The Study of Local Color

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

IN the brave days of Haroun A1 Raschid and the fairy princes what is now a notable cause of ennui was its most popular cure. When the great men of that legendary part of history that is too original to repeat itself became footsore from standing on their dignity, they often dressed as ordinary citizens and went forth to study local color. As it was the chief duty of the bards and romancers of those days to record the deeds of the great, it naturally followed that many of their ballads and romaunts deal with the lively exploits of their patrons while thus engaged. And because this feature of their work adds to its charm a grave error has crept into the present practice of literature, which makes a pastime more ancient and royal than golf a somewhat wearisome profession. To free this branch of sport from the stain of professionalism, and restore it to its wonted glory, is the purpose of this contribution.

Because the minstrels and gestours entertained the antique world with adventures in the study of local color as well as with the triumphs of gallantry, the chase, and war, their successors of the present day are making the curious mistake of studying local color for themselves. It would be just as reasonable that they should fight all the battles they describe, kill all the game, and do all the love-making. Indeed, some of the more advanced are already doing this, and defending their methods so cleverly that one cannot but marvel at the temerity of Shakespeare in writing King Lear without first going mad.

This erroneous view of the writer’s function began with the study of local color that seemed to be made necessary by the spread of democratic ideas. Of late years, as has been shown by some recent exploits of the German Emperor, kings have found it hard to enjoy their once favorite pastime without danger of black eyes and other forms of lèse-majesté. But because our nominal kings have abandoned the practice, it does not follow that writers should take it up. If they were in touch with the progress of the world, they would celebrate the exploits of our real kings, and give us ballads and romances of the Walking Delegate and the President, or of the Populist and the Plutocrat. Just as kings once put on rags and went slumming, the sovereign voter now puts on a dress suit and attends a reception.

Now in order to rescue the sport of studying local color from its present fallen condition, it will be necessary to hold some discourse with the learned Thebans who regard it as one of their prerogatives. Only by convincing them that they are mistaken can this end be attained ; and although analytical criticism is not usually part of a sport lover’s training, I am obliged, with due humility, to essay the task.

Fortunately for what is popularly supposed to be literature, local color cannot be defined accurately. Like Hamlet’s cloud, it may look like a camel, like a weasel, or very like a whale, and every author is at liberty to describe it as he pleases. Like love, it can only be illustrated, and for that reason is a perennial source of copy. And just because it cannot be defined the temptation to define it is irresistible. Local color is that which enables the earnest modern writer to give his problem novels a local habitation and a dialect. The only requisites to its study are an unfamiliar environment and a superior mind, which naturally bring it within the range of every man with enough energy to walk around a block. It consists of all that is seen, heard, or smelled by a sage of one locality when visiting another locality. Indeed, the matter might be pushed to such an extreme as to show that the industrious local colorist may use all the known and some unknown senses in the study. Dr. Holmes’s description of a tavern bedstead doubtless owes its definiteness to observation made through the sense of feeling ; Mark Twain’s description of a Turkish restaurant appeals peculiarly to the palate ; and in some of Mr. John Kendrick Bangs’s stories scenes are described by the aid of that mysterious sixth sense that is the desire of the Theosophist and the chief equipment of the yellow journalist.

But the exclusive study of local color by writers, besides staining a royal sport with professionalism, has wrought much injury to pure literature. In some places of high and rarefied mentality it is held that minute descriptions of local color really make literature, and when a new writer appears the critics first concern themselves with the quality of his peculiarities. If they are sufficiently marked, he is promptly hailed as a genius, without any consideration being paid to the quality of his message to the world. As a result of this, a man who discovers a new vein of local color feels himself called upon to write a book to exploit it; and some who have real stories to tell become mute inglorious Hall Caines because they cannot find a suitable brand of local color to serve as a medium for their creations. And all this is due to a mistaken idea that local color is anything more than a blemish that adds value to literary work, just as a misprint makes the “ Vinegar” Bible command a fancy price in the auction room.

It is true that much of the world’s best literature is permeated with local color, but in every important case it will be found that it is inevitable rather than elaborated. Burns wrote in “ honest Lallans ” because it was the language of his heart and of the people to whom he appealed, and he was handicapped when he tried to express himself in the stilted English of which he was a laborious master. He wrote in his mother tongue, and used his environments to illustrate his thoughts, because he lacked the necessary familiarity with all others. Dialect was not an affectation with him, but a necessary means to an end ; and it was because he used it from within rather than from without, as one who was imbued with it rather than as one who had observed it, that it takes on an immortal dignity. His peasant’s phrase became him, just as cultivated speech becomes the scholar, but when the peasant and scholar change garb and language both become masqueraders. When a student of language and custom undertakes to write like a peasant, his work may interest, but it can never be of supreme value ; for it simply shows how a soul may express itself when handicapped. Only when local color gives the soul greater freedom, and makes possible a more final expression of thought, is it other than a defect. If the books written by our masters of local color could be read or understood by the people whose lives they portray; if such works recorded their joys, sorrows, and aspirations in a way to excite gratitude or applause, there would be some excuse for making the short and simple annals of the poor both long and complex. Unfortunately, they can be read only by patient students with a taste for glossaries, while the people who are supposed to be voiced read their Bibles and the comparatively good English of the weekly papers. Our citizens are taught in the public schools to read and write the current language of the commonwealth; and if climatic conditions affect their pronunciation and peculiar occupations mould their phrases, they either do not notice the deviations or do not give them a thought. It is unspeakably absurd, and yet true, that the country poems and stories of to-day are written for the people of the city. It was not so in the time of Burns. He wrote for his friends and neighbors, and they understood him better than any one else; but I have yet to find the ordinary farmer who can misspell out the delightful poems of James Whitcomb Riley, though I have met many who are familiar with Shakespeare and Milton, and widely read in well-written history.

It may be thought that, for one who is merely advocating the purification of a sport, I have gone too far afield in literary criticism ; but as the authors are the professionals of whom I complain, and as their sweet reasonableness is well known, I feel that I can best attain my end by showing them their error. I would not have them think, however, that I consider their work totally without value. On the contrary, I am convinced that their adventures in the quest of local color will furnish excellent material for the true literary men of the future, just as did the adventures of the kings and beggars in the songs of the ancient ballad makers. Already a young friend who appreciates the true needs of the art he practices has filled many notebooks with accounts of adventures in the study of local color by makers of books. Moreover, he is writing a history of the subject, and dealing with it as a form of mining. He has maps and charts showing where the various outcrops, placers, and pockets have been found. He recounts the adventures of different toilers while developing their claims, and deals at considerable length with the exploits of that literary desperado, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, who is one of the most inveterate of claim jumpers. He also devotes a ballad to him, and as nearly as I can quote from memory it opens as follows:

When the young man finds a publisher who will take his history seriously, and will not regard such ballads as the above satirical, he will bring out the results of his labors, and the world’s literature will be enriched with an honest view of an ancient and royal sport under modern conditions. All the people will then indulge in it as a right, and the gayety of the nation will surpass even the dreams of humor.