Slovenly Peter & Dapper Sam

( Originally Published Early 1900's )

WE remember only too well the Slovenly Peter of our childhood, who wouldn't keep himself clean, wouldn't clip his finger nails, wouldn't brush his hair. Are there too many Struwel Peters in American literature?

The critics think so, especially university critics. They manhandle our realistic poets of the Mississippi Valley, execrating flat rhythms, ugly words, dishevelled phrases. They quote selected passages from our serious novels full of loose constructions and blurred meanings, passages that read as if a mouthful of words had been spat at the page. They fling out at journalism which with a jaunty air rips off whole paragraphs that mean little or nothing, or, like the financial editor's forecasts, take back at the end what the beginning proposes.

There is as much slovenly writing in America as there is slovenly dressing in England. And both come from the same cause, the opiate of "don't care." And precisely as your person of literary or social worth in England is most likely to dress on ordinary occasions as the whim or the nearest articles suggest, so that a hideous bonnet or a pair of wrinkled trousers are much more likely to belong to a viscountess or a baronet than to a shop girl or a bank clerk, just so a careless, take-me-for-what-I-am fashion of writing (especially in fiction) is very likely in America to accompany real substance, deep observation, and intense sincerity. He who is hailed by many as our greatest novelist is one of the worst manipulators of English that ever wrote books worthy to be read.

And yet Slovenly Peter is not so familiar in America, and not half so dangerous to the cause of real literature, as Dapper Sam. Slovenly Peter, like many a bad boy, may grow up to be one of the mighty. When his finger nails begin to annoy him, he will clip them. When dirty hands become distasteful, he will wash them, and he will wash them well. But Dapper Sam is already as grown up as he will ever be. He is finished; and he knows it and is proud of it. There is nothing in him to reform.

Dapper Sam is legion. He writes the short stories that are perfectly built and mean nothing. He writes the plays that con-form, like straw hats, exactly to this year's model. It is he who is responsible for the deathly English of so much competent journalism—sentence after sentence without one phrase of distinction, one word chosen with care. He has developed a style for novel writing which is like a sounding gallery, all echoes of past voices, nothing that is his own, nothing that carries personality, nothing that some one else could not have writ-ten. He writes ream after ream of mediocre poetry, prettily phrased, adequately rhymed, that travels, like the parcel post, all over the United States; quite fit to print, quite fit to read, but as empty of individuality as souls which have lost touch with their egoes.

Dapper Sam never meditates, never grows spiritually excited, never is wrought up over his fellow man, never makes English his own. He writes, but he does not compose; he borrows words, but does not own them. He never plays upon his instrument, but puts roll after roll of records into the aperture and treads out competent and mechanical music.

The editors, perhaps, have helped in his making, for he serves their purpose well, both in quantity never failing and in a quality which, like canned tomatoes and gasolene, can be bought safely with foreknowledge as to what one is getting and how it will be received. The public, quite certainly, are at least equally responsible—our slovenly, good-natured public, who wish to read quickly, painlessly. He is made in the image he has selected. We can do nothing for him. He can do nothing for himself.

The creature, like the movies, and chewing gum, and the yellow press, and standard collars, has a real usefulness in a democracy in process of being educated. But he should be branded. Critics should hang "Dapper Sam" across his shoulders. He should be prevented from snubbing the Slovenly Peters, who, unkempt though they may be, are bet-ter than he is. He should be forbidden to pass for the man of letters he is not.