of having lived in a garret on Broome street. This phase of his career is not to be slurred30 over, for it is a clue to much of his later work. His writing often displays the keen eye of the painter, and his familiarity with the technique of pencil and brush has much enriched his capacity to see and to make his reader see with him. Such essays as "Going to Art Exhibitions," and the one-third dedication31 of "Walking-Stick Papers" to Royal Cortissoz are due to his interest in the world as pictures.
While we think of it, then, let us put down our first memorandum32 upon the art of Mr. Holliday:
CHAPTER III
It is not said why our hero abandoned bristol board and india ink, and it is no duty of this inquirendo to offer surmise35. The fact is that he disappeared from Broome street, and after the appropriate interval36 might have been observed (odd as it seems) on the campus of the University of Kansas. This vault37 into the petals38 of the sunflower seems so quaint that I once attempted to find out from Mr. Holliday just when it was that he attended courses at that institution. He frankly40 said that he could not remember. Now he has no memory at all for dates, I will vouch41; yet it seems odd (I say) that he did not even remember the numerals of the class in which he was enrolled42. A "queer feller," indeed, as Mr. Tarkington has called him. So I cannot attest43, with hand on Book, that he really was at Kansas University. He may have been a footpad during that period. I have often thought to write to the dean of the university and check the matter up. It may be that entertaining anecdotes44 of our hero's college career could be spaded up.
Just why this remote atheneum was sconce for Mr. Holliday's candle I do not hazard. It seems I have heard him say that his cousin, Professor Wilbur Cortez Abbott (of Yale) was then teaching at the Kansas college, and this was the reason. It doesn't matter now; fifty years hence it may be of considerable importance.
However, we must press on a little faster. From Kansas he returned to New York and became a salesman in the book store of Charles Scribner's Sons, then on Fifth avenue below Twenty-third street. Here he was employed for about five years. From this experience may he traced three of the most delightful45 of the "Walking-Stick Papers." It was while at Scribner's that he met Joyce Kilmer, who also served as a Scribner book-clerk for two weeks in 1909. This friendship meant more to Bob Holliday than any other. The two men were united by intimate adhesions of temperament46 and worldly situation. Those who know what friendship means among men who have stood on the bottom rung together will ask no further comment. Kilmer was Holliday's best man in 1913; Holliday stood godfather to Kilmer's daughter Rose. On Aug. 22, 1918, Mrs. Kilmer appointed Mr. Holliday her husband's literary executor. His memoir19 of Joyce Kilmer is a fitting token of the manly47 affection that sweetens life and enriches him who even sees it from a distance.
Just when Holliday's connection with the Scribner store ceased I do not know. My guess is, about 1911. He did some work for the New York Public Library (tucking away in his files the material for the essay "Human Municipal Documents") and also dabbled48 in eleemosynary science for the Russell Sage49 Foundation; though the details of the latter enterprise I cannot even conjecture50. Somehow or other he fell into the most richly amusing post that a belletristic journalist ever adorned51, as general factotum52 of The Fishing Gazette, a trade journal. This is laid bare for the world in "The Fish Reporter."
About 1911 he began to contribute humorous sketches53 to the Saturday Magazine of the New York Evening Post. In 1912-13 he was writing signed reviews for the New York Times Review of Books. 1913-14 he was assistant literary editor of the New York Tribune. His meditations54 on the reviewing job are embalmed55 in
Drawing of WWI helmet resting on a laurel wreath
"That Reviewer Cuss." In 1914 the wear and tear of continual hard work on Grub Street rather got the better of him: he packed a bag and spent the summer in England. Four charming essays record his adventures there, where we may leave him for the moment while we warm up to another aspect of the problem. Let us just set down our second memorandum:
Second Memo—Mr. Holliday knows the Literary Game from All Angles!
CHAPTER IV
(OUR HERO'S BOOK AND HEART SHALL NEVER PART)
Perhaps I should apologize for treating Mr. Holliday's "Walking-Stick Papers" in this biographical fashion. And yet I cannot resist it for this book is Mr. Holliday himself. It is mellow56, odd, aromatic57 and tender, just as he is. It is (as he said of something else) "saturated58 with a distinguished59, humane60 tradition of letters."
The book is exciting reading because you can trace in it the growth and felicitous61 toughening of a very remarkable talent. Mr. Holliday has been through a lively and gruelling mill. Like every sensitive journalist, he has been mangled62 at Ephesus. Slight and debonair63 as some of his pieces are, there is not one that is not an authentic64 fiber65 from life. That is the beauty of this sort of writing—the personal essay—it admits us to the very pulse of the machine. We see this man: selling books at Scribner's, pacing New York streets at night gloating on the yellow windows and the random66 ring of words, fattening67 his spirit on hundreds of books, concocting68 his own theory of the niceties of prose. We see that volatile69 humor which is native in him flickering70 like burning brandy round the rich plum pudding of his theme. With all his playfulness, when he sets out to achieve a certain effect he builds cunningly, with sure and skillful art. See (for instance) in his "As to People," his superbly satisfying picture (how careless it seems!) of his scrubwoman, closing with the précis of Billy Henderson's wife, which drives the nail through and turns it on the under side—
Billy Henderson's wife is handsome; she is rich; she is an excellent cook; she loves Billy Henderson.
See "My friend the Policeman," or "On Going a Journey," or "The Deceased"—this last is perhaps the high-water mark of the book. To vary the figure, this essay dips its Plimsoll-mark full under. It is freighted with far more than a dozen pages might be expected to carry safely. So quietly, so quaintly71 told, what a wealth of humanity is in it! Am I wrong in thinking that those fellow-artists who know the thrill of a great thing greatly done will catch breath when they read this, of the minor72 obits in the press—
We go into the feature headed "Died," a department similar to that on the literary page headed "Books Received." ... We are set in small type, with lines following the name line indented73. It is difficult for me to tell with certainty from the printed page, but I think we are set without leads.
In such passages, where the easy sporting-tweed fabric74 of Mr. Holliday's merry and liberal style fits his theme as snugly75 as the burr its nut, one feels tempted39 to cry joyously76 (as he says in some other connection), "it seems as if it were a book you had written yourself in a dream." And follow him, for sheer fun, in the "Going a Journey" essay. Granted that it would never have been written but for Hazlitt and Stevenson and Belloc. Yet it is fresh distilled, it has its own sparkle. Beginning with an even pace, how it falls into a swinging stride, drugs you with hilltops and blue air! Crisp, metrical, with a steady drum of feet, it lifts, purges77 and sustains. "This is the religious side" of reading an essay!
Mr. Holliday, then, gives us in generous measure the "certain jolly humors" which R.L.S. says we voyage to find. He throws off flashes of imaginative felicity—as where he says of canes78, "They are the light to blind men." Where he describes Mr. Oliver Herford "listing to starboard, like a postman." Where he says of the English who use colloquially79 phrases known to us only in great literature—"There are primroses81 in their speech." And where he begins his "Memoirs of a Manuscript," "I was born in Indiana."
We are now ready to let fall our third memorandum:
Third Memo—Behind his colloquial80, easygoing (apparently careless) utterance82, Mr. Holliday conceals83 a high quality of literary art.
CHAPTER V
(FURTHER OSCILLATIONS OF OUR HERO)
Mr. Holliday was driven home from England and Police Constable84 Buckington by the war, which broke out while he was living in Chelsea. My chronology is a bit mixed here; just what he was doing from autumn, 1914, to February, 1916, I don't know. Was it then that he held the fish reporter job? Come to think of it, I believe it was. Anyway, in February, 1916, he turned up in Garden City, Long Island, where I first had the excitement of clapping eyes on him. Some of the adventures of that spring and summer may be inferred from "Memories of a Manuscript." Others took place in the austere85 lunch cathedral known at the press of Doubleday, Page & Company as the "garage," or on walks that summer between the Country Life Press and the neighboring champaigns of Hempstead. The full story of the Porrier's Corner Club, of which Mr. Holliday and myself are the only members, is yet to be told. As far as I was concerned it was love at first sight. This burly soul, rumbling86 Johnsonianly upon lettered topics, puffing87 unending Virginia cigarettes, gazing with shy humor through thick-paned spectacles—well, on Friday, June 23, 1916, Bob and I decided88 to collaborate89 in writing a farcical novel. It is still unwritten, save the first few chapters. I only instance this to show how fast passion proceeded.
It would not surprise me if at some future time Mrs. Bedell's boarding house, on Jackson Street in Hempstead, becomes a place of pilgrimage for lovers of the essay. They will want to see the dark little front room on the ground floor where Owd Bob used to scatter90 the sheets of his essays as he was retyping them from a huge scrapbook and grooming91 them for a canter among publishers' sanhedrim. They will want to see (but will not, I fear) the cool barrel-room at the back of George D. Smith's tavern92, an ale-house that was blithe93 to our fancy because the publican bore the same name as that of a very famous dealer94 in rare books. Along that pleasant bar, with its shining brass95 scuppers, Bob and I consumed many beakers of well-chilled amber96 during that warm summer. His urbanolatrous soul pined for the city, and he used in those days to expound97 the doctrine98 that the suburbanite99 really has to go to town in order to get fresh air.
In September, 1916, Holliday's health broke down. He had been feeling poorly most of the summer, and continuous hard work induced a spell of nervous depression. Very wisely he went back to Indianapolis to rest. After a good lay-off he tackled the Tarkington book, which was written in Indianapolis the following winter and spring. And "Walking-Stick Papers" began to go the rounds.
I have alluded100 more than once to Mr. Holliday's book on Tarkington. This original, mellow, convivial101, informal and yet soundly argued critique has been overlooked by many who have delighted to honor Holliday as an essayist. But it is vastly worth reading. It is a brilliant study, full of "onion atoms" as Sydney Smith's famous salad, and we flaunt102 it merrily in the face of those who are frequently crapehanging and dirging that we have no sparkling young Chestertons and Rebecca Wests and J.C. Squires103 this side of Queenstown harbor. Rarely have creator and critic been joined in so felicitous a marriage. And indeed the union was appointed in heaven and smiles in the blood, for (as I have noted) Mr. Holliday's grandfather was the biographer of Tarkington's grandsire, also a pioneer preacher of the metaphysical commonwealth104 of Indiana. Mr. Holliday traces with a good deal of humor and circumstance the various ways in which the gods gave Mr. Tarkington just the right kind of ancestry105, upbringing, boyhood and college career to produce a talented writer. But the fates that catered106 to Tarkington with such generous hand never dealt him a better run of cards than when Holliday wrote this book.
The study is one of surpassing interest, not merely as a service to native criticism but as a revelation of Holliday's ability to follow through a sustained intellectual task with the same grasp and grace that he afterward107 showed in the memoir of Kilmer in which his heart was so deeply engaged. Of a truth, Mr. Holliday's success in putting himself within Tarkington's dashing checked kuppenheimers is a fine achievement of projected psychology108. He knows Tarkington so well that if the latter were unhappily deleted by some "wilful109 convulsion of brute110 nature" I think it undoubtable that his biographer could reconstruct a very plausible111 automaton112, and would know just what ingredients to blend. A dash of Miss Austen, Joseph Conrad, Henry James and Daudet; flavored perhaps with coal smoke from Indianapolis, spindrift from the Maine coast and a few twanging chords from the Princeton Glee Club.
Fourth Memo—Mr. Holliday is critic as well as essayist.
CHAPTER VI
(OUR HERO FINDS A STEADY JOB)
It was the summer of 1917 when Owd Bob came back to New York. Just at that juncture113 I happened to hear that a certain publisher needed an editorial man, and when Bob and I were at Browne's discussing the fate of "Walking-Stick Papers" over a jug114 of shandygaff, I told him this news. He hurried to the office in question through a drenching115 rain-gust, and has been there ever since. The publisher performed an act of perspicuity116 rare indeed. He not only accepted the manuscript, but its author as well.
So that is the story of "Walking-Stick Papers," and it does not cause me to droop117 if you say I talk of matters of not such great moment. What a joy it would have been if some friend had jotted118 down memoranda119 of this sort concerning some of Elia's doings. The book is a garner120 of some of the most racy, vigorous and genuinely flavored essays that this country has produced for some time. Dear to me, every one of them, as clean-cut blazes by a sincere workman along a trail full of perplexity and struggle, as Grub Street always will be for the man who dips an honest pen that will not stoop to conquer. And if you should require an accurate portrait of their author I cannot do better than quote what Grote said of Socrates:
Nothing could be more public, perpetual, and indiscriminate as to persons than his conversation. But as it was engaging, curious, and instructive to hear, certain persons made it their habit to attend him as companions and listeners.
Owd Bob has long been the object of extreme attachment121 and high spirits among his intimates. The earlier books have been followed by "Broome Street Straws" and "Peeps at People," vividly122 personal collections that will arouse immediate123 affection and amusement among his readers. And of these books will be said (once more in Grote's words about Socrates):
Not only his conversation reached the minds of a much wider circle, but he became more abundantly known as a person.
Let us add, then, our final memorandum:
Fifth Memo—These essays are the sort of thing you cannot afford to miss. In them you sit down to warm your wits at the glow of a droll124, delightful, unique mind.
So much (at the moment) for Bob Holliday.
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remarkable
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cane
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texture
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swooping
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noted
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stoutness
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longitude
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cargo
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piety
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copious
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veins
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memoir
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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59
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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60
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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fiber
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| n.纤维，纤维质 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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fattening
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| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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concocting
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的现在分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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69
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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71
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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indented
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| adj.锯齿状的，高低不平的；缩进排版 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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77
purges
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| 清除异己( purge的名词复数 )； 整肃（行动）； 清洗； 泻药 | |
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78
canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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colloquially
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| adv.用白话，用通俗语 | |
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colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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81
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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82
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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87
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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collaborate
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| vi.协作，合作；协调 | |
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scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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grooming
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| n. 修饰, 美容，（动物）梳理毛发 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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95
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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99
suburbanite
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| n. 郊区居民 | |
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100
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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102
flaunt
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| vt.夸耀，夸饰 | |
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103
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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104
commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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105
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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106
catered
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| 提供饮食及服务( cater的过去式和过去分词 )； 满足需要，适合 | |
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107
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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108
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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109
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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110
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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111
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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112
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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113
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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114
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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115
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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116
perspicuity
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| n.（文体的）明晰 | |
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117
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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118
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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119
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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120
garner
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| v.收藏；取得 | |
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121
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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122
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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123
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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124
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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