Such were the specious statements advanced by the oldsters.And we had no reply for their argument, or if we had one could not find the language in which to couch it.Besides there was another and a deeper reason.A boy, being what he is, the most sensitive and the most secretive of living creatures regarding his innermost emotions, rarely does bare his real thoughts to his elders, for they, alas, are not young enough to have a fellow feeling, and they are too old and they know too much to be really wise.
What we might have answered, had we had the verbal facility and had we not feared further painful corporeal measures for talking back--or what was worse, ridicule--was that reading Old Cap Collier never yet sent a boy to a bad end.I never heard of a boy who ran away from home and really made a go of it who was actuated at the start by the nickul librury.Burning with a sense of injustice, filled up with the realization that we were not appreciated at home, we often talked of running away and going out West to fight Indians, but we never did.I remember once two of us started for the Far West, and got nearly as far as Oak Grove Cemetery, when--the dusk of evening impending--we decided to turn back and give our parents just one more chance to understand us.
What, also, we might have pointed out was that in a five-cent story the villain was absolutely sure of receiving suitable and adequate punishment for his misdeeds.Right then and there, on the spot, he got his.And the heroine was always so pluperfectly pure.And the hero always was a hero to his finger tips, never doing anything unmanly or wrong or cowardly, and always using the most respectful language in the presence of the opposite sex.
There was never any sex problem in a nickul librury.There were never any smutty words or questionable phrases.If a villain said "Curse you!" he was going pretty far. Any one of us might whet up our natural instincts for cruelty on Fore's Book of Martyrs, or read of all manner of unmentionable horrors in the Old Testament, but except surreptitiously we couldn't walk with Nick Carter, whose motives were ever pure and who never used the naughty word even in the passion of the death grapple with the top-booted forces of sinister evil.
We might have told our parents, had we had the words in which to state the case and they but the patience to listen, that in a nickul librury there was logic and the thrill of swift action and the sharp spice of adventure.There, invariably virtue was rewarded and villainy confounded; there, inevitably was the final triumph for law and for justice and for the right; there embalmed in one thin paper volume, was all that Sandford and Merton lacked; all that the Rollo books never had.We might have told them that though the Leatherstocking Tales and Robinson Crusoe and Two Years Before the Mast and Ivanhoe were all well enough in their way, the trouble with them was that they mainly were so long-winded.It took so much time to get to where the first punch was, whereas Ned Buntline or Col. Prentiss Ingraham would hand you an exciting jolt on the very first page, and sometimes in the very first paragraph.
You take J. Fenimore Cooper now.He meant well and he had ideas, but his Indians were so everlastingly slow about getting under way with their scalping operations! Chapter after chapter there was so much fashionable and difficult language that the plot was smothered.You couldn't see the woods for the trees, But it was the accidental finding of an ancient and reminiscent volume one Sunday in a little hotel which gave me the cue to what really made us such confirmed rebels against constituted authority, in a literary way of speaking.The thing which inspired us with hatred for the so-called juvenile classic was a thing which struck deeper even than the sentiments I have been trying to describe.
The basic reason, the underlying motive, lay in the fact that in the schoolbooks of our adolescence, and notably in the school readers, our young mentalities were fed forcibly on a pap which affronted our intelligence at the same time that it cloyed our adolescent palates.It was not altogether the lack of action; it was more the lack of plain common sense in the literary spoon victuals which they ladled into us at school that caused our youthful souls to revolt.In the final analysis it was this more than any other cause which sent us up to the haymow for delicious, forbidden hours in the company of Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok.
Midway of the old dog-eared reader which I picked up that day I came across a typical example of the sort of stuff I mean.I hadn't seen it before in twenty-five years; but now, seeing it, I remembered it as clearly almost as though it had been the week before instead of a quarter of a century before when for the first time it had been brought to my attention. It was a piece entitled, The Shipwreck, and it began as follows:
In the winter of 1824 Lieutenant G--, of the United States Navy, with his beautiful wife and child, embarked in a packet at Norfolk bound to South Carolina.
So far so good.At least, here is a direct beginning.A family group is going somewhere.There is an implied promise that before they have traveled very far something of interest to the reader will happen to them.Sure enough, the packet runs into a storm and founders.As she is going down Lieutenant G--puts his wife and baby into a lifeboat manned by sailors, and then--there being no room for him in the lifeboat--he remains behind upon the deck of the sinking vessel, while the lifeboat puts off for shore.
A giant wave overturns the burdened cockleshell and he sees its passengers engulfed in the waters.Up to this point the chronicle has been what a chronicle should be.Perhaps the phraseology has been a trifle toploftical, and there are a few words in it long enough to run as serials, yet at any rate we are getting an effect in drama.But bear with me while I quote the next paragraph, just as I copied it down:
