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[A Tribute from the Editor of Bookman, 1960]
- University of Iowa Press
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[217] X [A Tribute from the Editor of Bookman, 1960] John Farrar John Chipman Farrar (1896–1974) was the editor of the Bookman from 1918 to 1926 and then founded Farrar and Rinehart in 1929 and Farrar, Straus and Giroux in 1946. New York City, 1 November 1960 Memory is tricky, of course, and mine cannot be aided by early correspondence and files, for most of them are lost. As I do remember, however, I was first introduced to Hamlin Garland by that amazing woman, Mary Austin,1 or, perhaps, I just met him at a party. We soon became staunch friends. I realized quickly that he was actually an ally of the young realistic writers, unlike Booth Tarkington, for example, who tried to understand them but never did. The young writers, on the other hand, were suspicious of Hamlin . He was interested in too many worthy causes; he seemed ponderous to them. It has taken the years to show that he was one of the barrier-breakers. As was the case with Howells, the young of his time could not accept his hand with eagerness. The fact that I did does not lead me to boast, but only to be thankful for having had in him a warm and loyal friend. I have taken from The Bookman the few quotations which follow. I find myself saying in December, 1921, in reviewing A Daughter of the Middle Border Mr. Garland, it seems, was once a literary radical: more than that, some of his views of life would now be considered by some as far from conservative. Nice tags. Convenient to fasten thoughts loosely.2 In December, 1923, he wrote for the magazine a piece called “Pioneers and City Dwellers.”3 It was a confession after a sort of the feeling of guilt felt by the pioneer living in the city who was yet unwilling to go back to the farm. He wrote garland in his own time [218] There are people, there must be people, who still love to farm, to milk cows, to pick fruit, and to dig potatoes—how else can we go on eating?—but such doings are not for me. I have had my share of all such activities. I am content to feed my goldfish and exercise my dog on the roof. I do not intend to play the hypocrite in this matter, urging the other fellow to go West as Horace Greeley did while enjoying Union Square and Broadway himself. And later, in the same article Because pioneering was a lonely business in the past is no bar against its being a different process in the future. When need of altering the gregarious tendencies of youth is keen enough, all the resources of art, literature, and invention will be turned in the direction of making the farm attractive, just as these wonderworking forces are at play making the city the romantic, dangerous, and inspiring place which the sons and daughters of our pioneers have found it to be. At a Boy Scout luncheon for Douglas Fairbanks in April, 1924, Mr. Garland and I were in attendance, with Dan Beard, John Finley, Norman Hapgood , Carl Van Doren, W. T. Hornaday, and many others.4 Mr. Garland was in a fine mood, impressed that Mr. Fairbanks quoted Herbert Spencer and that the crowds jamming the streets to hail the great movie star were so large that Mr. Garland, built somewhat like a fullback, had to shoulder his way through and enter by a side door. Later in the same year, having met him on Forty-Third Street, I find myself writing Mr. Garland is exactly our idea of what a literary man should look like. . . . If we were as sturdily made as he, we should wear our hair just as long. He is always dignified, interesting, and kindly—a most unusual combination.5 I find myself chuckling over that last sentence. Ah, well! I was young. In December, 1925, I met him again in the Forties, and wrote of him There walked Hamlin Garland, white-haired and dignified. He is still much interested in the progress and development of the Town Hall Club. He is still a calm figure in the midst of hurrying Fifth Avenue or the bellowing of literary cliques.6 By November, 1926, I was making overwhelming use of my ebullient style to voice my great admiration and recommend his new novel TrailMakers of the Middle Border, in that unreserved fashion that so...