EXTRACTS FROM MAX O'RELL'S BOOK.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXVI, Issue 9323, 28 March 1889, Page 3

EXTRACTS FROM MAX O'RELL'S BOOK.

f&OJUtfHAN AND HIS CONTINENT." A BRIGHT CRITICISM OF YANKEELAND. [FROM THE NEW YORK WORLD.} CHAPTER XX. j FOR THE AMERICAN REPORTER NOTHING- IS J SACRED. j "Journalism has killed literature, and j reporting is killing journalism. It is the j last gasp of the dying literature of an < epoch ; it is the man of letters replaced by the concierge." So exclaims M. Albert Milland, in one of his witty articles in the Fignr". , i:i America reporting has simply overrun, swallowed up journalism. It is a demolition of the wall of private life, the ; substitution of gossip for chronicle, of chatter for criticism. For the interviewer nothing is sacred. ( Audacity is his stock-in-trade ; the most 1 private details of your daily life are at his mercy, and unless you blow his brains out —which is nob lawful in New York State— I you have no means of getting rid of him. Do not believe you have got over tho difficulty by having him told that you arc not at home. He will return to the cliargo ten, twenty times; he will stand sentinel j at your door, sleep on the mat outside your j hotel bedroom, so as to pounco upon you as : soon as you show your face in the morning. He is patient, and if any indisposition should oblige you to keep your room, he will wait till you are well again, and. will have his meals brought to him in the corridor. Should you succeed in escaping the hunter, rather than return to the office empty-handed from the chase he will find your wife, and ask her if you snore, whether you are an early riser, whether you are the more amiable after dinner or before, what you eat at breakfast, what is your favourite colour in trousers, and what size boots you take. He will ask her when you were married, how long your honeymoon lasted, if you have children, and whether they have cut their teeth. With these materials he will makeup a column There is 110 question too indiscreet for these enterprising inquisitors ; they would have interviewed St. Anthony in his hut. Do not shout victory, either, because you have succeeded in getting rid of the interviewer without replying to his questions. Ib is in such cases that the American journalist reveals himself in all his glory. To your stupefaction, the newspapers next day will have an account of the conversation which you might have had with their reporters. If my advice be worth giving, the best thing you can do, when the interviewer presents himself and says: "I am a reporter, sir, and I have come to ask you for a few moments' chat," is to say to him : " Mad to see you sir ; pray be seabed." After all, interviewing is an operation that one survives, and, to bo just, I must say that American reporters in general are very courteous, obliging, and—which is simply astounding when one considers that they rarely take notes —accurate in their accounts of interviews.

The courage, too, with which the interviewer braves rebuffs, and the philosophy with which he pockets abuse, are nothing short of admirable. For my part, I never could find a cross word to say to these intruders, and I had my reward in reading in the papers that " it was a pleasure to interview tne, because I submitted to the operation with such good grace."

On the 11th of November, ISS7, at 9 a.m., the Germanic, after a terribly rough passage of nine days, entered the magnificent harbour of New York. The sun had risen resplendent in a cloudless blue sky. We had just passed Bartholdi's statue of " Liberty Enlightening the World," and it seemed as if France were not far off. It was a sweet sensation, and instinctively I had raised my hat. All at once the Germanic stopped. A little steam tug drew ud alongside and there stepped on board a fow Custom-house officers, followed by several othor persons. " Look out !" cried one of my fellowpassengers, seeing that I appeared to be unconscious of danger. " What is the mat ter ?" I asked. " The interviewers !" " Nonsense, not here, surely," I exclaimed.

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than two young men handed mo their cards, with the announcement that they were journalists. " We have come to present our respects to you," they said, "and to wish you a pleasant time in our country." While they uttered these words, they scanned me from head to foot, jotting a few strokes 011 their note-books. They were taking my portrait, which appeared next morning at the head of the articles that the press of New York thought fit to devote to me. The portrait was a flattering one. One paper, however, gave the following description of your humble servant :—

" Max O'Rell is a rather globular Frenchman of about forty." Then followed a description of my travelling suit and other effects. " Globular 1" the idea ! "Forty !" No, gentlemen, hardly thirtynine, if you please. But to return to our reporters. Question after question was put, with the rapidity of lightning flashes. " Have you had a good passage?" " Are you sick at sea ?" " Where were you born ?" " How old are you ?" "How long do you mean to stay in the United States ?"

This catechising began to annoy me. " Excuse me, gentlemen," I said, " I am tired and going to the hotel to rest. I shall be happy to see you this afternoon." Oh ! that first afternoon in New York, spent in the company of the interviewers ! I shall never forget it! The office of my lecture manager, Major Pond, was situated on the ground floor of the Everett House, where I had put up. Thither I repaired after lunch to undergo the operation of tapping by eight interviewers at once.

"Ah!" said one of them after the usual salutations, " we are going to bore you, so let us begin at the beginning." This made me smile. "I know your first question," I said; "you are going to ask me whether this is # my first visit to America." " You are right, that is generally our first question ; but- I have another to ask you before. You have just eaten your first meal in America; what did you have?" " Gentlemen," I replied, as seriously as I possibly could, "I have just been in for a piece of turbot, a beefsteak and potato chips, a celery salad, and a vanilla ice." "And now," remarked another reporter, " I have an important question to put to you. I hope it will not astonish you." 01 1" I replied, " lam in America, and quite ready not to be astonished at anything." " Well, then," said lie, "I want to ask you what are your impressions of America." "Excuse me," I exclaimed ; "I have only been in it three hours, and those three hours have been spent in this hotel. You must really allow me to abstain for the moment from telling you what I think of America; for you will admit, I hope, that one must have passed a whole day at leas in America in order to judge it with any accuracy." Here I 1 ollod a cigarette and rang for a lemon squash. The reporters immediately made an entry in their note-books.

" What is that you have put down ?" I asked.

A young fellow, with a face beaming with activity and intelligence, replied : "I wrote that at this point of our conversation you rolled a cigarette and rang for a lemon squash." " Really, gentlemen," I ventured to observe, " do you imagine that such a remark as that can possess the slightest interest for your readers ?" " Without doubt," they replied, and all their faces wore an imperturbable seriousness that nearly made me roar with laughter. " Oh ! in that case, excuse me ; I ought to have known that in America, as elsewhere, an intelligent man knows his business. Go on with your questions ; you interest me greatly." The fact is that I began to be immensely amused.

The questions commenced. One wanted biographical details, another the origin of my Dseudonvm. One wished to know if I

worked in the morning, bhe afternoon, or the evening ; another whether I worked sitting or standing up, and also whether I used ruled paper and quill pens. One reporter asked me if I thought in English or in French ; another whether Gen. Boulan ?er had any chance of soon being elected resident of the French Republic. If I crossed my legs during the conversation, if I took off my glasses, nothing: escaped these journalists; everything was jotted down.

The questions they asked really appeared to me so commonplace, so trivial, that I was almost ashamed to think I was the hero of this little farce.

With the idea of giving them something better worth writing, I launched into anecdotes, and told a few to these interviewers.

This brought about a little scene which was quite comic. If 1 looked at one reporter a little oftener than the rest, while I told an anecdote, he would turn to his brethren and say : " This story is for my paper ; you have no right to take it down : it was told especially to me." " Not at all," would cry the others ; " it was told to nil of us."

In spite of this, the harmony of the meeting was not disturbed, and it was easy to soe that an excellent spirit of fellowship prevailed in the fraternity. With the exception of a phrase or two, occasionally jotted down, they took no notes of my answers to their questions, and I wondered how it was possible that, with so few notes, they would manage to make an article of a hundred or two hundred lines that would be acceptable in an important paper, out of an interview so insignificant and so devoid of interest, according to my ideas, as this one. After having spent nearly two hours with me, the reporters shook hands, expressed themselves as much obliged to me, and went their way. How childish these Americans must be ! thought I; is it possible that a conversation such as I have just had with these reporters can interest them ? Next day I procured all the New York morning papers, more from curiosity, I must say in justice to myself, than from vanity, for I was not at all proud of my utterances of the flay before. Judge of my surprise, on opening the first paper, to find nearly two columns full of amusing details, picturesque descrip tions, well-told anecdotes, witty remarks, the whole cleverly mingled and arranged by men w ho, I had always supposed, were mere stenographers. Everything was faithfully reported and artistically set down. The smallest incidents were rendered interesting by the manner of telling. The Major, for instance, who, accustomed to this kind of interview for many years, had peacefully dropped asleep, comfortably installed with his head on the sofa pillows and his feet on the back of a chair ; in 3' own gestures ; the description of the pretty and elegantly-furnished office —all was very crisp and vivid. They had turned everything to account even the arrival of the lemon squash was made to furnish a little paragraph that was droll and attractive. You might have imagined that the whole thing was the first chapter of a novel, commencing with the majestic entry of a steamer into New York Harbour. Well, I said to myself, the American journalist knows, at any rate, how to make a savoury hash out of very little. There years ago, when Mr. Grover Cleveland, President of the United States, married the prettiest and most charming of his countrywomen, he chose Deer Park as a suitable place to spend his honeymoon in, far from the world and its bustle, and, above all, far from the reporters. However, the President knew only too well the spirit of enterprise that possesses his countrymen, and to put himself out of reach of the interviewer's, and make sure of tranquillity, he thought it well to employ eight detectives to guard the approaches to nis retreat. This number was soon found insufficient, for the enemy made his appearance in the neighbourhood. The pickets had to be reinforced, and a week later twelve argus-eyed watchers were on the alert to prevent any person whomsoever from getting within three hundred yards of the cottage. The interviewers were outdone, and had to admit themselves baffled. The papers had no details worth giving to their readers. This must have been enough to make any enterprising editor tear his hair, or go and hang himself. To have in one's editorial drawer such headings as "Grover in Clover," or "Drops of Honey Sipped in Deor Park," and not to be able to use them ! It was hard lines.

CHAPTER XXI. LITERATURE IN THE UNITED STATES. America has not yet produced a transcendent literary genius, but she has the right to be proud of a National literature which includes poets, historians, novelists, essayists, and critics of a superior order. The English admit that tho best history of their literature has been written by a Frenchman, M. Taine. The Athenaeum acknowledged a short while ago that the best criticism on the English poets of the Victorian era was that written by Mr. Edmund Clarence Stedman, himself one of the most graceful bards of contemporary America. In this rapid sketch I must needs confine myself to the mention of merely the principal names which adorn the different branches of American literature. In poetry, the bright lights are William Cullen Bryant and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, both pure and noble, and as much appreciated by the English as by their own compatriots ; Edgar Allan Poe, James Russell Lowell, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Edmund Clarence Stedman, Bayard Taylor, John Greenleaf Whittier, Walt Whitman, Richard Watson Gilder, Edgar Pawcett, William Winter, the celebrated dramatic critic of the New York Tribune, Maria Brooks and a galaxy of women, who form a graceful garland in this garden of poets. In tbo western dialcct, a young poet, Mr. James Whitcomb Riley, knows how to draw tears through the smiles which his humour provokes ; he promises to bo the future Jasmin of America.

In the domain of romance we find writers whose reputation is as firmly established in Europe as in America. Who has not read in his youth the novels of Fenimore Cooper ? Who has not thrilled over the weird tales of Poe ! Among the most famous names in fiction are also Washington Irving, N. Parker Willis, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Marion Crawford, Frank Stockton, George W. Cable, Frances Hodgson Burnett, Henry James, W. D. Howells, Julian Hawthorne, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Charles Dudley Warner, Bret Harte, who is also a poet, Edward Eggleston, J. Brander Matthews. All these names are household words wherever the English tongue is spoken. The greatest success of the century has been attained by an American novel directed against slavery and instrumental in its destruction. Its author, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, is a sister of the celebrated Henry Ward Beecher, whom America still mourns. In the philosophical essay, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Robert Ingersoll are unapproachable in their different styles. The first shines by his originality and a subtle power of reasoning, which put you in mind of Carlyle ; the second by the grandeur of his language, his keen, clear reasoning power, and his humour and pathos.

In literary criticism must be named George William Curtis, as well as Stedman and Winter, already named among the poets.

History is perhaps, of all the branches of American literature, that which has found its highest expression. Washington Irving with his "History of Columbus," Prescott with the " History of Ferdinand and Isabella," the History of the Conquest of Mexico and Peru," and the " History of Philip II.," Bancroft with a " History of the United States," Hildreth, Sparks, and others, have produced a National history from the discovery of their country down to our own days. It seems curious that the vast and grandiose regions they inhabit should not nave inspired the Americans with taste and talent for descriptions of nature. Fenimore Cooper is the only great scene painter produced by the immensities of the great Western Continent.

Humorists swarm in the United States. Artemus Ward and Mark Twain are two pseudonyms justly famous at home and abroad. There is a third on the road that leads to similar celebrity. Bill Nye has the same droll way as Mark Twain of droning out irresistible comicalities with that solemn sangfroid which is not met with outside the frontiers of Yankeeland. When

he mounts the platform the audience prepares to be dislocated v/ith laughter. Although the names of Charles A. Dana, Whitelaw Reid, Parke Godwin, and many others are well known to the reading public of America, it is in the large reviews, and not in the newspapers, that really literary articles are to be found.

Children— there be any children in America—are not forgotten by literature. It is safe to affirm that there is no country where children are so well written for by authors who have the secret of instructing them while they charm and amuse them. Love and sympathy for children must be a spontaneous outgrowth of the gay and tender American character. Mrs. Hodgson Burnett, of " Little Lord Fauntleroy" fame ; the late Louisa Alcott, author of " Little Women Mrs. Lippincott, better known as "Grace Greenwood," and Fanny Fern will, for ages to come, fascinate the whole of the English-speaking juvenile world. In these rapid outlines I must have omitted many names. I hope I have mentioned enough to show a guarantee of a brilliant literary future for the country. A nation so intelligent, so energetic, so prominent in the world of action could not possibly be sterile in the domain of thought. [To be continued.]