Authors and Audiences: Popular Canadian Fiction in the Early Twentieth Century 9780773568600

Citation preview

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Authors and Audiences Popular Canadian Fiction in the Early Twentieth Century

From the 1890s through the 1920s, the best-selling fiction of Ralph Connor, Robert Stead, Nellie McClung, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and Arthur Stringer was internationally recognized. In this intriguing cultural history of the conception, production, and reception of popular fiction, Clarence Karr challenges the common assumption that bestsellers are a conservative cultural influence, reflecting and promoting traditional values. By focusing on a society and its cultural leaders at a period when they were coming to grips with modernity, Karr provides a new perspective on culture and the interaction between readers and popular authors. Authors and Audiences reveals the cultural milieu that gave rise to the golden age of hardcover fiction. Karr describes the relationships between authors, literary agents, and publishers in Toronto, London, New York, and other centres; examines the relationship between authors and the movie industry; and discusses the reception of fiction by critics and readers. This is the first Canadian study to use fan mail to highlight readers’ interactions with author and text. Karr places the authors’ careers in an international setting and shows how, despite living a considerable distance from the leading cultural production centres of New York and London, they became internationally recognized and read. clarence karr is professor of history at Malaspina University College.

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Authors and Audiences Popular Canadian Fiction in the Early Twentieth Century clarence karr

McGill-Queen’s University Press Montreal & Kingston • London • Ithaca

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© McGill-Queen’s University Press 2000 isbn 0-7735-2076-7 (cloth) isbn 0-7735-2109-7 (paper) Legal deposit fourth quarter 2000 Bibliothèque nationale du Québec Printed in Canada on acid-free paper This book has been published with the help of grants from the Humanities and Social Sciences Federation of Canada, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, and from Malaspina University College. McGill-Queen’s University Press acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (bpidp) for our publishing activities. It also acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for its publishing program.

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data Karr, Clarence, 1941– Authors and audiences: popular Canadian fiction in the early twentieth century Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 0-7735-2076-7 (bnd) isbn 0-7735-2109-7 (pbk) 1. Canadian fiction (English) – 20th century – History and criticism. 2. Popular literature – Canada – History and criticism. i. Title. ps8197.k37 2000 c813′.5209 c00-900107-7 pr9192.5k37 2000

This book was typeset by Typo Litho Composition Inc. in 10/12 Palatino.

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Contents

Preface

vii

Acknowledgments xiii 1 Five Authors in a Modern World 2 The Golden Age

3

26

3 Apprenticeships, Writing, and Careers 41 4 Authors, Publishers, and Agents 58 5 Ralph Connor, the Sky Pilot 80 6 Robert Stead, Philosopher and Artist 94 7 Nellie McClung and Pearlie Watson

108

8 Lucy Maud Montgomery and Anne

124

9 Arthur Stringer, the Debonair Businessman 10 Readers and Reading 11 Books and Movies 12 Being Canadian

152

170

189

Conclusion: Journeys’ End Notes 221 Index

307

205

138

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Preface

My interest in cultural history dates back to my undergraduate history courses, which included works of fiction as texts. It was not, however, until I returned to Canada upon the completion of my doctorate that I realized that my literary exposure had involved very few Canadian authors. At that time, university literature courses generally included Canadian content only within a North American context. Fortunately, the emerging New Canadian Library offered many titles to remedy this deficiency; others titles came from antique stores and used book dealers, where I discovered many forgotten but once very popular works of Canadian fiction. As a historian, I was immediately struck by the relevance to my own discipline of what I read. My approach at that time was that of an intellectual historian preoccupied with ideas and their influence on society. In recent years, the enormous surge of interest in the history of the book has altered and honed the focus of my research. One significant catalyst has been sharp, the Society for the History of Authorship, Reading and Publishing, founded in 1991. Its sharp-l bulletin board and discussion group and its conferences have brought international scholars interested in all aspects of the history of the book to my assistance. In a rapidly emerging international field, electronic connections provide the best means of tracking developments. One important result of these activities is the launching of interdisciplinary national history-of-the-book projects in Canada, the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Britain, and several European countries. The primary goal of these and other endeavours is to understand the creation, diffusion, and reception of the print culture.

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viii Preface

This new field is characterized by its interdisciplinary and international context and interaction. “By their very nature,” historian Robert Darnton states, “books refuse to be contained within any discipline, whether it be bibliography, literature, history, economics, or sociology. They also refuse to respect national boundaries.”1 The more traditional focus of book history on literacy, the book trade, private libraries, and circulation statistics has expanded into many new areas. Roger Chartier, one of the originators of the new book history, focuses on the cultural uses of print in early modern Europe,2 while Robert Darnton provides new contexts for understanding prerevolutionary and revolutionary France with his analysis of bestsellers and other writings.3 In the United States James L.W. West iii explores the twentieth-century relationship between American authors and the marketplace,4 and in Britain, Simon Eliot traces the patterns and trends in British publishing.5 Other scholars, such as John Sutherland in his recent study of Victorian fiction, analyze writing, publishing, and reading in a single work.6 Audience reception is a new and important area of cultural studies. “The audience remains the missing link, the forgotten element, in cultural history,” notes Lawrence Levine.7 Many of the first investigations disregarded actual readers in their theoretical constructs of audiences, but increasingly, scholars are using data from both contemporary and historical readers. In his study of reading in modern France, James Allen utilized readers’ letters to authors, while Janice Radway interviewed readers of modern romances for her pathfinding study, which discovers that reading such fiction does not enhance patriarchy.8 Other scholars, such as Ezra Greenspan and Barbara Johnson, focus on the readers of the works of a single author or of an individual book.9 Without the voices of the readers, we cannot possibly ascertain the meanings derived from books or their impact on society. One of the positive results of the new book history, at times in league with the feminist movement, has been to rescue once-popular authors from obscurity and to legitimize the academic study of the popular. In her analysis of the women’s sensational novel of the nineteenth century, Lyn Pykett brings new respect for this important genre and a deeper understanding of first-wave feminism.10 Both Janice Radway and Robert Darnton investigate the significance of bestsellers, while James Raven demonstrates the impact of the popular on the publishing industry as early as the second half of the eighteenth century. Other writers study the careers of popular authors, as John Sutherland does with his biography of Mrs Humphrey Ward.11 Charles Johainningsmeir provides us with an understanding of the

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ix Preface

widespread dissemination of popular literature to a broader audience through newspaper syndicates.12 Other scholars investigate the connections between popular authorship and the movie industry.13 Another fashionable area of recent writing has been mass-market magazines.14 My study of five Canadian popular authors in the early twentieth century is a cultural history set within the framework of this international history of the book. It explores how aspiring writers, residing far from the Canadian publishing centre of Toronto and much farther from the primary English-language cultural production centres in New York and London, became internationally successful authors. With the focus on popular authorship and its reception, this study analyzes the cultural climate from which the authors emerged, the process through which individuals become authors, the nature of writing, the role of literary agents and publishers, the components of popularity within genres, their relationships with the movie industry, and the readers’ reception. It explores these factors and the individual authors’ lives in a context of modernity and therefore challenges the widespread assertion that popular fiction merely reinforces the traditional. From the time that Russel Nye marshalled the attitudes of more than half a century of criticism to write The Unembarrassed Muse in the late 1960s, it has been common practice for many academics, even while they purport to respect popular literature, to approach it with condescending attitudes. They assume that, because the titles are popular, they merely provide entertainment and escape, and conform to the standard conservative tastes and values of society. “Popular art confirms the experience of the majority,” states Nye, “in contrast to elite art, which tends to explore the new.”15 Using such phrases as “molasses fiction” and “opiate of the masses,” these individuals often view the populace as “dopes, dupes, and robots, mechanically delivered into passivity.”16 Another typical assumption categorizes these readers as emotionally weak because they suspend critical judgment and allow themselves to become enveloped in the intensity of the story to the point of losing contact with the real world. Too many critics of modern popular culture appear to overlook the fact that Shakespeare’s King Lear has the capacity to exert a similar power over an audience. Because of the high profile of women as authors and readers of popular fiction, gender and religion constitute two additional barriers. “Twentieth century critics have taught generations of students,” writes Jane Tompkins, “to equate popularity with debasement, emotionality with ineffectiveness, religiosity with fakery, domesticity with triviality, and all of these implicitly with womanly inferiority.”17

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Lawrence Levine calls on scholars to reject these assumptions.18 Modern consumerism did not create readers who were passive shoppers duped by a corporate ruling class into blind acceptance of its commodities. Popular culture, he tells us, is no more formulistic than high culture, and rather than being escapist, it is often on the cutting edge of modernity. In recent years, scholars, influenced by new feminist criticism, book history, and consumer response, have begun the process of reevaluating popular literature. Tompkins depicts the American domestic novel of the nineteenth century as a “monumental effort to reorganize culture from a woman’s point of view” and finds the tearful episodes located “not in the realm of fairy tale or escape but in the very bedrock of reality.”19 A study of six late-nineteenth-century Canadian women writers of fiction reveals “rebellion against patriarchy, women’s lack of power, and the ideology inherent in conventional courtship plots.”20 Lyn Pykett, who finds 1890s fiction full of restless, searching women, calls for close textual analysis of popular fiction.21 Andrew Ross urges us to accept the existence of many audiences rather than a single mass one, and to investigate how popular fiction teaches individuals to “adjust, cope with, and enjoy the fruits of consumer society.”22 David Hall cautions against seeing popular culture as either inferior, degraded, and escapist or representative of the genuinely democratic.23 In league with these authors, I not only respect popular literature but also enjoy and read it. In analyzing five popular Canadian authors of the early twentieth century, this study accepts Robert Darnton’s challenge to investigate more fully the world of authorship, publishing, and reading.24 My training as a historian forces me to consider context as an important ingredient. Wherever possible, I also allow the narrative and other voices from the texts to be heard. Just as important are the voices of the authors, agents, publishers, readers, and critics. For some readers, these novels were merely entertainment, enjoyed for the same reason that individuals read the classics of literature. For others, however, reading the novels transformed their lives. My goal is to achieve a more complete understanding of the phenomenon of popular fiction as a component and a reflection of modern society through the use of textual and documentary evidence. Rather than attempt to incorporate the entire fictional production of the five authors into the study, I have selected their most popular and representative works. Of the Canadians who achieved international recognition in this period, Ralph Connor, Robert Stead, Nellie McClung, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and Arthur Stringer appear to be the most representative, the most relevant, and the most enduring ex-

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Preface

amples. Marshall Saunders (1861–1947), Gilbert Parker (1862–1932), Basil King (1859–1928), Frank Packard (1877–1942), Stephen Leacock (1869–1944), and others also achieved international popularity, but their relevance as representatives of this Canadian cultural phenomenon is more limited. Nova Scotian–born Saunders wrote stories about tamed animals for children, but she scored only one major international success with Beautiful Joe (1893). Parker was born in Canada, but he left in 1885 for a period in Australia before settling permanently in England four years later. He wrote all his fiction after leaving Canada. His use of classical references and hyperbole, as well as pompous platitudes, rendered his novels increasing old-fashioned in the early twentieth century.25 In his quaint, patrician lifestyle, his election to the British House of Commons, and his historical romances centred in colonial New France or the Hudson’s Bay Company territory, his focus was on the past rather than the present or the future. With each passing year, his relevance to the twentieth-century Canadian scene lessened. Like Arthur Stringer, Basil King moved to the United States, but his departure was sufficiently early in life to see his writing limited to American soil and largely American topics, with a focus on a highsociety New York similar to that of Edith Wharton and Henry James.26 Frank Packard did leave his native Montreal for a period in the United States, but he returned home to achieve great success with his best-selling thrillers in an international setting. Like Stringer, he made a very successful living from his writing.27 Leacock shares some elements of reform with McClung and Stead, but he differs markedly in his attitudes towards women and some races. He also engaged the same literary agent as Stringer. None of these authors, however, used their own experiences of adjusting to changing times in their fiction as completely and as successfully as Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer. As the earliest international Canadian literary star among them, Connor served as an inspiration and an example to the other four authors. He is also the most important representative and a pioneer of Canadian adventure fiction in a religious and social-reform context. Robert Stead was one of the earliest practitioners of North American homestead fiction, to which he added elements of secular reform. As Canada’s most famous feminist in the early twentieth century, Nellie McClung continued and also enlarged the social-reform elements of the previous two authors in a domestic, community setting, while Lucy Maud Montgomery rivaled Connor for the position of Canada’s most internationally famous author in this era. Unlike Connor, Stead, and McClung, both she and Stringer avoided integrating

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Preface

social-reform sentiments into their fiction. Stringer provides an example of an individual who was able to live comfortably from his literary profits alone. These five authors knew each other, frequently attended the same meetings, and even shared the same platforms. Their lives and fictional settings involve a representative selection of Canadian regions. Their careers therefore constitute an important cross-section of internationally successful Canadian popular authors in the early twentieth century. Each career is sufficiently unique to provide an individual case study, while at the same time, the five authors have enough experience in common to make generalizations relevant.

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Acknowledgments

This book has benefited from the research, publications, and advice of many individuals connected to the current popular sphere of the history of the book. They include archivists, literary specialists, bibliographers, and historians. I acknowledge with thanks the assistance provided by archivists and librarians at the following institutions: Queen’s University; Carleton University; the University of Calgary; the National Archives of Canada and the National Library in Ottawa; Special Collections at the University of Western Ontario Library; the Butler Library at Columbia University; the Lilly Library at Indiana University; the Lucy Maud Montgomery Institute at the University of Prince Edward Island; the United Church Archives at Victoria University in Toronto; the University of Toronto, Archives and the Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library at the University of Toronto; the William Ready Archives at McMaster University; the University of Guelph Library and Archives; the University of Manitoba Library and Archives; the Provincial Archives of Manitoba; the Manitoba Legislative Library; and the British Columbia Archives. I am indebted especially to Allan Fisher, director of publication of the Barker Book House Company, for supplying copies of Charles Gordon contracts held in the Fleming Revell Archives, to Mary Rubio of the University of Guelph for information from the closed portion of the Lucy Maud Montgomery Papers, and to Joanne Whiting of the interlibrary loan department at Malaspina University College for never failing in her search for scarce titles. I also thank the Estate of Robert J.C. Stead for permission to quote from the correspondence in the Stead Papers at the National Archives of Canada.

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xiv Acknowledgments

Material written by L.M. Montgomery is reprinted with the permission of Ruth Macdonald, and David Macdonald, trustee, who are the heirs of L.M. Montgomery. L.M. Montgomery, Emily and Emily of New Moon are trademarks of the Heirs of L.M. Montgomery Inc. Anne of Green Gables and other Images of “Anne” are trademarks and official marks of the Anne of Green Gables Licensing Authority Inc. Quotations from The Selected Journals of L.M. Montgomery, Volumes I, II, III and IV © 1985, 1987, 1992, 1998 University of Guelph, edited by Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, and published by Oxford University Press Canada, are reproduced with the permission of Mary Rubio, Elizabeth Waterston and the University of Guelph, courtesy of the L.M. Montgomery Collection, Archival and Special Collections, University of Guelph Library. Cheryl Warsh, Dan Hawthorne, Carole Gerson, Leslie Howsam, Keith Walden, and my wife, Kathryn, read the entire manuscript. I am indebted to them for their criticisms, their copy-editing, and their encouragement. They made the book much better than it otherwise would have been. Helen Brown, a colleague and friend, read several chapters and offered crucial encouragement in my moments of doubt. I also thank the anonymous readers for McGill-Queen’s University Press and the Aid to Scholarly Publications Programme of the Humanities and Social Sciences Federation of Canada for their preceptive criticisms. I owe a special debt to John Zucchi, my editor at McGill-Queen’s University Press. His enthusiastic support of this work sustained my own enthusiasm and was crucial to the approval process. Thanks to coordinating editor Joan McGilvray for her efficient management and for answering many questions. Finally, I owe a huge debt to my copy editor, Elizabeth Hulse, whose sharp eye and extensive knowledge saved me from many embarrassing errors. Any deficiencies in the final product must, however, rest with me alone. Financially, I must acknowledge the assistance of Malaspina University College. Without its Scholarly Travel and Research Funds, the research necessary for the completion of the manuscript could not have been accomplished.

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Ralph Connor (University of Manitoba, Elizabeth Dafoe Library, Archives, pc76-1-3)

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Robert Stead (Bookseller and Stationer 32, [October 1916]: 47)

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Nellie McClung (British Columbia Archives, e-05182)

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Lucy Maud Montgomery (courtesy of the Anne of Green Gables Museum, Silver Bush, Park Corner, pei)

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Arthur Stringer (Canadian Bookman 2, [January 1920]: cover)

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Authors and Audiences

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1 Five Authors in a Modern World

The year 1908 was an auspicious one in the history of Canadian culture. In a small town on the southern Manitoba prairie, Nellie McClung rose to best-seller stardom with her first novel, Sowing Seeds in Danny, which she had composed surrounded by the bustle of a busy household. Just fifty miles away, in the even smaller community of Cartwright, Robert Stead, an unassuming, twenty-eight-year-old newspaper publisher, paid William Briggs of Toronto to publish his first volume of poetry. In Winnipeg, the provincial metropolitan centre for these two communities, Canada’s most famous author, Ralph Connor (the Reverend Charles W. Gordon), had reached the peak of his popularity. On his Shadow Lawn farm, on the shores of Lake Erie in southwestern Ontario, Arthur Stringer, one of the country’s few authors whose sole earnings came from writing, was completing his fourteenth book of fiction. Far to the east, in rural Prince Edward Island, thirty-three-year-old Lucy Maud Montgomery achieved immediate, international fame with Anne of Green Gables. This was the height of the “golden age” of writing and reading, from the 1890s through the 1920s, during which hardcover, mass-marketed fiction flourished. Born between 1860 and 1880, these five authors were among the first Canadian writers to acquire international recognition. They witnessed the transformation of Canada from a relatively unsophisticated land full of frontiers into a modern, cosmopolitan society. They encountered the changing ideologies, the transformation of institutions, and the consumerism of modern society, which they processed

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4 Authors and Audiences

in various ways, related to past and present experiences and their future expectations. Each of the five responded to and interpreted this encounter with modernity in his or her own way. Using their experiences as a foundation, they integrated their values and their perceptions of place, as well as the language of the people, into their stories. Their readers, in turn, used these stories to assist them in their own encounters with modernity. Modernity encompassed changes which resulted from the transfer from a producer society that “emphasized self-reliance, homogeneity, locality, and collectivity” to a consumer-based society “that championed convenience, diversity, abundance, and individuality.”1 This modern consciousness originated within an ever-changing, urban, middle-class, industrial capitalist milieu, in which centralization, regulation, and bureaucratization prevailed. It was a society obsessed with the production, distribution, marketing, and purchasing of factory-produced brand-name commodities.2 With a range of new products, which included household appliances, bicycles, phonographs, radios, telephones, Kodak cameras, automobiles, typewriters, soaps and cosmetics, factory-made clothing, packaged cereals for adults and infants, canned food of all varieties, chewing gum, carbonated drinks, X-rays, motion pictures, and microphones, this new consumerism touched all spheres of life. Both the definition and the timing of the emergence of modernity have been subject to debate and controversy. For our purposes, it is important to note that as a socio-economic concept, modernity “reached a kind of critical mass near the end of the nineteenth century.”3 By this time, states Richard Ohmann in his study of massmarket magazines, “time had become progressive, overwhelming readers with novelty and generating a wish to be in the vanguard of history.”4 Coincident with the launching of the careers of Ralph Connor, Maud Montgomery, and Arthur Stringer as popular writers, this decade is also significant in terms of perception. Whereas in previous decades, people could easily have remained uninformed about the changes occurring around them, from the 1890s on it was virtually impossible to be unknowing. One of the important components of that awareness was the introduction of mail-order catalogues from department stores, those emporiums of modern abundance and desire.5 Popular fiction was one of the important items listed in them. These catalogues were only one element in the expanding communications and transportation networks which were quickly encompassing even the more remote districts. Through these networks, modernity entered the consciousness and the lifestyle of both urban and rural residents. In 1902, at a time when a steel mill was under

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5 Five Authors in a Modern World

construction in Sydney, on Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia, local clergyman Clarence Mackinnon notes that, even at prayer meetings, one could hear the “unrestrained excitement, with just a tinge of pride,” regarding the new age, as voices declared, “We are metropolitan in our aims and we are becoming metropolitan in our vices.”6 In the 1890s as well, the publishing industry was in the process of embracing consumer-oriented capitalism intent on mass production and global marketing. It was this urban-centred, modern industry, with technology capable of printing, advertising, and distributing books to millions of readers around the world, that made the careers of the five authors in this study possible. For the first time, publishers committed themselves to advertising, rigid production schedules, and publishing deadlines. For both authors and printers, the meeting of these targets was essential for listings in mail-order catalogues and for the books to be in stores prior to the Christmas gift shopping rush. Equally important was a literate public with sufficient income to purchase brand-name books and magazines and the leisure in which to read them. This phenomenon was also dependent on innovations in communication and transportation, the development of rail and mail systems being the most important. One of the most significant elements of this turn-of-the-century modernity was liberalism, with its separate but related components of individualism and self-realization and its belief in progress, human rights, the value of education, and the perfectibility of humankind. Under the rubric of progressivism in the United States, this new liberalism involved a “broad reorientation of thought that moved away from the chaos and the inequities of nineteenth-century laissez-faire liberalism towards modern, progressive liberalism.”7 There was a similar transition in Canada and elsewhere. An integral part of this liberalism was a host of democratic reform movements, each determined to assist in the creation of a more perfect society. “Committed to modernization, they [liberal reformers] sought to humanize the emergent industrial capitalist order,” states Daniel Howe, “by infusing it [liberalism] with a measure of social responsibility, strict personal morality, and a respect for cultural standards.”8 Equally important were a striving for gender equality and a focus on the importance of childhood and adolescence. New concepts of childhood and the feminist movement received much of society’s focus in the early twentieth century. The phrase “new woman” was a worldwide slogan in the 1890s denoting a desire for individuality, independence, power, higher education, and freedom not only to vote but also to join clubs, speak in public, play golf and other sports, and move about in public spaces unaccompanied.9

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6 Authors and Audiences

A new materialist ethic, with its seemingly insatiable consumerism, provided a ready market for innumerable brand-name products, including books, which modern advertisers stressed were essential for a quality life. “The ’good life’ became more materially defined,” notes Simon Bronner, “as the accumulation of goods appeared to offer status, mobility, and self-confidence.”10 Women were an important, if not the dominant, component as shoppers and readers and in the new family-oriented culture of leisure. There was also an emphasis on the importance of science and technology and the application of the scientific methodology to all aspects of society from corporate management and to child rearing. Although these factors and opportunities targeted the masses, the individual was actually the focus of both the campaigns and the experiences. In the nineteenth century the concept of “I” is central to an understanding of that era. “Writers, whether novelist, poets, or editorialists,” notes Peter Gay, “spread the cult to self-awareness to the reading middle classes.”11 In the twentieth century the key word is “self,” especially in its compound forms of “self-consciousness” and “self-fulfillment.” These concepts, which involved both experiences and desires, spread from the middle classes to all levels of society. “The vision of self-sacrifice,” notes Warren Susman, in the early twentieth century “began to yield to that of self-realization.”12 In this same pre-war era the word “character” to denote personhood was replaced by “personality,” which involves more the projection of self to society. This was a new age of celebrities, publicity, and publicity agents. Whereas character could be either good or bad, personalities could range from glowing to magnetic, forceful, infamous, fascinating, stunning, or attractive. One of the “key figures in this transfer from the culture of character to the culture of personality,”13 notes Susman, was the poet Ella Wheeler Wilcox. She “attempted to combine the qualities of the works on character with a religious, even mystical stress on a spiritual vision of the self [and] insisted not only on a higher moral order but also on a fulfilment of self by striving to become one with a higher self.” When L.M. Montgomery first read Wilcox in the summer of 1898, she wrote of her poems in her journal, “They seem to be written for me. I have lived them every word.”14 Had they read these poems, both Ralph Connor and Nellie McClung would likely have recorded a similar reaction. For many people, the most noticeable features of modern society were the innovations, the rapid tempo of change, and the quickening of the pace of life, not only in technology but also in the spheres of ideas, sensory perceptions, and experiences. Silent movies, with their

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7 Five Authors in a Modern World

visual, rapidly changing images, seemed to epitomize this new sensory world. Although produced in urban settings, these films played everywhere and diffused these new sensations to the wider society. This was a restless, intense, often turbulent age, full of enthusiasms and surrenders to the exciting, pulsating forces of modernity. “Change itself was in the saddle,” writes Keith Walden. “Nothing it seemed was immutable. As so much gave way, as so much was pushed together, people were required to re-establish the comprehensibility of their physical and intellectual environments.”15 For many turn-of-the-century individuals, this emerging modern world could be simultaneously fascinating and intimidating. “To be modern,” writes Marshall Berman, “is to find ourselves in an environment that promises us adventure, power, joy, growth, transformation of ourselves and the world – and, at the same time, that threatens to destroy everything we have, everything we know, everything we are.”16 Would traditional values and virtues disappear? Would there be room for spirituality and soul in the new consumer-based, materialistic ethic? Could social stability be maintained? Was the family to remain society’s central institution? Would communities survive in face of so much individuality? Could this increasingly impersonal world have room for compassion and intimacy? These are some of the questions which the five authors in this study addressed in their fiction and which assisted many readers in their own encounters with modernity. Much of the critical literature stresses anti-modern resistance to and rejection of modernity. Heavily influenced by T.J. Jackson Lears’s pioneering study No Place of Grace, several authors focus on an adversarial culture characterized by seemingly unresolvable dichotomies.17 Discomposure and shock threatened to wipe out balance and poise, waste and frivolity jeopardized thrift and sobriety, and chaos was seemingly displacing order. Where there once had been continuity and contentment, there was now discontinuity and restlessness. Those with contempt for the emerging mass culture feared the debasement of cultural values. Those with elitist pretensions felt uncomfortable sharing power with the masses, which now included women. George Cotkin notes that a “spirit of deep pessimism afflicted many American intellectuals and artists”18 in the last twenty years of the nineteenth century. Equally problematic are the roles that nostalgia and the concept of folk play in this debate. For Ian McKay, in his The Quest for Folk, these are symbols of a rejection of modernity.19 Certainly, for some who were contemporaries of that which had disappeared or was disappearing, there could be some nostalgic yearnings. It is important to realize, however, that modern history, museums, art galleries, and the

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8 Authors and Audiences

celebration of folk are also part of modernity. In a perceptive article on nineteenth-century folk museums, Mark Sandberg, using evidence from actual visitors, discovers that for many of them, “the atemporality and displacement effects of the folk museum functioned more as an urban distraction than as a longing for vanished folk culture.”20 With them, these visitors brought a modern “taste for distraction, mobile subjectivity, panoptic perspectives, and voyeuristic viewing.”21 The visits also often involved a modern form of roleplaying. This fascination with folk also reflects new interest in and respect for the lower classes within a democratized society and a newly acquired historical consciousness. In any society in the process of transformation, residual and emergent cultures coexist. For most, however, nostalgia did not signify a rejection of modernity, nor were the dichotomies irresolvable. Some of the tension, in the form of the search for order amid chaos, would continue throughout the twentieth century. Like Cotkin’s reluctant modernists, people generally came to believe that, in the crucial transition period of their lives, “between the precipice of modernity and the certitude of Victorian ideals lay a comforting middle ground.”22 For most people, however, there was no concept of a precipice, no being possessed with fear or consumed by anxiety. For them, Victorian propriety gradually yielded to Edwardian formality, which in turn yielded to 1920s informality. Automobiles replaced horse transportation; factory-canned increasingly shared space with home-canned; fun for fun’s sake replaced most rational amusement, as many thousands of people enjoyed the thrills of the midway and other modern pastimes; a greater percentage of society flocked to the movies than attended church; and in spite of admonitions from conservatives, including the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union and some clergy, consumers purchased millions of copies of all varieties of modern fiction. The five authors in this study made similar adjustments in their encounters with modernity. While living comfortably in this changing world, these authors wanted that society to be one in which people could take full advantage of the opportunities offered without sacrificing individuality, noble thoughts, community, and meaningful human relationships. For Ralph Connor, the most important questions were the maintenance of spirituality and the integrity of community, both on the frontiers and in emerging urban, industrial centres. He viewed a progressive Christianity as the primary force necessary to humanize modern society. Although Robert Stead also placed emphasis on spirituality, he focused on a secular human soul, for which he advocated the retention of secular values and noble thoughts in face of the threat of a con-

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sumer-based, materialistic ethic. In both his real and his fictional worlds, there is a fascination with technology and a realization of our dependence on it. But while people should embrace technology and the consumerism that accompanied it, he insisted that they refrain from adopting a materialist ethic as their central frame of reference. For Nellie McClung the central questions were the importance of individuality and individual initiative, as demonstrated through her fictional alter ego, Pearlie Watson, and the fundamental rights of women in modern society. McClung also highlighted the importance of community. As a less reform conscious writer, L.M. Montgomery focused with more subtlety on the basic opportunities and rights of girls in a rapidly changing and increasingly secular society. Arthur Stringer probed more deeply into modern consciousness, especially women’s consciousness, than the other authors. Early in his career, reviewers commented favourably on his psychological insights into modern minds. For him, as for the other four authors, family, community, and personal integrity remained important components of modern life. In addition to these central frames of reference, each of the five authors also familiarized her or his readers with many modern features of society, including the incorporation of new technology into their lives. They also used the popular genres of the time as the vehicles to convey their messages. Millions of readers brought their experiences with and questions about modern life to these texts. Even during the period in which Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer achieved international fame as authors, however, literary critics and reviewers frequently cast their works in a traditionalist mould of popular, sentimental romance fiction.23 Using the high modernism of James Joyce and other modern realists as their point of reference, these critics labelled the five authors in this study as out of touch with the modern world. Individuals with this elitist, avant-garde, anti-romantic, intellectual-cultural consciousness expressed contempt for a popular culture in which adventure, romance, sentiment, and the narrative remained important elements. It is wrong, however, to categorize one group as more modern than the other. Even in genre, the five writers in this study embraced new, popular models. Connor was among the first, and also one of the more successful, authors to use the adventure story as a vehicle for communicating a modern religious message. Stead was a pioneer of the agrarian or homestead novel. McClung was a part of the first generation of Canadian feminist writers, while Montgomery helped to define a new genre focusing on childhood. And Stringer was one of the North American creators of a new type of crime fiction. All these authors brought the experiences of their life to their fiction.

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Charles William Gordon (Ralph Connor) was born in 1860 in Glengarry County, Ontario, where he spent the first formative decade of his life. In spite of a conviction that his mother provided the dominant influence in his life, young Charles was shaped by both parents.24 His father was a Scottish-born, old-style Presbyterian clergyman. From him, Charles inherited a pride in ethnicity and a work ethic which placed a premium on struggle. He, however, rejected the role model of the old-style, thundering Calvinist preacher and replaced it with a modern faith more in tune with the times. From his intelligent and cultured mother, Gordon acquired his modesty and a more refined, modern approach to faith and service.25 Using his childhood experiences in Glengarry, he would construct his two most enduring novels, The Man from Glengarry (1901) and Glengarry School Days (1902). After moving with his parents to Zorra, Ontario, at age ten, Charles attended nearby St Marys high school before working his way through the University of Toronto and Knox Theological College as a farmhand and high school teacher. Before his ordination in Calgary in 1890, Gordon spent a year studying at the University of Edinburgh. He then served the mission parish of miners, ranchers, and railway workers in the foothills country around Canmore and Banff. After returning to Edinburgh for a year of post-graduate study, he was transferred in 1895 to St Stephen’s Presbyterian Church in Winnipeg, where he remained until his retirement in 1924. Gordon would later use his educational experiences in both Toronto and Scotland in his fiction. In Winnipeg he was active in the Social Service Council and similar reform agencies dedicated to combatting alcoholism and other social problems. It was through his foothills mission experience that Charles Gordon, the preacher, became, quite by accident, Ralph Connor, the novelist. At the urging of his former university mate the Reverend James Macdonald, editor of the Westminster magazine in Toronto, he wrote a series called “Tales from the Selkirks” to foster interest in and contributions to the home missions of the Presbyterian Church in the Canadian west. Published the next year as Black Rock (1898), this novel launched his literary career. In 1899 Gordon married university-educated Helen Skinner King, who was sixteen years his junior. By this time, he was already a famous author. He did his best to balance his roles as clergyman, author, social activist, husband, and father, but his frequent absences left Helen in charge of the home, where she assumed the primary responsibility for raising their six daughters and one son. Terribly disorganized, Gordon also depended on his wife to arrange his hectic

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schedule and remember the dates and times of his meetings. Whenever time permitted, he led the family in evening devotions and song fests, and shared his skills and love of the outdoors with them on wilderness vacations.26 A tall, slender man with a pale, intellectual face, penetrating eyes, and a soft, clear voice, Charles Gordon remains an enigma, a seeming mass of contradictions. Even in his personal correspondence, there is a detachment and a guarded distance. He loved stimulating, intellectual discussions, yet was more moved by impulses of the heart than of the mind.27 Fond of appearing as the proud, austere, dour Highland Scot with a military air, he was, in reality, kind, humorous, and charming – the type of individual that you wanted at your party. Although a dedicated Presbyterian, he was among the earliest champions of merging the denomination into the United Church of Canada.28 Generous to a fault and anti-materialistic, he was also constantly preoccupied with a quest for more money. A gentle man who was also a champion of the sublime and the beautiful, he revelled in contact sports. One of the most preceptive assessments of his character came from an old friend, Sir James Aikins, lieutenant-governor of Manitoba, who depicted Ralph Connor as “a man who has convictions and a fearless courage of them, yet a man of kindly sympathies, a man of imagination but no mere dreamer.”29 In a career extending from the 1890s to the 1930s, Charles Gordon both witnessed and participated in the transformation of the Canadian west from a rough frontier to a land of urban sophistication. An important part of that evolution was his overseeing of the growth of St Stephen’s from a struggling mission congregation into a multi-dimensional, inner-urban church with fifteen hundred members.30 There would, however, be two important intermissions in his work with this congregation. During the First World War he served as a chaplain to Canadian and Allied troops before persuading the authorities that his talents and fame as an author could help to encourage Americans to commit themselves to the war. Gordon wrote two novels, The Major (1917) and The Sky Pilot in No Man’s Land (1919), based on these experiences.31 Shortly after his return to his congregation at the end of the war, his services were required as chairman of the Council of Industry for Manitoba between 1919 and 1923. He continued to be involved with his congregation on a part-time basis during this period. Gordon used these labour-arbitration experiences as the framework for another novel, To Him That Hath (1921). After this, he focused increasingly on historical romances. When he did return to the contemporary world in later novels, they failed to engage his readers with the same impact and authenticity as his earlier fiction.

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In his early novels, however, Gordon grappled with such modern phenomena as frontier violence, large-scale immigration, and labour turmoil. He sought to preserve hope, faith, and stability in a rapidly changing society. Although raised in eastern Canada, he lived most of his adult life on the prairies and considered himself a westerner. Nevertheless, his intellectual centre of reference would remain tied to his eastern Canadian and Scottish roots and training. A liberal in both his politics and his religion, he lived, preached, and wrote a message of love, caring, tolerance, and progress. Believing that true religion was “the heart of God in contact with the heart of man,”32 he espoused a modern faith in which there was no division between the sacred and the secular, and with which individuals could transform the world. From the intensity of his faith came the strength, the courage, and the conviction necessary to pursue a hectic schedule of parish work, community and national service, and writing. As an evangelical liberal, Gordon maintained a focus was on the people, their families, and their communities, rather than on material resources. Using “emotion as the link between intellect and will and the effective stimulus to action,”33 as Ralph Connor, he hoped to guide individual readers into the modern world with their faith intact. Robert J.C. Stead was born in 1880 in eastern Ontario on a rockfilled, fifty-acre farm from which his family departed two years later, to begin a new life in southern Manitoba. They were sufficiently well off to build a one-and-a-half storey frame house on their new homestead. It was there that Charles Gordon boarded as a student missionary when Robert was a toddler. After a few years of farming, the family moved in 1892 to the village of Cartwright, where his father opened a small retail lumberyard, R.T. Stead and Son.34 With both their parents being Canadian-born, Robert and his three older sisters experienced little direct British influence in their formative years. As part of the first large post-confederation migration to the prairies, they grew up as Canadians and westerners. After leaving school at age fourteen, young Robert first worked as a farm labourer, then clerked in a general store, and finally managed the family’s lumberyard. He supplemented his winter income with work at the local grain elevator. These experiences provided important contexts for his fiction. More interested in business than in farming, Stead attended the Winnipeg Business College for one term in 1897, but the death of his father at this time closed all opportunities for further formal education.35 Although Robert’s interest in retail merchandising continued with lumber, flour and feed, and furniture stores, his primary focus shifted, at age nineteen, to the world of journalism and writing. As

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founder, publisher, editor, and typesetter of Cartwright’s new Rock Lake Review, he quickly mastered all aspects of the trade. He also began to write poetry. Married in late 1901 to Nettie Wallace, from a prominent local family, Stead became father to three sons during the next seventeen years.36 In Cartwright he exemplified his paper’s advocacy of good citizenship by playing football, performing on the horn in the town band, and transporting local boys to baseball games in his buckboard. As local institutions sprang up, he played a prominent role. He was on the executive of the Board of Trade and the Cartwright Rink Company. After selling the newspaper in 1910, Stead moved to High River, where he and a partner established the Alberta Automobile Company, a McLaughlin-Buick agency. This move reflected his passionate interest in modern technology. After maintaining his involvement in journalism with a weekly column in the High River Times, he left two years later to assume a position on the editorial staff of the fledgling Calgary Albertan. Then, in 1913, he began a six-year career with the Canadian Pacific Railway, rising within three years to become publicity agent in charge of colonization promotion. “Publicity,” Warren Susman, reminds us, is one of the key words of the twentieth century, and the publicity agent one of it most exemplary professions.37 It was during this period that Stead used his agrarian and small-town knowledge and experience as the basis for three works of fiction: The Bail Jumper (1914), The Homesteaders (1916), and The Cow Puncher (1918). Leaving Calgary and the cpr in 1919, he relocated in Ottawa in a similar position with the Department of Immigration and Colonization.38 Robert Stead’s career involved him in a variety of experiences which provided an intimate knowledge of the prairies, matched by that of few other writers of his time. Growing up with the region as it evolved from the remote frontier to which the family had journeyed by train through the United States, followed by a 120-mile wagon ride to the homestead, to a land of sophisticated cities and transportation networks, Stead embraced the modern optimism of the settlement era. He welcomed each advance in technology and predicted dependency on the automobile as early as 1899.39 By 1905 his newspaper featured comics and fashion advice. Yet he was also concerned about the type of society being established. Could viable communities be maintained in this restless age of acquisition and competition? Would the new land possess a spirituality and a soul? For Stead, the answer was not religious faith. Neither the church nor any other institution could supply the broader spirituality that was needed; only culture had that capability.

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Like Charles Gordon, Stead was a man full of incongruities. Universally known as modest and unassuming with a retiring disposition, he aggressively pursued every opportunity to further his career as a writer. Although employed by the leading private corporation, the cpr, he advocated nationalizing transportation and other key industries.40 He was a sober, serious individual of medium height and wiry constitution, yet on the platform, where he performed constantly, he was known as a folksy, Will Rogers type of humorist. “His humour, which is his greatest mode of persuasion,” a Vancouver Sun reporter noted, “is delivered with an almost mournful inclination of the voice, and never fails to produce enjoyable laughter.”41 Stead was a constant advocate of quality leisure time, yet he often spent holidays correcting the latest page proofs from his publisher. He was honest and sincere. There was no artifice, no conceit; he was one of the people – their friendly philosopher and storyteller and a man who responded quickly to enthusiasm or calls for sympathy. Above all, he was an individual who knew his region intimately and could share his profound knowledge with thousands of readers. Nellie McClung’s parents, John and Letitia Mooney, were also a part of the migration in the early 1880s from Ontario to Manitoba. Having emigrated from Ireland in 1830, her father had spent a decade as a shantyman before settling on a farm in Grey County, ten miles south of Owen Sound.42 After the death of his first wife soon after their marriage, he waited sixteen years before marrying Nellie’s mother, Letitia McCurdy, a recent immigrant from Scotland who was twenty years his junior. Born on 20 October 1873, when her father was sixty, Nellie, the youngest of six children, remembered a happy childhood with a relaxed, fun-loving Irish father who was in many respects more like a grandfather. Her stern, demanding, Scottish mother always seemed too busy to relax. From her father, she inherited her wit and good-humoured approach to life, while from her mother she learned duty, sacrifice, and charity.43 The contrast of the Irish and Scottish backgrounds also provided her with important insights into ethnicity, which she incorporated into her fiction. From the port of Owen Sound in the spring of 1880, the family sailed to Duluth, where they boarded a train for St Boniface, across the river from Winnipeg. It was Letitia and her sons, rather than the elderly John, who had decided on the move west. After spending the summer in Winnipeg while the men built a house, Nellie and her family journeyed 180 miles by ox cart to their new homestead, five miles from the new town of Millford. Although not yet seven at this time, Nellie many years later could still smell the bacon frying as they camped on this journey.44 Arriving before schools and churches, the

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Mooneys would prosper with the community to become some of its most successful farmers. Nellie waited three years for the local Northfield school to open. This experience of “carving a new life in a fresh frontier marked McClung’s imagination deeply.”45 It would form both the context and the content of her first three novels: Sowing Seeds in Danny (1908), The Second Chance (1910), and Purple Springs (1921). For these books, she used the real town of Millford and even the real names of some of the residents, such as the Motherwells.46 A typical farm daughter, whose chores included filling the wood box, gardening, and gathering eggs, with occasional forays into the fields and the milking barn, Nellie was “by nature outgoing, outspoken and very independent-minded in resisting her mother’s frequent reminders that she was too free with her tongue.”47 With the career options limited, she chose to follow her older sister, Hannah, into the teaching profession. After journeying to Brandon at fifteen to write the exams for a second-class certificate, she enrolled in the Winnipeg Normal School in September 1889. Nellie later highlighted this experience as the opening of the door for her.48 Certainly, for someone so young who had been the protected “baby” of the family, it represented both a new freedom and an broadening of horizons. She returned to the Millford area the next year as a trained teacher and would teach in four different schools during the next five years, missing only one term, when she stayed with her mother at the time of her father’s death.49 Nellie also enlarged her vision and experience through association with her future in-laws, the McClungs, with whom she boarded while teaching in Manitou and Treherne. The Reverend J.A. McClung was the local Methodist clergyman, with a stern theology but kind heart, who would be supportive of Nellie. It was, however, his gentle, gracious, wife, Annie, who captivated her. Here was a more cultured, more service-oriented home that would serve as an important model for Nellie, both for her own home and for her role in the wider community.50 In addition to encouraging her writing career, Annie introduced her to both the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union and public speaking. The couple also raised their son, Robert Wesley, to be supportive of the rising aspirations of women. When Nellie first met Wes, he was living at home and clerking in the local drugstore. Upon his return from Toronto, as a graduate of the College of Pharmacy, in the autumn of 1894, Wes purchased drugstores in Manitou and Pilot Mound. Then, having achieved the required financial independence, he courted Nellie and married her in the summer of 1896. With red hair and a quick temper that rapidly dissipated, the fun-loving, athletic Wes made an ideal husband. Marriage, however, had not been an easy decision for Nellie. In

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addition to her desire to have a career as a modern writer, she aspired to a larger and grander life than that offered by a conventional domestic role. Only after Wes had assured her that this was possible did she consent to their life together.51 For the next fifteen years, the couple lived in Manitou, a town of about eight hundred, at first in rooms over the drugstore and then, from 1900, in their first home. It was in Manitou, where the first four of their five children were born, that she wrote short stories and her first two novels, which provide a loving, yet critical, portrait of smalltown life. This was in many ways a golden age for small towns. With a wide range of clubs, sports activities, agricultural fairs, picnics, “at homes,” concerts, and travelling musical and theatrical companies, which performed at the Manitou Opera House, as well as access to countless newspapers, magazines, and books, residents could experience a rich social and cultural life. By the late nineteenth century, notes Lois Banner, “an opera house was a common symbol of community pride and modernity.”52 As community leaders, the McClungs were involved at every level.53 With small children and such an active community life, Nellie could only accomplish her dream of authorship by being “energetic, well-organized” and possessing “an equable good temper and dependable domestic help.”54 A move to Winnipeg in 1911 opened up an even wider world for her in an expanding community of writers and feminists. Capitalizing on her fame as an author and speaker, she thrust herself into Manitoba politics as a leading campaigner for temperance and suffrage legislation. These new interests also found their way into her fiction and non-fiction.55 After a transfer to Edmonton in 1914, she continued her activities in Alberta, highlighted by her election to the provincial legislature as a Liberal opposition member in 1921. “She is a bit of a paradox, this breezy, western writer, speaker, and reformer,” wrote a journalist in 1918. “A stiff backbone, a virile manner and argumentative tones contradict the peace and quiet in her eyes. Even in repose you know instinctively that she is a fighter. But such a square fighter. And the thread of charity runs throughout mingled with the tenderness of a big-hearted woman.”56 By nature a doer and an activist who relished the limelight, McClung would have been no more content with being chained to the writer’s desk than to domestic duties. She was a modern, almost professional feminine activist. Thus, in spite of her choice of writing as a profession, the calls of performance and public duty constantly intervened to circumscribe her activity as author to a more marginal position or, at the very least, to a more journalistic type of writing that did not demand continuous

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concentration over extended periods of time.57 While maintaining some elements of nineteenth-century character, McClung, more than the other four authors in this study, epitomizes an emerging, masterful, forceful personality of the early twentieth century. “The social role demanded of all in the culture of personality,” says Warren Susman, “was that of performer.”58 McClung was superb performer and did become a magnetic star attraction. Although the culture of personality is often labelled superficial and unrelated to the essential humanity within, she used this outward projection of self to reveal her internal essence. Nellie McClung was a unique figure on the Canadian landscape in the early twentieth century. No one had seen anything quite like her before. Earnest and serious, yet bold, mischievous, and witty, she was both an idealist and a practical realist. Lacking any trace of selfrighteousness, she made an ideal spokesperson for a variety of reform and feminist causes. Always scornful of pretention and hypocrisy, she remained, in the minds of her public, a very ordinary person who never forgot her farm and small-town roots. Both a modernist and a traditionalist, she was a model person to guide her many readers and listeners into a more modern world. Although Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables (1908) appeared the same year as McClung’s Danny, Montgomery had served a longer, more arduous apprenticeship than her prairie contemporary. Born on 30 November 1874, to a mother who died from tuberculosis before her daughter’s second birthday, Maud grew up at Cavendish, Prince Edward Island, under the care of her maternal grandparents, Alexander and Lucy Macneill, who at fifty-two and fifty-six had already raised six children.59 Although Montgomery occasionally felt orphaned, she grew up in a privileged, cultured home with solid family connections and support. Tracing their Island roots back to the eighteenth century, both the Montgomerys and the Macneills had status in the community. Grandfather Montgomery was a senator, while Grandfather Macneill operated the local post office from his farm house and had a privileged seat in the local Presbyterian church.60 From these two men, Maud learned the ancient lore of family and Island which would play an important role in her development as a writer. Her grandparent guardians also provided her with books and magazines to read, organ lessons, and higher education. Among the printed materials subscribed to by her grandmother was Godey’s Lady’s Book, the most popular American women’s magazine, which championed progress and the advancement of women.61 There were also summer vacations at the Montgomery home at Park Corner with cousins her own age.

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A lively, precocious, but often insecure child who recognized herself as different from others, Maud Montgomery possessed a vivid imagination which could whisk her “into regions of wonderful adventures, unhampered by any restrictions of time and place.”62 As a passionate reader of poetry and fiction, she also, like her fictional heroine Anne, placed herself with dramatic flair in exciting, emotional fictional worlds. This sensitive, impetuous, excitable, temperamental personality would have been a “trial even for flexible, young parents,”63 let alone her grandparents, who were almost seventy when Maud reached her difficult adolescent years. Fond memories of her Island home and community, however, consumed Montgomery for her entire life. Eight months with her father and his new family in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, in her mid-teen years reinforced her identification with her verdant native island, which contrasted sharply with what she saw as the desolate expanse of the barren prairie.64 Like Nellie McClung, Montgomery desperately craved the profession of writer but opted for an interim career as a teacher. Experiences at the Prince of Wales College in Charlottetown, where, like Anne of Green Gables, she completed a two-year program in one because of finances, and at schools and boarding houses over the next four years and a year at Dalhousie University in Halifax (1895–96) provided new perspectives and yielded sufficient time for her to pursue the writing of poetry and fiction. With the sudden death of her grandfather guardian in March of 1898, she abandoned teaching to live with her grandmother, assist her in the operation of the post office, and continue the serious pursuit of a writing career. There has been much interest in the thirteen years that Montgomery spent caring for her elderly, increasingly irritable grandmother, who lived to be eighty-seven. It was no easy task, and certainly, many other women in similar circumstances ended up in an insane asylum after a parent’s death.65 But we must remember that Montgomery lived a rich, active life in these years, during which she achieved international fame as a writer and became secretly engaged to her future husband, the Reverend Ewen Macdonald. After an eight-month break working in Halifax in 1901–02, she was more than ready to return home. It is easy to understand her increasing impatience regarding her delayed marriage, but she would probably have suffered periods of depression regardless of circumstance. Her private journals reveal an acute sensitivity and a sense of rank in which she placed herself above the others. With the young population of her Cavendish shrinking, she felt even more alone. Although she hid this attribute from most of her acquaintances in her adult years, privately

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she continued to feel emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually alone. There existed within her a sufficient Presbyterian, Scottish reserve to make it difficult to share her inner self with others. Her heroine Anne’s need for kindred spirits was very much her own, but unlike Anne’s, it remained largely unfulfilled. Becoming a clergyman’s wife, with no ability to select favourites because of parish sensitivities, exacerbated the problem, as did the critical distance that she maintained between herself and other Canadian writers.66 While she did have her supportive networks throughout her life, there remained the problem that she both felt and was superior to most of their members.67 She was enough of a Calvinist to appreciate the benefits of her trials, suffering, and loneliness. They made her stronger, more sensitive, and more perceptive. Without them, it is doubtful if Anne of Green Gables would ever have appeared. “There is a certain discontent,” she told her confidant George MacMillan, “which I believe does ennoble because it impels us to try to improve our surroundings”;68 it also taught her self-control. Montgomery did not find such a spirit in her husband. Having rejected two suitors because of their dullness or inferiority, she lowered her expectations of romance and true love, defined in large part through her reading of literature, and accepted a proposal from Ewen Macdonald in the autumn of 1905. A Prince Edward Island farm boy, he had trained for the ministry, and it was while serving in Cavendish that he met Maud, the organist and choir director. In spite of his lack of intellectual and cultural interests and her own lack of love for him, she decided that he provided her last hope for marriage and motherhood. By now in her early thirties, given her circumstances and in spite of her literary success, a spinster’s life seemed to offer only more empty loneliness.69 Throughout her life, she repressed “the shadow figure [she] dreaded in herself, sharp, carping, and critical,”70 the type of character represented by her Grandmother Macneill and several characters in her fiction. The couple married in the summer of 1911 and embarked on a trip to Britain financed by her book royalties, before settling in his Ontario parish at Leaskdale, north of Toronto near Lake Simcoe. Here Montgomery added the demanding and active roles of clergyman’s wife and mother to that of author. Giving birth to three boys, two of whom lived, during the next four years provided her with the desired intense happiness of motherhood, but she would only grow fond of rather than love her husband.71 Given his own shallowness, Ewen found being married to someone famous who earned much more than he did difficult. Already subject to fits of religious melancholy, to which was now added jealousy of his wife, he suffered a complete

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collapse in 1919. For the rest of his life, he continued to experience periodic relapses.72 To her already heavy duties, his wife now added hiding his condition from prying parishioners and explaining his many absences. Montgomery’s choice of marriage and motherhood did not diminish her professional career as a writer. Only a disciplined and superbly organized woman, with the aid of domestic help, could have excelled at both. Although she complained of having sacrificed her leisure, she was full of nervous energy and only happy when she was busy. On her walks she composed her books in her mind; even when she was visiting or being interviewed, her hands occupied themselves with needlework.73 For Montgomery, the domestic and the professional were separate spheres. The children learned quickly not to intrude when she was writing. She never carried her professional life into the parish work or relationships. Unlike Connor, Stead, and McClung, Montgomery viewed her primary vocation as that of a professional writer. She was sufficiently wealthy to have lived very comfortably on her own. With a separate bank account, many vacations alone in Prince Edward Island, and networks of professional relationships, she lived a modern life which contrasted sharply with the experience of the average Canadian woman of the era. Yet she continued to like both cooking and housecleaning. The motto of the Uxbridge Hypatia Club, in which Montgomery participated – “To do my best all round, keep good company, read good books, love good things, and cultivate soul and body as faithfully and widely as I can”74 – accurately reflects her personal approach to life. Although she described herself as a conservative, but not one bound by conventions, her appreciation of “good things” included fine china, fashionable motor cars purchased by her for the family, and the latest fashions, which would ensure she was never outclassed in public.75 Shopping at Eaton’s department store in Toronto, culminating with dinners at the Round Room or one of the better hotels, a liking for jazz music, frequent attendance at the movies, contempt for poor manners and grammar, a passion for taking photographs, and a perpetual state of turmoil rendered her modern. While still in Cavendish, she owned a plate camera, a rare possession for the non-professional in that era, and developed her own pictures. This was soon replaced with a Kodak. In the 1930s she added a Kodascope moving-picture camera to her collection and was overjoyed when the first film she took in Prince Edward Island “came out splendidly.”76 Photographs and moving pictures are important components of visual modernity, and Montgomery’s fascination with the visual is another aspect of her being modern. Many of the photo-

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graphs she took can be seen accompanying the text of her journals, edited by Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston. Montgomery’s modernity, which also included an addiction to crossword puzzles did have limits, however. She expressed a passionate dislike for free verse and the modern fixation on things sexual. Walking, gardening, and reading remained her favourite pastimes throughout her life.77 She was a complex person who read W.E.H. Lecky’s History of Rationalism during the First World War in an attempt to make sense of the irrationality of war and twice read Grote’s twelve-volume History of Greece. Who but this famous author, who was mistress of the manse, could have spent “a gorgeous time” at a Norval Presbyterian Sunday school picnic in her car under the pine trees alternately reading chapters of Mary Roberts Rinehart’s recent best-seller Tish Plays the Game, with tears of laughter streaming down her face, and Herodotus’ ancient Greek History, and comparing the experience to alternate licks of an ice cream cone and bites of a sandwich?78 For her, there were no barriers between high and popular culture. Montgomery exuded a warm, radiant, unassuming personality, full of charm and humour. While generous in her service to others, she preferred to remain independent and aloof, like the cats she loved so much. Although she was an idealist, unlike Connor, Stead, and McClung, Montgomery did not believe that one could carry idealism into the real world without compromising or losing it. More secular than Connor and McClung, she relegated religious faith to a secondary position in both her life and her fiction.79 As a professional writer, like Arthur Stringer, Montgomery viewed her primary purpose as entertaining rather than converting or reforming the reader. Arthur John Arbuthnott Stringer, like the other authors in this study, utilized his life experiences in his writing, but these experiences were much more varied.80 Born in the southwestern Ontario county seat of Chatham, a sleepy river town, on 26 February 1874, he was the son of Hugh and Sally (Delmage) Stringer, with English, Irish, and Scottish roots. His paternal grandmother, with whom he read Burns and Byron as a child, was a granddaughter of the Aberdeenshire Viscount of Arbuthnott.81 With a father who was a Great Lakes ship’s captain and then a carriage maker, Arthur grew up in a comfortable middle-class home complete with two black servants. This was not, however, to be an idyllic childhood. His mother, the daughter of a Dublin barrister, died when he was four. The two stepmothers and many stepbrothers and stepsisters who followed introduced considerable rivalry and unhappiness into his life.82 A highspirited youth who swam in the Thames River, played pirate, and

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stole fruit, Arthur, like the hero of his Lonely O’Malley (1905),83 experienced the difficulty of merging into a new social group when the family moved up the river to London when he was ten. After graduating from the London Collegiate Institute in 1892, Stringer entered the University of Toronto, where he was a star in rugby football, participated in a student strike in his freshman year, served as assistant editor of the Varsity student newspaper, wrote poetry and articles, and attended the theatre. Having left before graduating, he spent several months in London, Ontario, where he published his first volumes of poetry.84 With a letter of introduction from Goldwin Smith, a former Oxford professor, who was then editor of the Week in Toronto, he crossed the ocean to Oxford University. Unqualified to engage in formal studies, Arthur continued his exploration of poetry and poetic theory with a special interest in Shakespeare. Having published three volumes of poetry by this time and undertaken a study of King Lear, he must have appeared an aggressive, even precocious, young man in his early twenties.85 Upon his return to North America, Stringer worked for a short period as a car counter for the Père Marquette Railway in northern Michigan, which would later provide the setting for his novel Power (1925). His newspaper writing in this period caught the attention of Joseph Atkinson of the Herald in Montreal, who invited Stringer to work for him. Then in 1898, New York, the world’s most modern, exciting city, captured him. Many other Canadian authors had preceded or would follow him to the northeastern United States.86 “In those days I was hot on the heels of sensations,” he states. “I wanted to see everything. I thought that was necessary to become a successful writer.”87 In addition to absorbing the diverse atmosphere of the city, newspaper work, and writing his first book of short stories and first novel, based on that atmosphere and society, his experiences included marriage to a twenty-year-old actress, Jobyna Howland, after a whirlwind seven-week courtship. The Stringers were a thoroughly modern, urban couple immersed in the active social life of bohemian New York. A genial, handsome man, six feet, two and one-half inches, in height, with broad shoulders, “a stance and a stride like a Roman gladiator, features that were strongly rugged, and amazingly sensitive at the same time,”88 Arthur loved the action and the limelight. To Jobyna and others, he appeared a splendid specimen of well-developed manhood with an impressive, “ruddy brown complexion, black wavy locks, flashing dark eyes, [and] handsome proportions.”89 Equally tall and regal, Jobyna had arrived in New York from the mid-western United States in the mid1890s to become one of Charles Dana Gibson’s models. With her long,

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Five Authors in a Modern World

lithe, supple figure, pert face, and piercing eyes, this statuesque blond goddess epitomized the vigorous, beautiful, modern American woman.90 Just months before meeting Stringer, she had begun her acting career on Broadway as Princess Flavin in Daniel Frohman’s production of Rupert of Hentzan. As exciting as the round of dinners, teas, and parties, at which Jobyna was “a pleasant boozing companion,”91 were, Stringer discovered that this milieu was not one in which he found the proper mood or sufficient time for writing. He began to long for “absence from the many-tongued voices of the noisiest city in the world.”92 His lifestyle had become detrimental to his career. Like his hero Owen Storrow in The Wine of Life (1921),93 Stringer and Jobyna moved to a quiet fruit farm on the shore of Lake Erie, south of his native Chatham. This would serve as his summer residence for the next eighteen years, during which he produced several crime novels set in New York. For the winter months, the couple moved to Chatham or travelled. In spite of winters spent overseas and in the American south, frequent visits to New York, and nude swimming in Lake Erie and parties at the Shadow Lawn farm, Jobyna found the role of author’s wife in rural Ontario stultifying. After a decade of marriage, she responded to the call of career and New York nightlife and returned to that city. Months later, the now-divorced Arthur married his charming cousin, Margaret Arbuthnott Stringer.94 Although twenty years younger than he, Peg was everything that Jobyna was not, and she provided the restless writer with stability and focus.95 Quiet, gracious, and supportive, she assisted him in his writing and became the mother of their three sons. It was during this period of summer residence on Shadow Lawn at Cedar Springs and winters in a rented house in Chatham that Stringer became interested in the Canadian prairie. He invested in the Turner Valley oil boom of 191496 and purchased a wheat-growing ranch in the Symonds Valley on the advice of Duncan Stewart, a Calgary real estate agent and former Chatham resident.97 Called to prop up his father’s faltering investments in Calgary residential lots and the Elbow Ranch of his stepbrother Bert, Arthur found himself the owner of ten city lots and the ranch. He had to support his father financially for his few remaining years. After thanking Arthur and Margaret for the roof over his head and plenty to eat, his father wrote that “even if you are the loser in cash, you have the satisfaction of being kind and very thoughtful to me in my old age.”98 This sequence of events led to increasingly strained relations between them, the need for Arthur to bail out several relatives financially, and the writing of his Prairie Trilogy, his best and most famous work with a Canadian setting.99

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It is clear, in spite of his assertions to the contrary, that Stringer never intended to locate permanently on the prairies as a farmer.100 By this stage in his career, he was a very successful author and a scriptwriter for the movies. The primary benefit of the experience was the knowledge gained for his Prairie Trilogy, which included the character of the grasping entrepreneur, speculator, and anti-hero, Duncan McKail. Increasingly throughout this period, Stringer felt the lure of urban life once more. Deciding that a writer required both solitude and society, he settled on a location that offered both. Thirty miles from Manhattan in the New Jersey hills, overlooking a large lake, lay the suburban community of Mountain Lakes. It was there that Stringer settled in 1921. With its friendly spirit and good fellowship, tennis, skating, skiing, and golf and country club, the community offered escape “from steel and smoke, and from crowds and clamour for those desiring home, beauty, nature and freedom.”101 Close enough to New York City to provide easy access for meetings with his agent and publishers and visits to clubs and friends, Mountain Lakes was a sufficiently small community to allow Stringer the quiet solitude he needed for his eight-hour-a-day writing schedule, while at the same time supplying an active social life. As the cultural leader of the community, he championed the local and regional libraries and in 1927 established the Mountain Lakes Dramatic Guild, a local theatre group that produced many of his plays. He was also the town’s poet laureate, writing poems for special occasions as well as providing creative writing workshops in the school. In their two-and-a-half-storey, stuccoed manor house and spacious three-acre property overlooking the lake, which provided ample opportunity for gardening and cabinetmaking, the Stringers lived a life worthy of a successful author. From this time, his focus turned increasingly towards adventure tales set in the Canadian north. With frequent visits to Canada, Stringer maintained an interest in both countries in his social and professional life. He was a pioneer in showing Canadian writers how to succeed in the diverse world of American publishing and helped to pave the way for those who wished to survive solely by their pens. Although wealthy and patrician-looking, he remained a unaffected host with no pretension and no obvious air of rank or class. Modern in his secular approach to life, his business-like attitude to his profession, and his psychological insights into human behaviour, Stringer had, according to Nathaniel Benson, “one of the most alert and agile minds that one could find anywhere.”102 With his focus on family, idealism, belief in the virtues of hard work, and chivalrous attitude towards women, he also main-

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tained virtues common to many Canadians of his generation. In signing Lorne Pierce’s autograph book with the Calvinistic saying “To make your heart, you first have to break your heart,”103 he expressed a sentiment with which all the authors in this study would have agreed. These five writers both shared and helped to create the liberal, progressive consciousness of the Anglo-Canadian, white, urban middle class. Much less earnest and serious than the typical Victorian intellectual, they nevertheless continued to believe in the perfectibility of humankind. Conscious of the turbulence and the stresses in their society, they focused on the importance of order, civility, family, and community. Yet this was a cosmopolitan consciousness which rejected narrow provincialism and adopted its guidelines from metropolitan centres. The five were comfortable with the ever-increasing pace of technological innovation and the commercialization of society – innovations which, in fact, made their successful writing careers possible. Each of them was a modern consumer benefiting from her or his increased wealth and delighting in the wide range of products that were available to make life more interesting and more complete. Refinement, comfort, and happiness were important to them. They were all accepting of the aspirations of the modern woman for equal rights and opportunities. Yet the older virtues of duty, sacrifice, and hard work continued to influence them. In their lives and in their fiction, they focused on the individual. This was an era of selfimprovement, self-expression, and self-realization with the spotlight on personal and commercial success. Each of the five possessed the self-discipline and the aggressive self-promotion required for success as a writer. The works of Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer in this golden age of hardcover fiction assisted many readers in their own encounters with modernity. “The mass media played a mediating role … by which individuals were taught to cope with the transition from traditional to modern, and to find a comfortable compromise between them,” writes Mary Vipond. “They helped people make sense of their lives in a rapidly changing world.”104 Fiction played an important role in this accommodation, whether in the form of short stories or novels, which an eager public could procure in newspapers, magazines, or book format.

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2 The Golden Age

In his autobiographical reflections, prominent Canadian critic Hector Charlesworth remembers the 1890s as a “glorious and stimulating time for young men with artistic predilections.”1 Although he fails to recognize the prominent role of women writers, Charlesworth correctly identifies the decade as marking the beginnings of a cultural golden age for Canadians in which a mass market opened for such writers as Charles W. Gordon and Arthur Stringer.2 This was also the decade in which new publishers appeared, old houses embarked on a process of transformation, and the concept of “best-seller” firmly entrenched itself in the consciousness of publishers, booksellers, and readers. With the works of Gilbert Parker and Ralph Connor, the Canadian frontier emerged as a favoured setting for internationally popular fiction. The decade also witnessed important developments in the area of copyright which were prerequisites for the publishing boom in popular fiction that would continue through the 1920s. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, book publishing had been a respected, gentlemanly profession situated in a pre-industrial milieu as yet virtually untouched by the commercialization of modern capitalist society. Novels were issued primarily in a cumbersome and expensive three-volume format. Readers focused on serious works, showing a preference for poetry and essays. The language was relaxed and discursive. This was the “halcyon” era of culture, in which the author was a privileged and leisured member of society and a small group controlled production.3 Throughout the century in Canada, only a small upper-class elite regularly read literary periodicals.4

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The same, however, cannot be said for novels. Early in the century, James Fenimore Cooper of the United States and Sir Walter Scott of Britain, followed by a group of American women sensation novelists, transformed both the novel and the practice of reading. In Canada as well, in the second half of the century, a group of women writers, of which May Agnes Fleming was the most significant, demonstrated that there was an international market for new types of fiction.5 These were new, exciting novels dealing with real places, real people, and real emotions. Written in a crisper, earthier, and more natural language, they appealed to a much larger reading public.6 Purchasing a book was no longer almost a sacrament but the gateway to personal wonder and excitement for the millions of readers.7 In the 1830s, cheap American editions of British and American novels began to flood into Canada. By 1833, Fisher’s Bookstore in Montreal carried a stock of over a thousand novels. Book agents would soon begin to peddle books from door to door, even in the more isolated parts of the country.8 In the same period, Canadian newspapers began to feature book reviews and serialized fiction.9 By the late nineteenth century, at the Institut Canadien in Montreal, once renown for its library of political works forbidden by the papal Index, patrons demanded popular novels rather than non-fiction works.10 Modern industrial society’s infatuation with literature had begun. During the second half of the century, fiction became as commercialized a business as any other as it adjusted to mass production and global marketing. Innovations transformed all aspects of book production and marketing, including cheaper paper and new machinery for printing, folding, and binding – capable of producing either a daily newspaper or thousands of copies of a novel quickly and efficiently. Faster, more effective means of communication, including the telegraph, telephone, railway, and ocean transport, led to more efficient marketing, ordering, and distribution. With the completion of a national railway network in Canada in the mid-1880s, publishers’ representatives could embark on semi-annual sales pilgrimages across the country to promote the next season’s list and secure advance orders. This factor was even more important in filling repeat orders, particularly during the busy Christmas season, upon which authors and publishers depended for their best sales. Equally significant was a vastly improved mail system, especially for the delivery of small orders to country stores and for catalogue sales deliveries. Without the introduction in the nineteenth and early twentieth century of postage stamps and postal money orders, bulk mail rates, advertising postcards with special reduced rates, free rural delivery, and parcel post, there would have been no golden age.11 All of these components were indicative

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of and contributors to the shrinking of time and space which was such a prominent feature of modernity. As new rivals geared to the mass market sprung up, the more traditional publishing houses had no choice but to follow their lead. The large, progressive firms with national and international connections were concentrated in London, England, New York, and Toronto. In Toronto alone in 1906, there were 120 publishers and agents, 5 wholesale bookstores, and 25 retail ones.12 Aggressive advertising emerged as a necessary corollary to this spirit of competition as books joined other new, brand-name products vying for the consumer’s attention. In the summer of 1930 Maud Montgomery autographed over a thousand advertising cards for her Canadian publisher for distribution to potential readers.13 One of the benefits of mass production was a cheaper product. By the end of the century, the three-volume novel had disappeared, replaced by standard, cheaper one-volume editions.14 The term “bestseller” had first appeared in the 1880s. By the mid-1890s it was in common usage in both Britain and the United States.15 Canadian journals and newspapers readily embraced the concept.16 The appearance of new, glossy American magazines such as Saturday Evening Post and Delineator, eager to publish short stories and serialized novels, carried the new works to millions of readers. According to Richard Ohmann, these magazines, which were the engines of new mass culture, were the central element in the diffusion of modernity.17 Another potentially lucrative source of income for authors involved the selling of book rights to movie studios and the writing of the scenarios and scripts themselves. The appearance of a novel on the movie screen increased sales of the book and often led to the publication of a special movie edition of the novel, illustrated with stills from the production. New free libraries provided another source of acquisition. Beginning in the 1890s, Andrew Carnegie contributed over $41 million towards the construction of 1,600 libraries in North America. These public libraries “were intended to fulfil the democratic ethos of an educated populace,” notes George Cotkin, “to create … a class of upwardly mobile and intellectually voracious workers.”18 Patrons, many of them women, however, demanded popular fiction in preference to all other genres. In the early 1920s the Toronto Public Library, for example, held some seven hundred copies of Connor’s works, which were rarely on the shelves.19 There were also hundreds of new bookstores, many of modern design with good lighting and large plate-glass front windows, featuring the latest publications in their window displays. These displays

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were characterized by the same modernist designs as the grocery store windows that Keith Walden so effectively analyzes.20 Through them, consumers could unconsciously experience the aesthetics of cubist and other modernist perspectives. The number of Canadian bookstores jumped from 70 in 1871 to 309 in 1895, 892 in 1911, and 1,274 in 1921.21 Drugstores, which also often sold books, increased at a similar rate. What is particularly significant is the geographical distribution of these outlets. Far from being confined to the larger centres, they existed in small towns across the country. Residents in these more remote locations were being pulled into the metropolitan orbit “by such things as telegraph and telephone wires, travelling salesmen, railway tracks, and mail-order catalogues.”22 In Calgary, with its small population base, E.B. Osborne’s bookshop ordered 1,000 copies of Robert Stead’s early novels at a time.23 Even old-style general stores and drugstores proudly displayed recent titles by Canadian and other authors. Eaton’s and other mail-order catalogue outlets also vied for a share of the marketplace, often at discount prices.24 It was, however, not just the new, popular literature which experienced a transformation. Cheap library editions of hundreds of works of fiction, history, poetry, and philosophy from current and previous eras also found an enthusiastic, popular market. In the 1890s, while still a student, Clarence Mackinnon purchased the Humbolt Library of great works, which included Darwin, Spenser, Tyndale, Huxley, Hegel, and other authors. This intellectual foundation, as yet unavailable in the university classroom, served him well during his career as a clergyman and educator.25 Soon cheap reprints of recent best-sellers began to appear. Between the late 1870s and the early 1890s, in advance of many of these changes, Canadian publisher John Ross Robertson had demonstrated the potential of the new market. Using his Evening Telegram press in Toronto to produce crude, newsprint editions of popular fiction, Robertson sold 50,000 copies of the works of Bret Harte, Mark Twain, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and other authors.26 During this period the trade journal Books and Notions noted in mid-1887 that the Rose Publishing Company of Toronto had sold in Canada nearly all of its 6,000-copy printing of Lew Wallace’s popular novel Ben-Hur.27 It was the lack of protection and regulation in the industry that had permitted Robertson and Rose to pirate these titles for their own editions. For Canadian authors, the same phenomenon resulted in a significant loss of royalties from pirated editions in the United States. Perhaps, then, the most significant change in the book world in the late nineteenth century was the adoption of international copyright

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regulations. With dozens of pirated editions which paid no royalties competing with authorized editions, the industry was in desperate need of some enforceable rules of conduct. For authors and publishers of popular fiction, the high stakes involved made these changes imperative. Attempts to regulate the industry failed throughout most of the century. While some nations could pass copyright laws, others were just as free to ignore them. Caught between the British and the Americans, Canadians were both blessed and cursed. Although there were plenty of books in numerous imported editions for sale, the British refused to grant reprint rights to Canadian publishers for fear that these editions would find their way back into the British market as part of the colonial trade. Hence when London and Edinburgh publishers sold American rights to titles, they routinely attached Canadian rights. Since 1868, Canadian authors had been protected within Canada for books registered with the federal government, but with few titles published and little protection in foreign markets, they remained in a precarious position.28 As late as 1898, Ralph Connor, whose Black Rock was registered only in Canada, suffered indignity and considerable financial loss from several American pirated editions which paid no royalties.29 Until the 1890s the rights of publishers and booksellers received more attention than those of authors, but as authorship became a more recognized profession, that situation began to change. Writers such as Goldwin Smith of Toronto and the popular British novelist Hall Caine actively promoted copyright protection for authors in the second half of the 1890s.30 For Canadian publishers the central issue was the right to publish Canadian editions of British and American titles; for booksellers it was the freedom to purchase from any source and make a profit; and for authors it was access to and protection in the British, American, and Canadian markets. It was the contradictory elements within these positions and the jealous rivalry among the countries which made creating order from the chaos difficult. Another problem for Canada was its semi-colonial status, which led to repeated British rejection of Canadian copyright legislation in the first half of the 1890s. At the beginning of that decade, the British and the Americans settled their differences. The American Copyright Law of 1891 provided Americans and foreigners with protection in the American market as long as the book was typeset, printed, and published in the United States.31 From this point, it was imperative for Canadian authors to secure an American edition in order to tap into the U.S. market, which offered by far the greatest royalty potential. It was the failure to secure an American edition which had led to the pirated versions

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of Connor’s Black Rock. When the Toronto branch of Robert Stead’s British publisher failed to arrange an American edition of Neighbours in the early 1920s, he offered the book as a serial to Women’s Weekly of Chicago at no charge in order to secure copyright protection in the United States.32 Finally in the early 1890s, the Americans and the British began to respect each other’s copyright. The flood of pirated editions ceased in those two countries, but the situation in Canada remained chaotic. By the end of the decade, however, order began to emerge. Copyright amendments in 1900 empowered Canadian publishers to arrange for local editions and to prohibit the importation into Canada of foreign imprints. Even more important was the right to import books, sheets, or plates of a book published outside Canada for a Canadian edition. Although these clauses in the legislation could mean as little as having a Canadian title page inserted into a book printed and bound in London or New York, they did provide a protected market within Canada for Canadian authors. With that market now secure, a number of new publishers emerged that specialized in printing Canadian editions of American and British popular fiction, which they marketed across the country. In addition, a number of British publishers established branches in Canada, as culture joined other industries in the branch-plant ramifications of a protected national economy. While there has been much criticism of this phenomenon since 1900, for the Canadian publishers, the reprint trade offered profits and stability and the freedom to publish Canadian titles which might not be profitable. For Canadian authors, the situation provided innumerable choices in selecting a publisher. Not all Canadians, however, were pleased with the commercialization of the industry and its fixation on popular literature. Writing in the Toronto Globe in 1893, poet Wilfred Campbell lamented the transformation of publishing houses into commercial ventures and literature into a trade. “A certain class of clever-mediocre men,” he wrote, “have usurped the place of literary men, and genius is being driven out. Even poetry is regarded as a business.”33 A similar elitism pervaded the Canadian magazine industry, which made little attempt to be truly national or popular until after the First World War. “The fear of the debasement of cultural values in a mass society or in popular culture,” notes Warren Susman, spawned “a self-conscious elitism among the academic and periodical guardians of cultural values. They proposed themselves as arbiters, the last hope for continued ‘excellence.›34 In 1901, for instance, J. Gordon Mowat, editor of the Canadian Magazine, stated that the mission of a national magazine was “to stimulate and afford expression to the higher thought and

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tastes of a people” and to be “a stimulus to intellectual effort and the interest in higher thought.”35 In a survey of the arts in 1913, a year in which Montgomery, Connor, McClung, and Stringer were featured, Toronto journalist Marjory MacMurchy lamented that Canadian fiction, which displayed no sign of being “inspired by the gods who send genius,” was not a promising field.36 In a similar survey at the end of the 1920s, Bertram Brooker compared Canadian books to “second-hand Fords, not in the best state of repair.”37 Like automobile manufacturer Colonel McLaughlin in Oshawa, Brooker preferred a Buick made for a king.38 These sentiments were shared by professionals from many occupations at the turn of the century as they experienced a loss of fraternity and gentlemanly status when their ranks swelled with large numbers of a seemingly lesser breed, some of whom were women.39 Most Canadian consumers, however, welcomed the more democratic age; they conformed to the international trends by purchasing or borrowing popular fiction at record levels and by attending stage productions and, later, movies based on such famous best-sellers as Uncle Tom’s Cabin and East Lynne.40 With literacy rates above ninety per cent, improved lighting in the form of oil and gas lamps and then electricity (which lengthened reading hours), more leisure time, and sufficient wealth to purchase books, all the necessary prerequisites were in place for the appearance of modern consumerism. What made this age different from any other was the spirit and the attitudes of the people. It was still an age of self-improvement in which individuals eagerly and proudly used their literacy to engage in a cultural bonanza that often combined what we now artificially divide into high and popular culture. Hector Charlesworth remembered his mother going “about her housework laughingly reciting passages from Shakespeare.”41 While he was a poor bank clerk in Lajord, Saskatchewan, Wilfrid Eggleston combined his reading of Stead, Montgomery, and McClung with physics, history, and poetry.42 During his training for the ministry, James Henderson read Plato, Kant, Darwin, Tyndall, and Huxley along with Connor, Kipling, R.L. Stevenson, and Robert Burns.43 Arthur Stringer listed among his favourite works Alexander Dumas’s Count of Monte Cristo, Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles, and Shakespeare’s Hamlet.44 Although he developed a contempt for the popular writings of Ralph Connor, poet Earle Birney proudly remembered admiring as a child a full window display featuring The Patrol of the Sundance Trail (1914) in his village of Banff, Alberta, which featured a large photo of the region’s own Sundance Canyon and an offer of a free copy of the book to the winner of a raffle. “I never forgot the excitement of seeing my first window display for a book,” he writes,

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“a book by a real, live Canadian about real places somewhere, at least, in our Rocky Mountains. I had become a regionalist.”45 Other Canadians experienced similar pride and identification with the window displays and books of our five authors. Although Van Wyck Brooks coined the terms “highbrow” and “lowbrow” in 1915 to distinguish between this new, popular, bestseller type of culture and the older, now more elite culture, which included Shakespeare, opera, Greek and Roman writers and legends, and symphonic music, many North Americans had not yet engaged in such departmentalization.46 In these early years of the golden age, at least up to the beginning of the First World War, there were still many people who had incorporated into their memories and their lives a broad range of culture which included classical authors and legends, Shakespeare, and the new popular novels. The public culture of the nineteenth century had united both a literate and a nonliterate audience in shared knowledge and experiences in a manner similar, notes Lawrence Levine, to a modern sporting event.47 As the most popular playwright in North America, Shakespeare was an integral part of the culture – understood and appreciated by a wide cross-section of society. In addition to the many stage productions, which highlighted rhetoric, spectacle, and melodrama, there were references to his plays and parodies of them in minstrel shows, concerts, Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, and many other places. An illiterate Rocky Mountain scout could recite long passages from Shakespeare because he had hired someone to read the plays to him. Shakespeare was popular, says Levine, “because he was integrated into the culture and presented within its context.”48 One of the best barometers of this popular consciousness was the widespread participation in literary societies and other clubs that devoted all or part of their attention to literature. One of the Reverend Charles Gordon’s legacies at Canmore, in the Rocky Mountain foothills, was a literary society frequented by miners, ranchers, and local townspeople. In Cavendish, Prince Edward Island, a group met regularly as a Literary Society to discuss and analyze fiction and poetry. They even produced a Cavendish Literary Annual, which Maud Montgomery, one of the editors, thought “quite cosmopolitan.”49 She was an important member of the group from its origins in 1886, but it continued to exist long after she moved to Ontario. At Leaskdale, north of Toronto, Montgomery introduced literature as a component in the Presbyterian Young People’s Guild. On one evening they discussed Nellie McClung as the main topic, and on another occasion, Montgomery’s son Chester provided a dramatic reading of Ralph Connor’s “A Ride for Life” from The Man from Glengarry.50 Women

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from the nearby town of Uxbridge assembled once a month from 1907 on in the Hypatia Club to give papers on a wide selection of literature ranging from Shakespeare and Robert Browning to Charles C.D. Robert’s animal stories and the popular novel Ben-Hur.51 Merry Margaret, a fourteen-year-old member of Nancy Durham’s “Reading Circle” in the Toronto Globe, listed Latin as her favourite subject and Shakespeare as her favourite author, but best of all, she liked Montgomery’s Anne series.52 In the village of Dinsbury, in the new province of Alberta, Montgomery’s correspondent Ephraim Weber assisted in the creation of a literary society to which he delivered a paper on Alfred Lord Tennyson’s verbal magic.53 At Chatham, Ontario, the all-male Macaulay Club, once attended by Arthur Stringer, decided after prolonged discussion in the late 1920s that Robert Stead’s Grain provided a more accurate depiction of the prairies than Stringer’s Prairie Wife.54 Similar meetings were a regular feature of villages, towns, and cities throughout North America.55 While these evenings undoubtedly provided entertainment for the participants, they are indicative of much more. Ironically, the age that witnessed an increasing professionalization of writing and publishing was also the golden age of self-improvement and the amateur reader and critic. Even with competition from movies and then radio, as well as other sources of professionalized entertainment, these people took the time to discuss rationally and seriously the nature and impact of literature on their society. They possessed a confidence in their ability that would be rare today, even in a first-year university classroom. Those who continue to insist on denigrating the readers of popular fiction would do well to analyze the activities of these groups. These readers were engaged in mutual help, mutual improvement, and mutual enlightenment, and they sought to understand their society through a study of literature ranging from recent popular fiction to Shakespeare. Another venue for the dissemination of culture was the local concert. Featuring singing, music, dramatic readings, and sometimes drama, such events were held in communities across the nation. Both McClung and Montgomery contributed with such elocution pieces as “The Child Martyr” and readings from their own works after they achieved fame as authors. At a Winnipeg Woman’s Christian Temperance Union recital chaired by Ralph Connor in 1912, McClung read four selections from her stories in an evening which also featured a singer accompanied by a harp. In 1921 two Toronto champions of Canadian culture edited a book of Canadian elocution selections to offset the influence of the standard fare of American and British materials. Among the featured writers were Ralph Connor,

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with two selections from The Sky Pilot; Montgomery, with prose from Anne of Green Gables and a poem; McClung, with selections from Sowing Seeds in Danny and The Black Creek Stopping House; and Stringer, with prose from The Prairie Wife and a poem.56 Readings from these and other Canadian authors such as Robert Service delighted audiences until the popularity of dramatic readings declined during and after the Second World War. They also provided an opportunity for many, especially women, to satisfy their dramatic urges and perform in public.57 Unfortunately, one of the casualties of the golden age of popular, hardcover fiction was the shared public culture that had been such an important feature of the nineteenth century. “By the twentieth century,” notes Lawrence Levine, “art could not have it both ways: no longer could it simultaneously enjoy high cultural status and mass popularity.”58 It is ironic that modernity’s capitalistic ability to mass produce, advertise, and market books should result in this rift. A powerful segment of the upper middle class, uncomfortable with the literate masses sharing their cultural space, moved Shakespeare and other now “highbrow” authors into their exclusive, polite society. So great was the transformation that the only access that the masses had to Shakespeare was as unwilling victims in the school classroom. In the mind of this elite, popular culture was now something to be despised and denigrated with such epithets as “formulistic,” “passive,” “escapist,” and “mindless.” Meanwhile, those masses – and even, surreptitiously, many of the elite ranks – enjoyed and benefited from the new popular fiction. The British author H.G. Wells believed that the novel was “an instrument for the amelioration of the people’s lot … [and] the only medium through which we can discuss the great majority of the problems which are being raised in such bristling multitude by our contemporary social development.”59 While this assessment exhibits Wells’s social-democratic ideology, it also expresses sentiments shared by many writers, readers, and observers in this golden age. At a time when the pulpit was losing some of its authority, Charles Gordon found it more effective to speak as Ralph Connor. For a time, advertisements for Sunday services at St Stephen’s even identified the Reverend Charles Gordon by his pseudonym. Nellie McClung reached many more people with her reform message, which included the need for greater rights for women, through her novels than through her speeches and public appearances. These two authors became famous as advocates only because of their fame as authors. Although fiction did provide entertainment and, for some, escape, it was also a medium into which readers carried their personal

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concerns and questions in their encounters with modernity. As well, it provided them with a diversity of settings and shaped their aesthetic appreciation of them. In the pre-industrial world the consciousness of the average person was narrow and often ill-defined. With the proliferation of more popular writing and illustrations, people were able to view the world in a clearer perspective.60 From the time of Sir Walter Scott, novels played an important role in defining this enhanced consciousness. What is often categorized as a local-colour genre of fiction focusing on quaint communities is, in fact, characteristic of most modern fiction. Montgomery’s fictional Avonlea, McClung’s Millford, Connor’s Glengarry, and Stringer’s New York were all possible because of this new focus of the novel on real people in real communities in a specific time frame. Another important trend in the nineteenth century was a more populist fictional focus on lower-class people. Without this change, none of the five authors in this study could have written their novels. Not until the early twentieth century were homesteaders and farmers successfully incorporated into North American fiction. Robert Stead’s early novels were among the first. For Canadians, this focus on community and people had a special significance. Canada was a nation of immigrants and migrants, who often struggled with a sense of homelessness and tried valiantly to integrate with their new surroundings. Fiction provided an important component of that integration. Another important feature of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was the important change in attitudes towards nature and the wilderness. In the mid-nineteenth century, Susanna Moodie, an English immigrant to Upper Canada, spoke of the forest as a green prison.61 By the 1890s, throughout the Western world, attitudes had changed dramatically. A new, middle-class, urban consciousness now revered the wilderness as a place of refuge, renewal, and excitement. In Winnipeg a Manitoba Free Press editorial in 1921 spoke of the glaring summer sun which softened pavements; it urged more Manitobans to escape from the “par-boiled city” to the cool wilderness with its wild woods, splashing rivers, and fish-filled lakes.62 Already hundreds from this city thronged to the beaches and resorts on Lake Winnipeg, while the more privileged, such as Charles Gordon and his family, went to the Lake of the Woods, across the border in Ontario. Cottage life, camping, hiking, mountain climbing, fishing, and hunting provided wilderness experiences for thousands of Canadians.63 After the First World War, modernist Canadian poetry, the art of the Group of Seven, and the environmental preoccupations of many

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Canadian historians reflected and extended this love affair with the wilderness.64 Many others encountered the wilderness through their reading. From the time of James Fenimore Cooper, who introduced the wilderness to his readers as a place of beauty, excitement, and adventure, novelists increasingly turned to it as a favourite setting. Meaningful nature, supplying refuge, renewal, and adventure, could be found even in such tamed locations as Montgomery’s Avonlea. The sunsets so berated by many critics were also universal. They were near the top of the list of exotic and beautiful experiences – a “form of aesthetic worship, an experience of serenity, sanctity, and wholeness,”65 providing a feeling of total belonging. From the late nineteenth century, Canada’s “last best west” joined Africa and other frontier locations as a favourite fictional setting. For Ralph Connor and Robert Stead in their early novels, the preferred area was the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Like the ranchers in the region, Stead considered this area “one of nature’s minor masterpieces.”66 Following the Klondike gold rush in the early twentieth century, Jack London introduced this final North American frontier to readers of fiction with The Call of the Wild in 1903. Arthur Stringer, James Oliver Curwood, and many other writers soon turned their attention northward.67 These frontiers provided excellent settings for romance and adventure, in which heroines exhibited a conventional domestic femininity and strong heroes fought villains and struggled against such forces of nature as blinding snowstorms. Although there was no longer an interest in taming the wilderness itself, the same did not apply to the people. By instilling the virtues of honesty, honour, and moral order in heroes and heroines, authors sought a proper balance between the metropolitan and wilderness spheres. Beyond these struggles, which often tested and reinvigorated masculinity, the wilderness could also serve as a tonic renewing broken lives, as in Stringer’s A Lady Quite Lost (1931), or provide a Christian, spiritual experience and a standard by which old creeds could be judged, as in Connor’s Sky Pilot (1899). In addition to its sheer volume, modern popular fiction of the early twentieth century is also characterized by its fragmentation into subgenres. The confusing and often overlapping genre divisions and terminology make a precise categorization of the novels of the five authors in this study difficult. Connor’s work, for instance, embraces adventure, romance, religion, reform, local colour, and history. There has also been a confusion between concepts of popular fiction and formula fiction. None of the five were true formula writers because

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their writing evolved over time through a variety of formats in this period of great experimentation in fictional practice. There was also a blurring of gender boundaries for both writers and readers which further complicates labelling. Each of the five authors embraced, to a degree, a local-colour focus on community and paid close attention to detail irrespective of their gender.68 Among the primary ingredients of popular fiction are romance, adventure, action, emotion, and heroes and heroines. New York literary agent J.C. Brandt advised Robert Stead that in order to be successful a novel must be carried by “either a love story or on loveableness or pathos of some character.”69 Readers also expected both characters and settings to be realistic. While romance is present in all the novels in this study except Connor’s Sky Pilot, it is rarely the central preoccupation. The simple romance genre, usually defined as a sentimental love story with a happy ending, does not accurately describe any of the titles.70 Heroes and heroines are also universally important, and can, as Montgomery’s Anne Shirley does, dominate or exclude most other elements. Adventure and action, which help to maintain the interest of the reader, are not always included. Although rarely the central focus of these five authors, they are important in the fiction of Connor, Stead, and Stringer. The adventure genre, which flooded the market from 1900, is usually depicted as appealing primarily to male readers, with its focus on action, violence, and romance.71 Neither McClung or Montgomery wrote adventure stories; thus conforming to the gender norm. But in harmony with a religious theme in the work of Ralph Connor or combined with crime and mystery or the northern wilderness in Arthur Stringer’s, adventure did appeal to women. Stringer also featured women adventurers who visited exotic places and faced danger. Such characters appeared only rarely in popular fiction of this era.72 There are a number of elements, including melodrama, emotion, religion, and reform, which feature more prominently in literature from the 1890s to the 1910s than in later decades. As one of the most pervasive art form of the nineteenth century, melodrama did survive into the twentieth and even found a new home in the movies, but in fiction its intensity faded quickly in the early part of the century. Used to heighten dramatic tension, trap the interest of the reader, and provide surprises, melodrama usually involves coincidences, which sometimes stretches the credulity of the reader. Although it is conspicuous in the first novels of Robert Stead and Ralph Connor, it plays a less-prominent role in their subsequent novels. During the eighteenth century, it had been a sensible common practice to “shed a sympathetic tear as a sign of good breeding.”73

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Although the nineteenth century placed a greater premium on the control of one’s emotions, much of the fiction, including Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, continued to evoke strong empathy which included tears. Of the five authors in this study, only Connor and McClung in their first novels play on the emotions of their readers in this manner. Written as a parable to explain the presence of pain and suffering in God’s world, Connor’s Sky Pilot, was for many readers situated in a very real world of suffering and questioning. It would remain popular for the next two decades.74 When he first read the manuscript of McClung’s Sowing Seeds in Danny, its pathos caused tears to stream down editor Edward Caswell’s face.75 After the First World War, however, Connor and the other four novelists conformed to more critical tastes and downplayed the intensity of emotion. Nevertheless, the emotional engagement of the reader in the text would remain an integral component of the best-seller potential of a novel. Inheriting the tradition of the religious novel from a long line of authors, including E.P. Roe, Lew Wallace, Augusta Jane Evans, and Charles Sheldon, Connor and, to a lesser extent, McClung wrote novels in which questions of faith were important.76 Both authors dealt with important issues of faith, ethics, and behaviour in the modern world and assisted readers in their adjustment to changing times. Each also dealt with a wider world of reform. Indeed, for Connor, McClung, and Stead, reform provided one of the primary motivations for writing. “This search for ‘perfection’ and fulfillment of ‘self,› notes Warren Susman, “dominates much of American thought” in this period.77 The observation is also valid for Canadians and others in the Western world. In a wide range of spheres, including temperance, anti-materialism, morality, and women’s rights, individuals and groups sought to steer what they believed to be a proper course in this era of dramatic change. By incorporating this aspect of the era in their fiction and combining it with character studies and action, these three novelists heightened their appeal. As the reform movement faded after the First World War, however, the genre quickly lost favour. Connor responded to the market changes with a switch to the historical romance, unfortunately at a time when it was also ebbing in popularity. McClung focused more on the short story and journalism, while Stead embraced realism more fully. Popularity is an elusive phenomenon. Generally, only those writers who match the readers’ expectations in matters of genre, character, and setting can hope to achieve it. There are, however, many exceptions to this rule. Also significant is attracting and maintaining the interest of readers and producing something relevant to their lives.

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Beyond these factors are other obscure elements which connect readers to authors and their books. The five authors in this study were able to find formulas for success and popularity. They were fortunate in beginning their careers as writers at a time when there were willing publishers protected by copyright regulations, and readers with insatiable appetites for stories, in the golden age of hardcover fiction.

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3 Apprenticeships, Writing, and Careers

Just before Christmas 1908, basking in the remarkable success of her first novel, Maud Montgomery told her friend Ephraim Weber: “I’ve served a long and hard apprenticeship – how hard no one knows but myself. The world only hears of my successes. It doesn’t hear of all my early buffets and repulses.”1 Although there were moments when several of the authors in this study rendered lip service to the cliché that writers are born not made, their career patterns suggest that the cliché is only relevant when it refers to a desire to write rather than a fully formed innate talent. Each of the five was able to absorb some of the strong narrative tradition that was so prevalent in society, but each also, with the exception of Charles Gordon, refined her or his literary skills for years before achieving great success. After publishing his first poem at age twelve in 1892, Robert Stead waited sixteen years for the appearance of his first book. Nellie McClung commenced the serious pursuit of a literary career in the 1890s as she emerged from her teens, but she did not achieve much success until the publication of Danny in 1908. Although Montgomery experienced the thrill of seeing a poem in print at age sixteen, she published dozens of poems and stories over the next eighteen years before the success of Anne that same year. “The road to literature is at first a very slow one,” she confessed in the spring of 1897, “but I have made a good deal of progress since this time last year and I mean to work patiently until I win – as I believe I shall, sooner or later – recognition and success.”2 Arthur Stringer published his first book of poems in 1894 at age twenty and would wait nine more years for his first novel to appear.

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The second half of the nineteenth century, into which these five authors were born, was a golden age of the narrative. In addition to the ancient classics, with their devotion to logic and beauty, there was the elegant language of Thomas Babington Macaulay and other English writers. A strong oral tradition made storytelling a much practised art for all segments of society, while an equally strong focus on rhetoric meant that how one told a story was as important as the story itself. Both Gordon and Montgomery also benefited from their families’ Scottish oral heritage. Although he was only a toddler when his family moved from Ontario to the prairies, Robert Stead was able to incorporate the journey into his fiction because it was an often-told epic in his childhood. Family reading of the Bible and literature trained listeners’ ears to sense the flow and rhythm of the language. In church, sermons increasingly became contests of oratorical popularity designed to glue people to their seats, while on the hustings, politicians could speak effectively for hours without notes. Children also acquired familiarity with verbal rhythms through the memorization of poetry for school, Bible verses and the catechism for Sunday school, and other selections on their own.3 The emerging preoccupation with folklore strengthened and widened the narrative field, and the emerging social sciences provided a fresh focus on and a new understanding of detail and behaviour. While these examples were important to any aspiring writer, it should also be noted that some habits might have to be unlearned. Charles G.D. Roberts, a Canadian poet and author of popular animal stories, found that it took him years of practice to write in the simple, lucid, easy prose expected of writers at the turn of the century.4 Such natural language was an important ingredient in connecting with large audiences in the field of popular literature. Writing to a junior high school student interested in becoming a writer, Charles Gordon advised him to “read, and read, and read, and again read the best English books. Go back to the old masters for they are still the best.”5 Each of the five authors in this study achieved such a familiarity with the great and the popular masters of British and American prose, poetry, and drama, whether through their schooling, their parents’ reading to them, or their own reading. Both Nellie McClung and Arthur Stringer found refuge in the haylofts of barns to read in solitude away from the prying eyes of parents – a scene immortalized by G.A. Reid in his painting Forbidden Fruit (1889).6 In contrast with the experience of McClung and Stringer, Charles Gordon’s reading as a child was not restricted.7 His literary mother also read regularly to the family even after they reached maturity. McClung family received a packet of books, periodicals, and

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newspapers every three months from an anonymous donor in England as part of the Aberdeen Association’s initiative to supply remote homesteads with reading materials.8 Devouring whatever books she could find, Maud Montgomery, like many avid readers, hid novels behind her school books in order to steal reading time during school hours.9 As children, these five authors regularly received books for Christmas and proudly established their own libraries. For those who, like Stringer, Montgomery, and McClung, began their fiction careers publishing short stories in magazines, the reading of a variety of these publications provided an important education in style and genre. It also assisted them, according to Richard Ohmann, in finding their “bearings in the cultural landscape” and familiarizing them with modernity.10 During a period in which she was furiously writing short stories but having difficulty publishing them, McClung “began to pay more attention to my reading, even trying to analyze short stories, in an attempt to discover the technique. I remember how I diligently pored over Bret Harte’s ’Luck of Roaring Camp’ trying to see how he produced the effect on his readers.”11 In the apprenticeships of all five authors, journalism also played an important role. For McClung and Stringer, it was a source of revenue at the beginning of their careers. During the period in which her husband was a druggist, McClung also wrote advertising copy for his store.12 Beyond this, she wrote her first prose when a magazine salesman asked her to contribute a piece on her home town of Manitou. He then disappeared with her $5 subscription fee, never to be heard from again.13 Late in 1907, when her husband was no longer a druggist and the family needed money, McClung pleaded with the editor of the Winnipeg Telegram for any sort of literary work, such as reviews and criticism, “because I have to do it and because I need the money.”14 Unsuccessful in this attempt, she did receive an assignment from Canada West Magazine which involved a trip to the west coast in 1908. With the success of her first novel later that year, there would be no urgent need to engage in newspaper work until later in her career. Stringer’s time in Montreal and his early years in New York were also supported by journalism, but he discovered, as did many other aspiring authors, that full-time journalism and a literary career made an impossible combination because journalism was so absorbing that it left little time, energy, or inspiration for serious literary work. Both Montgomery and McClung experienced a similar tension between writing and teaching.15 Journalism did, nevertheless, sharpen the powers of observation, perfect the skill of writing in a clear, crisp, style, and provide important training in writing quickly to meet deadlines in a noisy atmosphere of hustle and bustle. After receiving

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these benefits from his years as a newspaper editor, writer, and columnist in Cartwright, High River, and Calgary, Robert Stead in his next occupation as a corporate and then a government publicist kept in touch with both real and imagined worlds. Although Charles Gordon had no similar journalistic training, he did share with Stringer and Montgomery the experience of writing for school newspapers.16 For him, the preparation of sermons replaced all other writing practice before to the publication of his “Tales from the Selkirks.” Using a narrative approach, he assiduously wrote his sermons as many as three times over before he was satisfied with the results. The weaving of local colour and incident into these sermons prepared him for the writing of fiction. Once he began to write novels, Gordon soon found that he could rely on sermon notes rather than a complete script, because “I was doing a lot of other scribbling that kept my hand in as to vocabulary and ease of expression.”17 The eye and the heart supply the final ingredients in the general background and experience required to become an author. By creating “lived” experience “that gains authority by seeming to be a report of ‘actual’ experience,” notes Thomas Laqueur, novels were part of the body of narrative materials that created compassion in the reader and “a moral imperative to undertake ameliorative action.”18 In this regard, each of the five authors in this study profited from their reading of Charles Dickens and other authors. McClung believed that “the essential qualifications for a writer are an understanding heart and a habit of close personal observation.”19 “We must study from life, working in hints gathered here and there, bits of character, humorous remarks, tales or legends, making use of the real to perfect the ideal,” Montgomery advised. “As long as it grows out of your life, it will have life in it, and the great pulse of humanity everywhere will thrill and throb to that life.”20 Like Montgomery, most of the authors in this study kept notebooks in which they recorded observations of character, setting, incident, dialogue, and ideas for stories. Montgomery’s journal also served as a repository of ideas and as “an exercise in narrative skill.”21 In an age in which thrift was still a valued virtue and paper expensive, McClung and Montgomery used old envelopes and other scraps of paper for their notes and observations. As a full-time professional writer, Stringer perfected this collection of ideas, with his notes and clippings filling a pigeonhole filing system six feet high and eight feet long.22 Whenever the subject of the novel moved beyond the realm of personal experience, research also became necessary. This element applies particularly to some of Stringer’s later novels and to the later historical fiction of Connor.

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Fortunate aspiring authors also have mentors who provide inspiration and serve as critics. In some instances, they even act as facilitators in the author’s maturation into a successful professional. These mentors are usually teachers, editors, agents, publishers, or friends. Of all the authors in this study, only Montgomery, who received merely a few kind words from Prince of Wales College professors that she had talent, lacked a real mentor. Although this absence made her road to success more strenuous, she possessed sufficient passion and determination to succeed in spite of it. For Robert Stead, Ralph Connor served as a model of success to emulate, but without the encouragement of British publisher T. Fisher Unwin, Stead might never have made the transition from short stories to novels.23 Having made that leap, he then benefited from the advice of his literary agents, A.P. Watt and Son of London and then Brandt and Brandt of New York. While Arthur Stringer was at the University of Toronto, Goldwin Smith, editor of the Week, encouraged him in his writing of poetry and prose.24 For Stringer, the greatest influence on his career, however, would come from his agent, Paul Reynolds of New York, who shepherded him through important refinements of style and genres. Without important mentors, it is also doubtful whether Nellie McClung and Charles Gordon would have become novelists. After first reading Charles Dickens, McClung decided that she wanted to “be a voice for the voiceless” Canadian people in a similar manner.25 During the period in which she wrote short stories, her mother-inlaw, Annie McClung, and a network of women journalists and writers in Winnipeg, including Cora Hind and Mary Markwell (Kate Simpson), provided encouragement.26 “If you wait until you are ready to write,” Annie warned, “you will never write. Don’t you know that conditions are never perfect? Life conspires to keep a woman in trifles.”27 When Nellie pleaded with William Withrow, editor of the Canadian Methodist Magazine and Sunday school papers, for literary guidance in style and content, he refused assistance. She did, however, soon find a true mentor in Edward Caswell, also of the Methodist Book and Publishing House in Toronto, who became her “patient, wise, encouraging counsellor.”28 As “the first literary editor of major consequence in the history of Canadian book publishing … [and] the patron saint of many struggling Canadian writers,”29 Caswell moved beyond the role of mentor to that of facilitator and, for McClung, agent and friend as well. It was he above all who persuaded her to transform a short story into her first novel and shepherded her through the extension and revisions which helped to guarantee the success of Sowing Seeds in Danny and

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its sequel, The Second Chance.30 He helped extensively with language, sentence and paragraph structure, and the treatment of characters, as well as in toning down the sentimentality. When McClung attributed her success to Caswell, he demurred and told her that “you exalt my trifling part in this business out of all proportion. My credit is a very small one. The glory is all yours.”31 Recounting his first reading of the entire manuscript of Danny, Caswell wrote to McClung: “I can hardly describe to you the sensations or emotions it evoked. It is a wonderful story – not a dry one, for humor & pathos alike keep tugging at the tear duct. I don’t know when a story moved me more than your closing chapters.”32 Over a year later, after McClung had completed the final revisions, he told her that “the story is alive with humanity, pathos, humor, tenderness, all the very qualities that make me adore Charles Dickens’ books … It’s a story to read and re-read and re-reread.”33 This type of confidence-building was an important part of Caswell’s legacy. It was also James Macdonald’s major contribution to Charles Gordon’s success as “god-father to one of the great novelists of his day.”34 “There was nothing further from my mind when I broke into literature than that I should write a book,” Gordon declared, “and if I had waited for the incubation of any such purpose I should never had been an author.”35 At the conclusion of a Presbyterian Church meeting in Toronto in 1896 on the difficulties in funding the Canadian home mission work, a frustrated Reverend James Macdonald, editor of the Westminster magazine, “sat glowering and silent,” and then yelled at his old college friend Charles Gordon to “write it up.”36 What Macdonald had in mind was not another plea for funds but a story about what life was like out there. Gordon, who was thirty-six years old and had never written fiction in his life, returned to Winnipeg, and as was his nature, he procrastinated until repeated telegrams from Macdonald prompted a writing session which lasted until three in the morning.37 Macdonald returned the product of this marathon session, “Christmas Eve in the Lumber Camp,” because it was too long for a single issue. After forcing Gordon to divide it into three and then add more stories to create the “Tales from the Selkirks,” Macdonald soon concluded that the series of sixteen monthly instalments would make an excellent book. All of this was no easy task. Having staked his editorial reputation on these stories, Macdonald found it almost impossible to obtain the monthly copy from Gordon. “If I were not a pious man I would do more profanity than is good for the office,”38 he confided to a mutual friend. Another problem was Gordon’s lack of faith in himself. “The fact is the fellow didn’t know it was in him,” Macdonald lamented,

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“and is not very sure of himself even yet.”39 In addition to urging a friend to send Gordon a strong letter of encouragement, Macdonald himself constantly stroked the writer’s ego. Calling Gordon’s January 1897 submission “first rate,” Macdonald told him that his “wife read the mss. with the eagerest interest and its printers and proof readers devoured it.”40 The next month he invoked the praise and support of almost all the leaders of the Presbyterian Church and Gordon’s own father. “I know you are busy, you poor beggar, and Gib told me you were sick,” he wrote, “but you mustn’t get sick. Your father is greatly delighted with the tales, he was pleased and proud, I could see it in his eye.”41 Macdonald also coined the pen name Ralph Connor and published the stories as Black Rock, even though he was unable to arrange an American edition. Without him, there would have been no Ralph Connor. The question of why individuals write is central to any understanding of authorship. Although Charles Gordon first did so to encourage interest in the western mission of his church, he was further motivated by a reform spirit, and he finally became a “galley slave” because of the public’s and his publishers’ insatiable appetite and his own need for money. What he lacked was the inner passion to write and the self-image as a writer shared by the other novelists in this study. “I am not indifferent wholly to fame, and not at all to gain,” he wrote. “The latter I need badly. But to quit the Pulpit! … That is something I could not bear.”42 Given this central focus on evangelism, there was inevitably a spiritual dimension to Ralph Connor’s writing since he saw himself as a vehicle for carrying God’s word to the people.43 Yet before his death, Gordon expunged the chapter “The Coming of Ralph Connor” from his yet-unpublished autobiography because he did not consider it a significant part of his life.44 “I have written not so much from desire as necessity,” Robert Stead said, “a necessity existing within myself and the sheer joy of creation.”45 Both Stead and Nellie McClung, however, saw themselves as more than popular writers. As a severe critic of measuring success by material standards, Stead did not view commercial gain as an important motive for writing, although he did seek the maximum returns from what he wrote.46 Beyond providing entertainment, he desired to do “something for the soul of his readers” and never forgot that he had “a higher mission than to titillate the popular fancy.”47 He did, however, also want respect as a creative artist. In defining Nellie McClung as “a worker in humanity,”48 rather than a novelist or essayist, Wilfrid Eggleston catches the essence of her literary career. She “loved to plant ferments in the minds and emotions of her audience, to inspire, and empower them,” and “to

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give people release from their drab lives.”49 “There is,” McClung believed, “an inner life that can be deepened and widened,”50 and literature, above all, could make that happen. She began her fictional writing with Sunday school material in the first decade of the twentieth century, a few years before achieving fame with her first novel. It was this deep, personal, human quality and commitment that provided both the power and the allure in her fiction. Speaking of Danny, Caswell told McClung that he could “well believe that the story gripped you in the writing; it must have got into your very soul.”51 After the success of her first novel, he warned her not to force her writing but to “write when the mood is on and you can’t refrain.”52 As a worker in humanity, McClung’s interests were so diverse that her activity left less time for writing as her feminist fame increased. Of the five authors, Maud Montgomery was the most possessed by a creative spirit, which, she said, “seizes you, you just can’t help it.”53 She loved and needed writing so much that she probably would have continued even if no publisher was willing to accept her manuscripts.54 For her, breathing life into characters and making them live provided intense joy.55 The result was a cultivation of the soul and a spiritual ebullience so powerful and so absorbing that it provided escape from the problems and worries of life, at least when she was writing.56 “If we have something to say that will bring a whift of fragrance to a tired soul and to a weary heart, or a glint of sunshine to a clouded life,” she told aspiring writers, “then that is something worth saying, and it is our duty to try to say it.”57 Yet like Connor, she was not indifferent to gain, and like Stead, she wanted recognition and respect. “I am frankly in literature to make a living out of it,” she told G.B. MacMillan in 1903. “My aspiration is limited to this – I want to be a good worker in my chosen profession. I cannot be one of the masters, but I hope to attain to a recognized position among everyday workers of my time.”58 For years, she toiled over moralistic Sunday school stories, much of the writing to order and defined as “potboilers.” At the turn of the century, she even produced a novel with a Sunday school – type heroine which failed to find a publisher either as a novel or as short stories. She finally burnt it.59 Vowing to write from that point on to please herself rather than the publishers, Montgomery found within three years that editors were requesting stories and listing her as one of the “well-known and popular contributors for the coming year.”60 Like Montgomery, Arthur Stringer sought recognition and financial reward, but he, alone of the five, depended solely on his literary income. “I write my fiction as you do advertising copy – to make a living at it,” he told Nathaniel Benson. “But I have tried to save

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enough of myself out of the hurly-burley to do the stuff that counts in the end.”61 Like many authors, from Sir Walter Scott through Charles Dickens, Émile Zola, H.G. Wells, and all others who made a living from their writing, Stringer churned out novel after novel. Like Anthony Trollope, Mrs Humphrey Ward, and many others, he often suffered the scorn of critics, who believed that he sacrificed quality for quantity in producing a novel a year.62 The writing habits of authors depend on their self-discipline, their schedules and other responsibilities, and the degree of their commitment to literary pursuits. In addition to his full-time parish work, Charles Gordon involved himself in local and national affairs of church and state, leaving little time for writing. He also disliked the physical discipline of composing and was never able to establish a writing schedule.63 The fact that his procrastination persisted during his retirement years suggests that his other commitments were not the cause of his failure to meet deadlines. Since he was unable to write regularly, his only solution was to escape civilization. For his first book, this was to his room at Manitoba College in the early hours of the morning, a practice that continued in his home after his marriage. With the purchase of Lone Tree Island, in Lake of the Woods near Kenora, from his royalties, Gordon finally found a true retreat. In the pre-war period it was to this spot that he journeyed alone in the summer, pitched his tent, and wrote with a scribbler propped on his knee.64 After the war, with his family and many visitors joining him at the cottage on the site, he often contended with distractions. “At present I am doing the treadmill with great diligence down at the Lake,” he wrote to publisher George Doran in 1921. “The environment is perfect – too perfect, distractingly perfect.”65 In great contrast, Robert Stead established writing and production schedules which he meticulously maintained throughout his life. Pacing himself to write a novel a year and to spend the next year revising it, he wrote at least two evenings a week. During this time he also composed numerous speeches, articles, and a few short stories. When asked how he found time to write with a job and family, he said that the answer was elimination. “If you are willing to forego golf and pool and billiards, bridge and whist and summer jaunts, dancing and parties and social ambitions – if you are not willing to forego all these things and more, you had better keep out of a business where you don’t belong.”66 Although he seldom composed on vacation as Gordon did, Stead often corrected proofs while at a cottage with the family or on the train during on business trips.67 Family vacations, however, were often tied to such literary events as the annual meeting of the Canadian Authors Association. In the civil service, Stead

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could adjust his schedule to satisfy the demands of his literary aspirations. On occasion, however, his superiors did complain about the amount of time he spent on non-government business.68 For women with primary care responsibilities for their families, writing careers were more difficult. “One must be willing to work early and late, to be tired, to be depressed,” McClung stated, “to see one’s fairest inspirations tremble and fade and die, when one tries to capture them in a net of words.”69 Although McClung and Montgomery were well disciplined, dedicated individuals who planned their days precisely and did not neglect their families, they were still dependent on domestic help to achieve their goals. In 1910, while she was still living with her grandmother, Montgomery confessed in her journal: “I certainly ought to keep a servant. To do the housework I do in connection with my increasing literary work is too much for me. But Grandmother would never hear of such a thing.”70 One of her first acquisitions after she returned from her honeymoon was a maid. This was at a time when many middle-class Canadian families experienced difficulty either in finding servants or in affording such a luxury.71 The children soon learned to accommodate themselves to their mothers’ schedules and even become caught up in their careers. Young Paul McClung had visions of a Shetland pony with “the good times coming when Mamma gets paid for her books.”72 There are heartwarming stories of the Montgomery boys shoving flowers under the door while their mother wrote in solitude, but they also benefited from her income and were interested in her work.73 While McClung set herself a goal of a thousand words a day during her busy creative periods and wrote whenever and wherever she could, Montgomery was more like Stead in creating a precise schedule early in her career.74 During her teaching period, her youth and vigour were sufficient to withstand rising long before dawn to compose her short stories, but she found that option impossible after she acquired family responsibilities. At the time when she was writing Anne of Green Gables, Montgomery spent an hour in the morning on magazine stories, an hour in the afternoon typing, and an hour in the evening on the novel.75 Once married, she devoted two or three hours a morning to writing and hired others to do her typing. The time she needed to complete a novel ranged from six months, in a few instances, to a year. Although this may seem a rather restricted schedule for someone who produced twenty-three books, the time involved only the actual writing. All the structure, plot, description, and even dialogue were already in her mind by the time she sat down to write. At Cavendish in the summer, Montgomery composed at a desk in her gabled bedroom, and in winter, because the bedroom was

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too cold for comfort, at the kitchen table with her feet on the sofa and a portfolio propped on her knees. She described the latter as one of her favourite writing “roosts,” in spite of the fact that the kitchen also served as the community post office, because she “could look out into an old apple orchard and a ferny grove of spruce and birches.”76 At Leaskdale it was the parlour that she claimed as “her room” and where she wrote her novels and poems.77 Most women of the era had no room to call their own.78 For Arthur Stringer, writing involved the routine of a day at the office, even though that office was in his home. Devoting sixty per cent of his waking hours to his craft, he began this schedule in a studio on East 23rd Street in New York. After he moved to his Shadow Lawn farm and then to his large, third-floor study in New Jersey, the daily routine of producing a thousand words continued. This was a goal shared by many popular writers, including Rudyard Kipling and Jack London.79 Unlike a typical office job, however, this one provided Stringer with the option of spending the mornings in his garden and devoting the afternoons and evenings to writing. He turned down William Randolph Hearst’s offer of a position as staff writer for Cosmopolitan Films because “I am not going to surrender my personal liberty for filthy lucre.”80 At home he could set his own pace and “smoke a pipe to a page, an ounce to a chapter, and a pound to a story.”81 With deadlines from publishers – particularly for the important Christmas trade – the need for money, and pressing other commitments, writing could become stressful. At least twice during his career, doctors and friends ordered Gordon to take a break. The Reverend James Robertson, superintendent of western Canadian missions for the Presbyterian Church, told him in 1901, “I can forgive you for swearing but not for getting low in health. Go away somewhere and sleep and exercise for a month, and let Ralph Connor rest.”82 Later, in 1922, he was under doctor’s order to take it easy.83 After a marathon session of writing the first sequel to Anne of Green Gables during the hot summer of 1908 at the urging of her publisher, Montgomery was tired and worn out. She declared, “I’ll never consent to be hurried again.”84 Later, in 1910, she experienced a nervous breakdown, during which her doctor advised her “to do as little mental work, even letter writing, as possible.”85 In the summer of 1922, Stringer “had to slow up a little for the pace was getting on my nerves.”86 With the exception of Stringer, who composed directly on the typewriter, all of the authors wrote in longhand.87 For Connor, “things just came to him and he put them down.”88 This approach stands in

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sharp contrast to that of his principal rival, Harold Bell Wright, who laboriously plotted each novel on dozens of cards before beginning to write.89 Connor’s goal was to write, rewrite, and then dictate the final copy to a secretary hired for each book at that stage, but that goal rarely applied to the last third of his novels, which often moved directly from first draft to print in order to meet, albeit late, the Christmas deadline. “I must say that I am awfully sorry that I did not have a little more time for some polishing work,” he confessed to his publisher in 1921. “However, I believe I got across my message in it and I do not think it so obvious, that it will spoil the value of the book as a work of fiction.”90 Readers and critics, however, did notice. In great contrast, Stead, McClung, and Montgomery devoted more time to planning their stories and spent months revising their first drafts.91 One observer described Montgomery’s method as “painstaking in the extreme. It is doubtful whether you have ever known of one so self-exacting.”92 She assiduously planned her stories, complete with characters, incidents, and settings, and then composed them in her mind while doing other work. At Cavendish, where she accomplished the same goal while doing housework or walking in the evening, this was a private habit. Residents of communities in Ontario frequently saw her walking to pick up the mail completely absorbed in her fictional world and “mouthing bits of description or dialogue under her breath.”93 “When you have shaped out your central idea and brooded over your characters until they live and move, and have being for you,” she advised others, “then write about them. Let them have a good deal of their way even if it isn’t always your way. Don’t try to describe them too fully. Let them reveal themselves.”94 McClung experienced a character with its own mind when Helmi Milander took over and demanded a conversion from minor to central character during the writing of Painted Fires (1925).95 When she was writing, Montgomery revisited each of the previous chapters after completing a new one, so that the early section of the novel received at least thirty-nine editings.96 For most popular authors, fame has a limited, specific time frame, usually because the public’s tastes have changed. Charles Gordon produced thirty-two volumes in a thirty-nine-year career which included twenty-three works of fiction, seven religious stories for the Christmas market, a hagiographic biography of his religious mentor, James Robertson, and an autobiography. At the height of his popularity he regularly sold from 20,000 to more than 60,000 copies of a novel in Canada.97 After The Doctor (1906) passed the 30,000 mark within weeks of publication, W.E. Robertson of the Westminster Company in Toronto wrote to Gordon: “Just think of it! One copy for every

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100 English-speaking people in Canada. I do not know what greater compliment would be paid you than this.”98 With strong sales continuing, the ratio improved. American, British, and colonial sales were equally impressive. To the end of 1906, with more than a decade of great popularity remaining, his first five novels had sold 140,348 copies in Canada, an estimated 1,695,696 in the United States, and 279,579 in Britain and the colonies, for a total of 2,115,623.99 Publisher George Doran reports that the first two novels, Black Rock and The Sky Pilot, each sold more than a million copies.100 For someone who had earned $1,000 per annum in the mid-1890s as pastor of St Stephen’s Church, these literary earnings were spectacular.101 Although his first royalty cheque at the end of 1899 was only $200, his income from this source rose to $136,731 for the last six months of 1905.102 Even at the height of the Great Depression in the 1930s, with his popularity eclipsed, his total earnings from all sources was still $3,485, while his wife’s investments earned $1,425.103 Yet with all this income, Gordon was constantly short of money and died in poverty. Part of the explanation is his adoption of an uppermiddle-class lifestyle, which included a spectacular house in one of Winnipeg’s best districts. Another factor appears to have been his own carelessness in managing his income and spending levels, but by far the most important cause was the investments made by his personal friend and pre-war money manager, who had placed much of the royalty earnings in real estate and speculative stocks, and the collapse of the real estate boom in Winnipeg in 1913. Believing himself to be nearly a millionaire, Gordon had given generously to charitable causes, including the purchase of a temperance hotel in Neepawa, church missions, and the building program at St Stephen’s, to which he donated his salary and more. It was not until after his manager, by then Colonel Thompson of the Winnipeg Regiment, had died on the Regina Trench battlefield in France in October 1916 that Gordon discovered his real financial situation. He secured leave to return to Winnipeg, where he discovered that most of his investments had been wiped out more than two years earlier, and that because of “certain covenant arrangements entered into by his counsel, agent, and attorney-at-large [Thompson], … [he] faced an actual indebtedness of just under $100,000.”104 It was this debt and the demands of his lifestyle that forced Ralph Connor to write his historical romances in the post-war period and prevented him from producing the better books that were in his mind.105 In contrast with Gordon’s level of production and earnings, Robert Stead composed eight novels and five volumes of poetry in twentythree years and made only a modest income.106 His Canadian sales of

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The Cow Puncher and Dennison Grant did reach 17,000, and the total sales of the former were 70,000, but after the war they decreased dramatically.107 Although at the peak of his popularity his annual royalties surpassed his $4,000 income as a civil service director, this return was to be short-lived.108 He did continue to write his “people’s poetry” during this period, from which there was a modest income. Far more important were the second serial rights to his novels, which he assiduously peddled to magazines and newspapers and which earned him a career total of $5,836.109 There were also dozens of short stories and articles, written between 1911 and 1950 and published in minor papers with equally minor payments.110 Nellie McClung wrote sixteen volumes in thirty-seven years, which included four novels, two novellas, a ghost-written soldier’s story from the First World War, seven books of short stories and essays, and a two-volume autobiography. In 1909 she shared a place on the Canadian best-seller list with Connor and Montgomery.111 Sowing Seeds in Danny sold 21,000 copies by December 1911, and when McClung died in 1951, it was in its seventeenth edition, having earned an estimated $25,000.112 Given that most Canadian novels never reached a second printing, this was a enviable record. Although sales for subsequent volumes were lower, she continued to have a following of loyal readers. For her twenty-three books, which included twenty-one works of fiction, one volume of poetry, and an autobiography, produced in thirty-one years, as well as 497 short stories and 502 poems published separately, Lucy Maud Montgomery earned a total in excess of $300,000, some of which she invested in blue-chip stocks.113 In 1921 she calculated that she had received an average of $13.14 per short story for the 427 published to that date and $3.59 per poem. During her remaining years, payments rose to between $6.00 and $10.00 per poem and between $50.00 and $400 per story.114 For someone who was astounded at her first $1,730 royalty cheque for Anne of Green Gables, these earnings were a remarkable achievement.115 When she worked for the newspaper in Halifax in 1901, her salary had been $5.00 a week, and had she remained a teacher, she would have earned less than $700 a year by 1927.116 Her books were popular in North America, England, and Australia. During the first ten years, Anne of Green Gables, apart from a reprint edition of 50,000, sold 9,460 copies in Canada, 12,815 in Australia, and 127,093 in the United States.117 Although Montgomery sometimes complained about the demands of readers and publishers for more “Anne books,” she continued to write the poetry which provided so much satisfaction and a few short stories.

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Arthur Stringer’s production as a full-time professional writer, as one would expect, surpassed that of the other four authors. In a career spanning fifty-four years, he produced forty works of fiction, fourteen volumes of poetry, a book of one-act plays, and five nonfiction works on women, Shakespeare, and the poet Rupert Brooke, for a total of fifty volumes. One observer labelled him the “Siamese twins” of the literary world because “one never knew whether his next production would be a story about desperate criminals or a classical tragedy.”118 Above all, Stringer wished to be remembered as a poet, but as he told W.A. Deacon during the 1930s depression, “in these days of stress, the pot has to be kept boiling. And there’s the call to cover our children in flannel before we cover ourselves with glory.”119 He did, however, write poetry for his entire career, which for a few decades appeared in Canadian and American anthologies.120 But in spite of his pioneering work in free verse, there would be no lasting poetic fame. Even with less-impressive sales than Connor, Stringer earned a very respectable upper-middle-class income throughout his life and left an estate valued at nearly half a million dollars.121 With his earnings from a single novel rarely exceeding $4,000, he depended for the bulk of his income on selling movie scripts, movie rights to his books, and serials and short stories to magazines.122 This was in contrast to the other four authors, who derived their primary income from book royalties. Thus he was among the select few, for it is estimated that less than three hundred writers supplied the majority of the American magazine fiction in this period, and that less than half this number were able to support themselves with their writing.123 “I can’t believe that such a simple little tale, written in and of a simple P.E.I. farming settlement … can really have scored out in the busy world,”124 Montgomery confessed to herself in October 1908. Each of the other authors in this study experienced similar feelings of incredulity during their great moments of initial success. Indeed, they were among the privileged few Canadians who achieved such international fame. With that popularity and its financial rewards came many benefits. Previously rejected manuscripts suddenly became saleable. Montgomery was summoned into the presence of Governor General Earl Grey of Canada and Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin of Britain. Gordon lunched with Henry Ford in his home and with President Theodore Roosevelt in the Blue Room of the White House, and exchanged visits with Ramsay MacDonald, the British prime minister. In addition to adoring fans, general honour and respect, and even standing ovations, there were better houses in superior neighbourhoods, educational opportunities for

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the children, more prestigious automobiles and other consumer commodities, and improved opportunities for travel. Charles Gordon planned to provide each of his children with a university education and the gift of a house at the time of their marriage. Without Montgomery’s money to supplement the meagre income of her husband, who never acquired a high-paying urban parish, there would have been no first-class honeymoon trip to Europe or boardingschool education for their sons. McClung’s money assisted in the purchase of a Lake Winnipeg cottage and financed improvements to the family’s retirement home in Victoria. For McClung and Montgomery, the wealth also brought economic independence within marriage, a much-sought-after but rarely achieved status for most women. There were limited career opportunities for women who stayed at home. Compared with taking in boarders, sewing, or laundry, writing offered potentially greater rewards. It was also one of the few professions which does not appear to have discriminated against women. Popularity rather than gender determined the prices offered for stories and the respect of others. Fame and wealth also allowed McClung and Montgomery to hired the help that made their writing and independent travel to conferences, meetings, and social engagements possible. But there was also a downside to success for women. Although the local sneers at Montgomery’s ambition to become a successful writer were silenced by the dollars she received, there were those in her family and even a close friend who responded to her fame and fortune with jealousy, malice, and spite.125 It is unlikely that a man would have had the same experience, but for both sexes there was a negative side to fame and fortune. As necessary as fans were to popularity, they could also become a nuisance. Soon after the publication of her first novel, Montgomery began to received written requests for meetings and unexpected visits at the door. Later in her career, an obsessed fan repeatedly harassed her.126 There were also the relatives and strangers, particularly for Stringer and Montgomery, determined to share in the great wealth.127 In spite of all the fame and fortune experienced by these five authors, however, they remained essentially unchanged. Perhaps because they were Canadian, they exhibited little pretention; there was no “putting on airs,” no inflated egos. Although their lifestyles improved, there would be no exotic, international vacations. McClung’s few trips to Europe were tied to her activist role. The biggest excursion that Montgomery took with her family was to the Mammoth Caves in Kentucky. The Stringers liked to escape to Florida for a period in the winter, but after Arthur’s marriage to Peggy, there were no

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more European trips. Camping or cottage vacations were more to their liking. They all remained conventional, middle-class Canadians. When Montgomery received a standing ovation in Chatham, Ontario, she found it thrilling but somehow “unreal as such demonstrations always seem to me.”128 She could have been speaking for the other four as well.

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4 Authors, Publishers, and Agents

Stories of authors’ repeated rejections by publishers provide a typical, romantic picture of struggling writers facing near impossible odds in one of the most dynamic and unbalanced power relationships in the world of books. These legends have a special appeal for Canadians, who take delight in seeing themselves as David confronting Goliath, but slaying him only after a fierce, protracted, and heroic struggle.1 Four publishers declined Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables; eight rejected Stringer’s Wire Tappers.2 These examples, however, do not accurately reflect the experience of many authors in the early twentieth century. One of the reasons that this was a golden age was the popularity of fiction and the ease with which it found publishers and readers. Ralph Connor was the creation of an editor without whom he would never have existed. Representatives from publishing houses invited both Robert Stead and Nellie McClung to move from short stories into novels and then guided them through the successful publication of their first books of fiction. After seeing Arthur Stringer’s stories of New York children in Ainslie’s magazine, H.S. Small of Boston’s Small, Maynard and Company requested permission to publish them as his first book of fiction.3 Never before had there been so many newspapers, magazines, and publishers competing for manuscripts. After the success of Ralph Connor’s first two novels, many publishers, including Appleton, Stokes, Macmillan, Unwin, and Doubleday, Page, repeatedly begged him for manuscripts.4 In spite of this competition, the industry was also a fraternity. Individuals left firms to join others

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or to launch their own companies. Toronto-based Canadian publishers journeyed to New York at least once a year in search of new titles, while British publishers such as T. Fisher Unwin and J.E. Hodder-Williams frequently visited Canadian publishers and authors. For much of the nineteenth century, most publishers and editors had been a conservative group, regionally focused and dedicated to serving the interests of an educated genteel minority. Magazines offered low rates for material, while in the book world, authors either paid to be published or accepted a half-share in the profits after covering production costs. None of these options involved great financial risk for the publisher. As late as 1892, John Galsworthy paid for the publication of his first novel.5 It was his predecessors, particularly Sir Walter Scott, Charles Dickens, Anthony Trollope, and William Thackeray, who began the process of opening up a wider market for fiction. By serializing their novels in magazines, Dickens and others popularized a trend which bypassed the publishers for the initial imprint in search of more profits and a wider readership.6 Dickens became a favourite with magazines and newspapers throughout North America. As early as the mid-1870s, Canadian author Agnes Maule Machar serialized two of her novels in the Canadian Monthly and National Review.7 The late-nineteenth-century appearance of modern, inexpensive American magazines designed for a mass market opened a new, more profitable outlet for writers. Depending the advertising revenue of brand-name products to absorb the costs, these magazines sold for five to fifteen cents a copy, reached millions of readers, and offered popular writers startling prices of up to $40,000 for the rights to serialize a novel prior to its publication as a book.8 During the decades that followed, a variety of writers, including Mrs Humphrey Ward, P.G. Wodehouse, Jerome K. Jerome, Gertrude Atherton, William Faulkner, and Ernest Hemingway flocked to take advantage of this new outlet, which offered them their greatest source of revenue. In the period from 1919 to 1936, F. Scott Fitzgerald earned $225,784 from magazines and only $66,588 from book royalties.9 Several new book publishers jumped into the mass-market field; older firms had little choice but to adapt to these modern trends. Academic critics often belittle magazine fiction as formulistic and unworthy of the status of great literature. They accuse it of being episodic, unsophisticated in plot and structure, often written to order, and eschewing the intellectual, the controversial, and the political while catering to a bland market of mass readers.10 This, however, is not a fair assessment. There is as much evidence of book publishers demanding cuts and expecting adaptation to public taste as there is

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for magazines. While magazines did publish many inferior stories, they also introduced or reprinted most of what we today class as the great literature of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in the English language.11 The Saturday Evening Post is often cited as the most flagrant example of bland conformity.12 Yet with so many magazines accepting fiction, there was always another outlet if the subject was too modern or too controversial for the Post. Arthur Stringer sold his Phantom Wires, a controversial crime novel with no happy ending and a grim picture of human morality, to Smart Set in 1905 for $500.13 As a magazine providing “lively entertainment for minds that are not primitive,” and determined to assault the established literary and moral norms, Smart Set was probably the only magazine that would have accepted this novel.14 Although it paid less than magazines with larger circulations, Stringer was pleased because of his desperate need for money at that time. Later, in the 1920s, when he was a featured writer for the Saturday Evening Post, he bypassed it and had the Pictorial Review publish his controversial novels about marriage breakdown and divorce.15 Perhaps for critics, the real issue surrounding magazine publishing is not the question of quality but the context of commercialization and the mass readership. For most authors, however, this venue offered a training ground in their careers and an income without which they might not have been able to continue writing. It also brought name recognition to many more readers than book publication ever could. Although Nellie McClung, Robert Stead, and Arthur Stringer published their first fiction as short stories, it was L.M. Montgomery who benefited the most from the training and crucial revenue provided by magazines in the early stages of her career.16 From her farming community in rural Prince Edward Island, she was able to find more than seventy journals and newspapers in which to publish 427 stories and many poems.17 Even more remarkable is her informed evaluation of each publication as to revenue potential, quality, and expectations. The Messenger of the Sacred Heart in New York was “not religious”; Youth’s Companion of Boston was “the foremost paper of its class” and paid “high prices”; Farm and Fireside of Springfield, Ohio, was “an excellent paper in its class” and was “prompt and reliable”; and the National of Boston was “a good second-classer.”18 Montgomery frequently tailored her material to meet the requirements of specific publications and peddled her best work to those magazines which paid the most and provided the greatest exposure. For Canadian magazines, which paid low rates, this approach meant few submissions and generally only those of lesser quality.19

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Beginning with such obscure publications as the Rural Magazine in Chicago and Holland’s Magazine in Texas, Montgomery worked her way up to McClure’s, Ainslee’s, the American Home, Pictorial Review, Smart Set, and the Delineator. After the success of Anne of Green Gables, she noted that magazines which had ignored her were now begging for material, and that previously rejected work of dubious quality now found a ready market.20 Once established as an novelist, Montgomery wrote very few stories for magazine publication, but when the Ladies’ Home Journal accepted a poem in 1922, she experienced intense satisfaction, for she had been trying for twenty-five years to publish in that journal.21 In contrast, she found both the experience of publishing again in the Delineator at its request in the 1920s and the later reworking of the stories into Magic for Marigold (1929) distasteful. A new editor rejected the additional stories contracted for after the first series appeared. Although the Delineator paid for them, the experience left Montgomery embittered.22 One aspect of magazine revenue from which she did not benefit was the serialized pre-publication of her novels. Lacking a literary agent and with a publisher seemingly against the practice, she could do little about it.23 For popular authors, this venue provided the greatest potential monetary reward. Although for the unknown writer the financial rewards were meagre, there was compensation in becoming more widely known by both publishers and readers. McClung’s Danny appeared in Woman’s Home Companion, for which she received only $500, half of which she owed to her American publisher.24 After the same magazine rejected The Second Chance because it could not “take excerpts as they did from Danny,” McClung was unable to sell the American serial rights.25 An important part of Charles Gordon’s obligation to the Westminster Company was to have his books published serially in its magazine before book publication. His first ten works of fiction, up to The Patrol of the Sundance Trail (1914), appeared initially in Canada in that format, but he appears to have received no payment. In order to secure American copyright, it was necessary to have a magazine imprint in the United States at the same time, but Gordon’s failure to produce manuscripts in time for publication deadlines jeopardized this guarantee of copyright and made it impossible to secure contracts with the better magazines. For The Sky Pilot and The Man from Glengarry, the choice was a similar Presbyterian venue, Outlook in New York. The highest return that Gordon ever received from prepublication serialization appears to have been with Leslie’s Monthly, which paid $30.00 per hundred words for Glengarry School Days in

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1902.26 In order to fulfill a later serial contract with Book News Monthly, Gordon’s publisher, George Doran, in desperation sent a secretary to Winnipeg to ensure the completion of Corporal Cameron on time.27 The following year Gordon and Doran lost $7,500 because of an unfulfilled serial contract with Frank Munsey for Patrol of the Sundance Trail.28 “I wish you had before you … all our correspondence, extending back over thirty years,” Doran wrote to Gordon when he brought up the subject of serial rights again in 1928, “where I urged and urged and urged again, the early preparation of your manuscripts in order that you might take advantage of the serial income which was always awaiting you [including] one offer for $25,000.”29 Although Gordon might have done better with an agent, he missed deadlines for the submission of manuscripts so frequently that he constantly strained his relationships with publishers and destroyed any chance of their trust in him to fulfill any expensive pre-publication contracts with the top magazines in the United States or Britain. Like Montgomery, but for different reasons, he forfeited an income potentially equal to or greater than his royalty earnings. Arthur Stringer was the only one of the five authors who exploited to the full the potential of pre-publication serialization. Although he did so in part because of the business-like efficiency with which he approached his profession and his dependence on literary income, it was also because he had the assistance of Paul Reynolds, the best American literary agent specializing in magazine sales. A representative from the Saturday Evening Post visited Reynolds weekly to review material and selected almost one-quarter of its fiction from him.30 Stringer contributed eight serials to the Saturday Evening Post, four to the Pictorial Review, three to Hearst’s Magazine, two to the Ladies’ Home Journal, and one each to Munsey’s, Harper’s Bazaar, Popular Magazine, and Smart Set.31 The magazine manuscripts were consistently condensed and sometimes censored versions of an already completed novel. With The Prairie Wife, for instance, the magazine version was 16,000 words shorter than the novel.32 The Hearst organization demanded and received cuts to the spicy Wine of Life, which appeared as “This Light Must Live.”33 With earning potential tied to fame, the revenue potential from pre-publication serialization, as for short stories, increased in direct proportion to demand. From a low of $500 at the start of his career, Stringer reached a high of $20,000 for The Squaw Woman from the Saturday Evening Post in 1930.34 Although he labelled George Horace Lorimer, editor of the Saturday Evening Post, “Julius Caesar” and had many disputes with him over the content and Canadian references, he appears to have won as often as Lorimer did.35

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This magazine was the most important of the group; it provided his most significant revenue. It is difficult to ascertain with any precision what impact writing for magazines had on Stringer’s literary career. There is no doubt that he honed his skills sufficiently to become adept, as he told Victor Lauriston, at “hitting the old Post’s bulls eye.”36 In advising Lauriston how to hit a similar target, Stringer stressed the necessity of always keeping the eye on the commercial and popular by including the romantic, big climaxes, background colouring, and a young, appealing woman as the primary focus. Stringer himself did adopt these as regular features of his own fiction, but he never completely sold his soul to the magazine industry. After a series of bad experiences, culminating in the early 1920s with Ray Long’s demand that a novelette of 38,000 words for Hearst’s Magazine be rewritten as a short story, Stringer screamed at Long until “the feathers flew.”37 He then stopped submitting material to that magazine. The fact that Stringer frequently wrote material which he knew his favourite magazines would reject suggests that he maintained a guarded creative independence in spite of his reliance on the industry for income. The conformity involved was less severe than for Connor, McClung, and Montgomery in their writing for religious publications. One often-neglected component of modern publishing is the religious press. Fuelled by the international Sunday school movement, the proliferation of specialized church groups, and laity movements, as well as by the general rise in literacy and interest in reading, religious presses, old and new, began to respond to the demand for reading materials. The desire to counteract the temptation of the salacious dime novels by providing more wholesome and more Christian fiction was also a factor. Like the magazines and other publishers, many of these denominations and their publishing houses grew into national entities during the late nineteenth century. Boards of publication for the American Presbyterian, Congregationalist, and Baptist churches each responded to the demand, while in Toronto the Methodist Book and Publishing House grew to become the largest trade publisher in Canada by the early twentieth century. Its building was a resplendent steel and concrete, five-storey, modern plant, handling all phases of publishing with its twenty cylinder presses. There were even automatic drinking fountains with cooled water in the halls.38 Many authors used these religious presses to launch their careers. In 1893, Nova Scotian Marshall Saunders soared into international fame with her Beautiful Joe, published by the American Baptist Publication Society of Philadelphia. For Ralph Connor, it was Westminster

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in Toronto and Fleming Revell, both religious publishers, which launched his career. Although he was Chicago-based, Revell’s connections with Toronto had existed since 1893, when he had purchased the Willard Tract Depository. He was a Presbyterian whose entry into publishing had begun when his brother-in-law, the famous American evangelist Dwight L. Moody persuaded him in 1869 to assume control of his Sunday school paper, Everybody’s. Ralph Connor provided Revell’s firm with two of its three top-selling books.39 Of the more than seventy magazines that Maud Montgomery had on her active contributor’s list for poems, short stories, and serials, at least ten were religious publications; they ranged from the Sunday School Times and the Congregationalist (Boston) to the Roman Catholic Messenger of the Sacred Heart (New York).40 Although she found this a forced kind of writing requiring a specific morality and “grew very tired of it all,”41 she gained both necessary income and valuable experience from it. Like Montgomery, Nellie McClung wrote for the Sunday school papers of the Methodist and Presbyterian churches in Canada, but unlike her, she moved directly to a book through this avenue. Publishing under the imprint of its book steward, William Briggs, the Methodist Book and Publishing House had evolved from a single church publication in 1829 into a modern publisher in the late decades of the century. The proportion of religious titles declined from eighty to ten per cent between 1880 and 1910.42 As a promoter of Canadian culture since the 1860s, this firm published many poets, historians, novelists, and other writers, but it also took advantage of many business opportunities. In the 1880s it entered the Ontario school-text trade with a ten-year exclusive agreement through a cooperative arrangement with the William Gage and Copp Clark companies. William Briggs’s association with other leading Toronto entrepreneurs through church and Board of Trade contacts resulted in contracts for Simpson’s and Eaton’s department-store catalogues and Butterick fashion periodicals.43 Finally, there was the agency publishing of foreign titles, which included works by such popular authors as Marie Corelli, S.R. Crockett, and George B. McCutcheon. For a firm whose Board of Publication meetings opened with a hymn, included prayers, and closed with a benediction, this was an amazing transformation. William Briggs and the others, however, remained sensitive to the good taste and morals of their readers. Included in Marie Corelli’s contracts was an agreement that “the book shall not be immoral in tone and shall not contain any attack on Christianity.”44 As the editor of McClung’s Danny, Edward Caswell thought that she treated the teaching of temperance to children too flippantly, and he suggested that she change the tone.45 Yet with a portion of the sizable

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profits going to the superannuation fund for retired clergymen, there were few complaints and many thanks to God for his rich blessing. Briggs and Ernest W. Walker, his wholesale department manager, nevertheless kept a constant eye on the bottom line and remained cautious stewards of the company. For aspiring Canadian authors such as Nellie McClung, this approach could result in considerable frustration. The many letters from the principals in the company to her between 1905 and 1910 reveal a conservative firm in which risktaking was avoided, communication less than satisfactory, the lines of authority often unclear, and decision-making arduous. In the summer of 1905, Briggs told McClung bluntly that the firm did not purchase manuscripts; it made the author assume all the risk and the cost of publication and then collected a fifty percent share of any profits.46 Two months later he informed her that it accepted Canadian fiction only if there was also an offer from an American publisher, for it “does not pay us to publish a story from the original manuscript for the Canadian market alone.”47 Luckily for McClung, Edward Caswell, head of the book publishing department, took her in hand at this point, shepherded her through her extensions of the story, and secured a contract with the American firm Doubleday, Page, and Company in April 1907. Although Walker began to work on a Canadian contract for her at this stage, it was not until a year later that a royalty agreement was finally signed.48 By this time, Caswell believed that her story would be popular and bring in substantial returns, but neither Briggs nor Walker, who were responsible for the contract, shared this optimism. Briggs regarded Sowing Seeds in Danny as “a feeble imitation of Mrs Wiggs in Cabbage Patch.”49 Even after the book demonstrated its best-seller potential, Walker continued to import from the United States what Caswell scornfully referred to as “dribbles of 500.”50 Nevertheless, McClung published her next two books with the firm. Although there is no record of the reasons for her switch to McLeod and Allen for In Times like These (1915), it is quite possible that the highly political nature of the text frightened an increasingly cautious Briggs. Thereafter McClung followed Thomas Allen to his own firm and remained with him for the rest of her life. Both George J. McLeod and Thomas Allen, as well as John McClelland, George Stewart, and Frederick Goodchild, began as employees of the Methodist Book and Publishing House before establishing their own companies. The Methodist Book and Publishing House, either under the Briggs imprint or, after 1919, as Ryerson Press, also published some of the books of the other four authors in this study. Briggs, who had done

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much of the printing for Westminster, issued the first Canadian reprints of Connor’s novels in 1912.51 The Briggs imprint also appeared on Robert Stead’s poetry and first novel, as well as on Arthur Stringer’s first novel in 1903. When the Page firm of Boston finally agreed to a Canadian edition of L.M. Montgomery’s first novels, including Anne of Green Gables, it was with Ryerson Press in 1942. “I have been extremely fortunate in my publishers,” Charles Gordon told the editor of Strand Magazine in 1915. “They have been always my warm personal friends and more enthusiastic about my works than the author himself.”52 Having such friends as his publishers, Gordon felt free to discuss terms of contracts and details of publishing with them openly and frankly. It was, however, more his enormous earning power for publishers than the friendships which prompted their tolerance for his bad habits. For no other author would the Westminster magazine have delayed production for a week beyond the normal date because of a late manuscript. “In Ralph Connor the Westminster Company had found a gold mine and it knew it,” concludes Gordon Allison.53 Charles Gordon provides one example of a relationship with publishers in which the author exercised enormous power simply because of his fame and importance to their balance sheets. In fact, had it not been for Gordon, it is doubtful whether the Westminster Company would have entered book publishing. In spite of its lack of experience, its record in refining Gordon’s writing, marketing it, and securing British and colonial editions with Hodder and Stoughton and American editions with Revell and then George Doran is nearly flawless. Arranging for first Canadian editions ranging from 10,000 to 35,000 copies, some of which were printed by the Methodist Book and Publishing House, and marketing them was an enormous task for such a small company. For the 35,000 initial run of The Doctor (1906), there was not even sufficient time to allow for the proper drying of the sheets in order to meet the publication date, by which time all Canadian retailers were to have the book in stock. “There never has been anything like this done before in the history of Canada,” Business Manager William E. Robertson told Gordon. “It has kept me on the move fairly lively.”54 Over the long term, it was Robertson, rather than James Macdonald (who left as editor to move to the Globe in 1903), who was responsible for Gordon’s and the Westminster Company’s success. It was he who negotiated the contracts and served as Gordon’s agent, collecting royalties for the Westminster titles for a commission of 6 per cent after the company abandoned book publishing during the First World War.55 At that time, Gordon switched to McClelland and Stewart as his Canadian publisher.

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He developed close, personal relationships with both Fleming Revell, his first American publisher, and Revell’s vice-president, George Doran. Revell advised Gordon on his new house decoration, and the Doran and Gordon families vacationed together. Revell assigned Doran the responsibility for negotiating contracts and handling the manuscripts. A shrewd, colourful extrovert, Doran was more liberal, more ambitious, and more commercially oriented than Revell.56 Born to an Irish immigrant family in Ontario in 1869, he had first worked for S. Edgar Briggs of the Toronto Willard Tract Depository before moving to Chicago with Revell after Revell purchased the firm. Rising quickly to become vice-president, he established roots and became an American citizen in 1896, but in 1905 troubles developed between Revell and Doran. While it is clear that Doran’s transfer to New York and his antipathy to J. Edgar Briggs, his supervisor in the New York office, contributed to the problem, much more was obviously involved. In a long series of letters written during these months, W.E. Robertson and Charles Gordon discussed Doran and his future in detail and alluded to “his trouble,” which rumours over the years have suggested was alcohol.57 This would appear to be confirmed in a letter from Edward Caswell to Nellie McClung in which he refers to one of Revell’s managers “who fell into drinking habits.”58 After unsuccessfully selling stock in the months following his departure from Revell, Doran initiated plans for his own firm and invited Ralph Connor to switch. The author faced one of the most difficult decisions of his career. After months of negotiation, the Westminster Company, Hodder and Stoughton, and Doran came to an agreement for joint ownership in a new Doran company based in New York, which would distribute the Canadian and English titles in the United States and offer American titles in return. In order to lure a hesitant Gordon, they offered him a 25 per cent royalty, payable quarterly, on his next book and an advance of $15,000.59 It would be an understatement to say that Ralph Connor was the single most important factor in the creation of George Doran’s new company. Without him, neither Hodder and Stoughton nor Westminster would have become partners. With high expectation from all parties and the need to prove himself, Doran worked hard to make The Foreigner (1908) a success, and he continued as Gordon’s publisher until he retired in 1930.60 He was an avid reader and a good judge of manuscripts, and he made decisions quickly and hired talented associates to assist him. Even with Gordon as a close friend, there were times of great stress in their relationship, which for Doran centred on the late delivery of manuscripts. Publishing first editions as large as were required for Connor

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books entailed major pre-production expenses for paper and other supplies. Often as late as May or June, Doran had no idea whether Gordon was completing a book or not, and in order to meet the demands of the Christmas trade, he usually moved from script to type with little opportunity for proofreading the final chapters.61 Although he came close to collapsing on occasion from the strain, Doran maintained good relations with Gordon as a personal friend – a friend on whom he depended for much of his income. Gordon’s dealings with Ernest (J.E.) and Percy Hodder-Williams of Hodder and Stoughton also developed into friendship. As the most prominent British fiction publisher operating in Canada, this firm secured the British and colonial contracts for many Canadian writers. In reminding Gordon that he was in the same rank for sales as Rudyard Kipling, Hall Caine, and Marie Corelli in 1902, Hodder and Stoughton emphasized his importance to the firm as an author.62 Gordon spent time at the Hodder-Williams brothers’ homes during the First World War and maintained a friendly, personal correspondence with them in the post-war period. He used the services of the firm to advance money to family members when they were travelling in Europe.63 Robert Stead’s experiences with another British publisher were much less satisfactory. His career demonstrates how an aspiring writer could storm the publishing barricades through sheer determination. From his base as a newspaper owner and publisher in rural Manitoba, Stead offered fellow weekly newspaper publishers one of his poems for twenty-five cents, payable quarterly.64 Having written sufficient poems by 1908 for a book, he paid William Briggs $295 for 1,000 copies of The Empire Builders and initiated the process of eliciting reviews.65 With his journalist contacts, it was easy to secure one from the Winnipeg Newspaper Union and have it distributed to more than one hundred small-town weeklies. Then proudly on the front page of his own Southern Manitoba Review, Stead announced to the community on 1 January 1909 that he was a published poet, quoted the favourable Winnipeg review, and offered The Empire Builders for sale at $1.00 a copy. By November of that year, having sold most of the 1,000 copies through mail order himself, he ordered a second printing from Briggs.66 By the following November, the Bookseller and Stationer trumpeted the third edition in its “Canadian Authors and Books” column as selling in Calgary at the rate of 3 copies a day, while one little Manitoba town of five hundred inhabitants reported sales of 100 copies a day.67 What the trade journal did not know was that the little town was Stead’s Cartwright, from where he mailed the copies he sold. Within months, Toronto’s Globe was hailing Robert Stead as “Laureate of the Prairies.”68 He ascended to the status of a

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Briggs royalty author with the third edition. For his third volume of poetry, Songs of the Prairie (1911), which was a selection from The Empire Builders and Prairie Born and Other Poems (1911), he was able to secure both an American and a British edition.69 The choice of Briggs as his publisher had been a natural one for Stead. In 1906, Briggs had published Robert Service’s Songs of the Sourdough, which was such a hit that the publisher changed the terms from a straight commission agreement to a royalty.70 Some reviewers compared Stead’s poetry of the people to Service’s Klondike ballads. Although Stead wrote newspaper columns and published twelve short stories in Canadian and American papers and magazines during this period, had he not forced his way onto the scene and demonstrated that he was a viable royalty author, it is unlikely that he would have secured easy publication of his first novel.71 It was through Briggs that he met British publisher T. Fisher Unwin. With his Canadian nationalism focused in an imperial context in this period, Stead’s choice of a British publisher did not contradict his strong identification with his own country.72 Although he continued in an aggressive and very critical stance in his relationship with publishers throughout his career, he suffered several misfortunes for which he was not directly responsible. In contracting with Unwin in 1914 for his first novel, Stead would quickly experience the difficulties that many Canadian writers faced with British contracts. Unwin used his contract with Briggs for the Canadian edition, which was printed in England, to cover his own production costs, leaving little margin for Briggs’s profit and few royalties for Stead.73 From his base in London, Unwin was unable to secure an American edition. As a first novel, The Bail Jumper might not have easily found an American publisher, but Unwin’s continued failure with Stead’s second novel, The Homesteaders (1916), suggests that he was ill-suited for the task of placing American rights. Already in his mid-sixties by 1914, T. Fisher Unwin had had little direct experience with North American authors. His firm was most noted for its series, which peaked at twenty-eight in 1917, but he also introduced Joseph Conrad, Annie Besant, Harold Bindloss, and Olive Schreiner to the reading public. Dignified and rigid in his formal, Edwardian demeanour, he was equally rigid, obstinate, and capricious in his relationships. Approaching business with a take it or leave it attitude, he always sought to recover his costs before paying royalties.74 His treatment of Stead, then, was no different from that of any other author. For The Homesteaders, the combination of timid publishers, war, and distance destroyed any chance of the success that it might have had.

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When Briggs declined to accept this novel on the same terms as the first, Stead negotiated with Westminster and with McClelland and Goodchild for weeks before they too declined because of the increasingly unfavourable contract offered by Unwin. Soaring wartime production prices for labour, paper, and ink increased the cost of each book before shipping charges to 1s.6d. per volume.75 By late February 1916, Stead had decided to pay for and market 1,000 copies himself in order to secure Unwin’s commitment to publish. Before the printing was finished, he was fortunate in securing a contract with Musson of Toronto for the Canadian edition, which sold out within days of its arrival in early September. Although a few more copies arrived, they were insufficient to meet the rising Canadian demand. Unwin refused to print a second edition in Britain, and because of the British wartime export restrictions, he was unable ship the plates to Toronto for a Canadian edition.76 While British publishers were able to service the home and colonial market, with rare exceptions their capacity to handle the North American market for Canadian authors was limited by the factors of distance, communication problems, and a conservative British mentality. There would be no separate Canadian edition of the novel until the 1920s.77 When Unwin refused to consider an offer on his next novel, The Cow Puncher (1918), without first seeing the entire manuscript, a frustrated and angry Stead placed his fate in the hands of Britain’s leading literary agency, A.P. Watt and Son. For the first time, there would be separate contracts for the British, Canadian, and American editions, a policy that Stead later recommended to all writers.78 With a contract for a Musson edition printed in Toronto and an American edition with Harper, Stead could not be held hostage again by a British publisher who refused to provide copies or plates for the North American market. Although he insisted that Watt give Unwin the first chance to bid for the rights, he made it clear at the outset what his demands were and that he preferred Hodder and Stoughton.79 It had been William Smart of Hodder and Stoughton who had suggested that he contact Watt in the first place. By the time the novel was published, Smart had moved to Musson. A supportive network was beginning to work for Stead. Through the lessons that he had learned himself and the power of his agent in negotiating a more favourable British contract, he was able to maximize production, marketing, and earnings for a book that reached 70,000 in sales.80 Stead’s publishing troubles, however, would continue. With an assertive Canadian cultural nationalism pervading the atmosphere in the aftermath of the First World War, and with the great

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success of The Cow Puncher, Charles J. Musson had visions of rich rewards when he asked Stead for the world rights to his next novel. “As they have been very successful with my work, and have placed a great amount of energy behind the marketing of it,” Stead told Watt, “I could not very well decline their request.”81 In spite of his own considerable nationalistic feelings at this time, Stead should have refused. While Canadian sales would equal those of the previous novel, there was to be no American edition because of, Stead confessed to Watt, “the failure of those who are looking after my interests in the matter of arranging simultaneous publication there.”82 As a small firm serving as an agency publisher for Zane Grey, Mildred Aldrich, Hugh Walpole, and others for Harper’s and Hodder and Stoughton, and publishing only a few Canadian titles a year, Musson was illequipped for the task of servicing world rights from a Canadian base.83 Hodder and Stoughton purchased Musson the year prior to the publishing of Stead’s next novel in 1922. Under contract to continue with the same firm, he once again experienced disappointing sales.84 Ironically, he then turned to Brandt and Brandt, a reputable New York literary agency, to rescue him from publishers once more. The agency would work with him on his final three novels, with George Doran and McClelland and Stewart as his North American publishers.85 With Doran producing the plates for the Canadian editions, Stead opted for the typical and the most satisfactory arrangement for Canadian authors and publishers. It would also take Maud Montgomery several years to reach that goal. While Charles Gordon considered his publishers as friends, she came to see Louis Coues Page as her enemy. When she signed her first contract for Anne of Green Gables, she believed it to be a standard 10 per cent royalty contract, but it was far from standard.86 Rather than 10 per cent on the retail price, Page contracted for the percentage on the wholesale price and bound her to the same terms for five years. What is even more distressing is the fact that he bound her to the same terms in subsequent contacts, including no royalties on the first 1,000 copies, even after she had become an international bestselling author.87 It would be difficult to find another publisher who treated a star author as wretchedly as Page did this one. Montgomery considered the Page company, which she knew had published the Canadians Bliss Carman and Charles G.D. Roberts, below the top publishers such as Harper or Macmillan, and she realized the contract was not generous, but “I was afraid they might not take the book, and I am so anxious to get it before the public.”88 In a recent article, Carole Gerson argues convincingly that, because the Page

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firm specialized in juvenile series, this contract reflects the publisher’s expectations of the ongoing marketability of both Montgomery and Anne of Green Gables.89 Page was taking advantage of a naive, new author, but this attitude had nothing to do with gender. Since the founding of his firm in 1897, he had been systematically insisting on total control over his authors. He disliked literary agents and reprint houses, generally preferred to issue his own cheap editions, and considered “that a royalty of 10% was equitable on all popular best sellers,”90 at a time when the industry standard was 15 to 20 per cent. In 1897 he had altered and published William Kirby’s The Golden Dog without the author’s permission, and in the next decade, Charles G.D. Roberts left him over a dispute in the selection of an English publisher.91 Page liked intimate relationships with his authors, but in hosting Montgomery in Boston and sending her gifts of books at Christmas, he practised manipulation rather than friendship. With Anne of Green Gables, one of the seven Montgomery books he published, appearing in thirty-two editions in five years, including a popular edition of 150,000 copies, and continuing to sell well, Montgomery lost thousands of dollars because of her inability to escape from the terms of Page’s original contract. After the publication of Anne of the Island in 1915, a disgusted Montgomery bolted to Stokes in the United States and a separate contract with McClelland and Stewart in Canada.92 When Page responded by withholding royalty payments in protest, she hired a lawyer through the American Authors’ League and sued Page, something that no other author had done directly. “I will not tamely sit down and let Page cheat me at pleasure,” she declared of the man she now viewed as a scoundrel.93 When Mildred Page sued Louis for divorce the same year, Montgomery noted that this was his third divorce: “no wonder he has to cheat his authors.”94 Although worried to the point of losing sleep and fearful that her husband’s parishioners would hear of the suit, Montgomery persevered and won her case, and then bargained expertly in negotiations with Page for his purchase of the rights to the seven titles that he had published for $17,800.95 This seemed a fair price at the time, but with the continued strong sales of her early fiction, it was Page, rather than Montgomery, who got the best of the deal. Two years later, in 1919, she again found it necessary to sue Page for breach of contract when he published a series of stories, Further Chronicles of Avonlea. Because some of the stories included Anne’s name, and because Page had published them without the author’s permission, he had violated the previous settlement. He then countersued for malicious litigation. This time the Boston trials and the

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appeals dragged on for nine years, caused Montgomery to miss her son Chester’s eighth birthday, and involved considerable stress. Once again she prevailed and won the total profits from Further Chronicles, but the suit had cost her $75,000.96 She had slain her Goliath, but the victory was more a moral than a financial one. For her, however, selfrespect and reputation were more important than money. With her new publishers, Montgomery’s royalties more than doubled to 20 per cent of the retail, rather than the wholesale, price, and relations, particularly with John McClelland, advanced to those of friendship.97 Each time she visited Toronto, she called in at the McClelland and Stewart offices for a visit, which usually concluded with lunch at the National Club. The firm sent her a box of books every Christmas, used its influence to secure a scarce ticket to hear Lloyd George speak in Toronto, provided advice on medical specialists, and arranged reading tours.98 At last, she was receiving the respect from publishers that she deserved. During the course of his long career writing fiction, poetry, and non-fiction, Arthur Stringer contracted with thirty publishers – fifteen American, eight Canadian, and seven British – for the first editions of his books. That he required so many outlets resulted, to a degree, from the great variety of his work, but it was also because of his changes of genres and his failure to secure long-term commitments from individual publishers in the early part of his career. Like Robert Stead, he thrust himself into increasing prominence with selffinanced volumes of poetry.99 With the services of agent Paul Reynolds, he then placed his first novels with major houses, including Appleton, Little, Brown, and Houghton Mifflin, but these arrangements never developed into long-term associations. Most publishing contracts required the author to give a publisher the rights to the next two or three books. In Stringer’s case, either because of the nature of the material or the less-than-spectacular sales, publishers rarely exercised this option. Not until seventeen years after publishing his first fiction did he find a long-term relationships with BobbsMerrill of Indianapolis and McClelland and Stewart of Toronto, with whom he remained for the rest of his career. In spite of having an agent, Stringer continually scrutinized his publishers’ performance in promotion and sales. This was of particular concern in the Canadian market, where, he believed, he was constantly being undersold. Canadian publishers purchased the books or printed sheets from the American publisher, he complained to Reynolds, and then spent “three dollars in advertising and let the book dabble along, taking no chances and assuming no responsibility.”100 Whereas Canadian authors attempting to secure American

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editions from a Canadian base often experienced problems, those, such as Stringer, who moved to the United States and contracted first with an American publisher potentially faced similar difficulties in accessing the Canadian market. Having moved from Briggs through the new, smaller firms of Bell and Cockburn, Musson, and McLeod and Allen, he remained dissatisfied, particularly with promotion and distribution. Stringer found George McLeod to be a “very charming gentleman,” but he thought him “deficient in pep” and too preoccupied with his business as distributor for the American reprint houses of A.L. Burt and Grosset and Dunlap.101 In 1919, after receiving no Canadian reviews of The Man Who Couldn’t Sleep, Stringer purchased review copies with his own money for the Globe and Saturday Night, which then published favourable assessments.102 After discovering that the McLeod salesman did not even carry copies or promotional material for his latest novel with him on the road, Stringer began his search for another Canadian publisher.103 In selecting McClelland and Stewart as the firm “with the most pep about them,” he chose the same publisher as an increasing number of Canadian novelists.104 Although it published a great variety of titles, this company specialized in popular Canadian fiction. From the 1920s on, its titles would dominate the Canadian best-seller list. Stringer was pleased with his choice of an aggressive publisher, which carried his poetry as well as his fiction. Unlike Bobbs-Merrill, it did not reject the sexually explicit novel The Wine of Life in 1921. It also reissued Stringer’s early novels after he personally secured the rights from the American publishers.105 John McClelland, whose house guests included Montgomery, Stead, Gordon, and Stringer, lived by this newer version of a Calvinistic motto: “Late to bed, and late to rise. Hustle all and advertise.”106 In Bobbs-Merrill, Stringer found a company with experience in best-sellers, good marketing, “excellent editorial ability, and executive firmness.”107 His friendly relations with Hewitt Hanson Howland and then David Laurence Chambers, as businessmen and as editors, developed to a degree that permitted the frank exchange of ideas and advice. Protective of both their company’s name and Stringer’s reputation, Howland and Chambers occasionally demanded the reworking of a novel or, as with The Wine of Life, even refused to publish it.108 Because poetry was of special significance to him, Stringer was also pleased with Bobbs-Merrill’s willingness to publish this genre. These volumes were under special, direct contracts with his publisher and not subject to Reynolds’s 10 per cent commission. For them, Stringer assumed full financial responsibility for any outstanding balance at the end of the first year of sales.109 For Stringer, as for other Canadian authors, the British and colonial markets were problematic. London-based publishers continued to

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print costly cloth-bound first editions that were too expensive for most readers, who waited for the popular 6d. imprint; but unless there were spectacular sales for the cloth edition, they waited in vain. The publishers also tended to judge the market based on an urban, British reading public, which too often did not mesh with colonial tastes. According to Paul Reynolds, North American books sold better in the Australian than in the British market because “Australia is a new country and conditions there are much more like conditions prevailing over here.”110 The sales patterns experienced by Stringer, Montgomery, Stead, and Connor support this assertion. For The Wire Tappers and Phantom Wires, Reynolds removed Australia from T.W. Laurie’s contract for British rights and had Little, Brown deal directly with that country and New Zealand.111 Few authors were able to cultivate long-term relationships with British publishers. Montgomery, who contracted with six different firms, felt that the frequent changes “militated against the success of my books there.”112 Even Charles Gordon, after a trip to Australia and New Zealand, where he discovered, to his dismay, an absence of his books in stores, abandoned his long-term association with Hodder and Stoughton and moved to John Lane.113 After Hodder and Stoughton performed poorly with Danny, Edward Caswell told McClung in 1910 that the firm “grasps at too much and cannot do proper justice to all of their authors.”114 There were frequent complaints from readers in Australia, New Zealand, and Britain about their inability to purchase specific novels.115 By 1919, for instance, all Montgomery titles were out of print. For her, the solution to this problem came with a switch to Harrap’s, a firm specializing in cheap reprints, which had carried the volumes controlled by Page since 1925.116 For the other four authors, there was no such solution. They found it increasingly difficult to gain access to the British market. In spite of being engaged in an exciting, competitive industry, most publishers disliked taking risks. With first books, there were rarely generous terms for the authors. Even with the assistance of an agent, the best that most could expect was a 10 per cent royalty, a small advance to be paid back from royalties, and a clause that forced the author to give the publisher first refusal on the next three books. Publishers also often charged a percentage fee for negotiating and handling foreign contracts. Real power accrued to the authors only if they entered the best-seller ranks. For them, “royalty rates reached an all-time high between 1900 and 1905.”117 With their first contracts, Montgomery and Stead were below the industry average. Unwin charged Briggs a sufficiently high price for copies of Stead’s novel to recover production costs and allowed only a 5 per cent Canadian royalty, half of which Briggs kept as a handling

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fee.118 In giving Montgomery a 10 per cent royalty on the wholesale, rather than the retail, price, Louis Page cheated his client out of thousands of dollars. Yet Charles Gordon fared little better with Revell and Westminster, two cautious, neophyte companies in the realm of publishing fiction. Westminster charged a 10 per cent fee, later cut in half and then dropped, for handling the American and British contracts.119 Even for The Sky Pilot, with the great success of Gordon’s first novel already known, Revell’s contract granted no royalties on the first 750 copies, then 10 per cent on the next 250, and finally 15 per cent.120 It was only the example of the more experienced Hodder and Stoughton, with a standard contract for 15 per cent on the first 5,000 and rising to 20 per cent, that forced Westminster and Revell to raise their percentages.121 With the assistance of Edward Caswell, McClung secured a first contract with Doubleday, Page and Company which, although paying no royalties on the first 1,000 copies, then started at 10 per cent and rose to 12½ per cent for the next 2,500 and then to 15%.122 Caswell also instructed her on what to request from Briggs, and in spite of the urging of Doubleday, Page to accept the terms offered “because you need a live publisher of this first book a great deal more than you need any special royalty arrangement,” she demanded and received a contract which began with 10 per cent for the first 2,500 copies and then rose to 15 per cent.123 With the services of Paul Reynolds, Stringer remained at 10 per cent on the first 3,000 to 5,000 copies before rising to 15 per cent for most of his career.124 When the rate moved up to 20 per cent or higher, as it did for Gordon and Montgomery at the height of their careers, it signalled a “best-seller” author whom the company desired to catch or to keep. For the colonial edition, handled by the British publisher, the standard royalty was a mere 4d. per copy. Hence in its first decade, Anne of Green Gables sold more copies in Australia than in Canada but earned less than half the amount for Montgomery.125 For cheap and reprint editions, the royalty generally dropped to 10 per cent, irrespective of the original terms. Usually there were separate contracts for lump-sum payments with reprint publishers A.L. Burt and Grosset and Dunlap.126 Publishers disliked advances against royalties, which they viewed as a risk, and preferred to print small runs of a few thousand copies and then print as many reissues as the market warranted.127 In contrast, authors and agents believed that advances caused publishers to sell more aggressively in order to recoup the expenditure. Each of the authors in this study, with the exception of McClung, received advances.128 Stringer’s amount increased from $150 for The Wire Tappers (1906) to a high of $4,000 for Empty Hands (1924), while Montgomery,

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who did not receive advances from Page, accepted $5,000 from Stokes in 1917. Stead reached a high of $3,000 from Doran and $1,000 from McClelland and Stewart in 1924. These amounts pale in comparison to the high of $20,000 which Charles Gordon received at the peak of his fame, as an advance from his three publishers for Corporal Cameron in 1912. At some point in their careers, all five of the authors in this study placed their fate in the hands of an agent. Unfortunately for Gordon and Montgomery, they did so only near the end of their careers in periods of declining revenue, but both Stead and Stringer benefited from agents from an early stage.129 With the appearance of copyright legislation, increasing competition among publishers and in the marketplace, and the general commercialization and professionalization of the industry in the late nineteenth century, the writing community found itself at a disadvantage. One response was the formation of writers’ societies, but the more immediate needs became the responsibility of literary agents, who began in the 1890s to serve as brokers between authors and publishers. For a fee of 10 per cent of revenues, they would assume the responsibility for selling manuscripts to a variety of markets, negotiating and checking contracts, and collecting and examining royalties. The best ones also served as editors and advisers, giving recommendations on style and substance and guaranteeing the quality of the manuscript delivered to the publisher.130 Although Robert Stead used A.P. Watt and Son of London, Britain’s top agency, to negotiate a better contract for The Cow Puncher, he had been his own negotiator for too long to transfer his dependence totally or permanently. By agreeing to some minor details with Hodder and Stoughton before clearing them with Watt, including a mere 7½ per cent royalty on a popular edition, Stead left Watt powerless to renegotiate and himself without some future royalties.131 Two years later, when Stead’s granting of world rights to Musson for his next novel without reference to Watt led to unsatisfactory results, there was nothing his agent could do to rescue him. Stead did not utilize an agent again until 1923, when he working with Brandt and Brandt of New York for Smoking Flax and Grain. This time he allowed his agents to negotiate and agree to the contracts; he also accepted Mrs Brandt’s suggestions for revising the last half of Grain.132 Yet once again he intervened regarding details of the contract, insisted on changes in the book jacket design, and forced his promotional ideas on his publishers. As a professional publicity agent himself, and as an individual who had fought his way up the writing ladder, he was reluctant to relinquish control over his literary career. Without the services of his agent, Arthur Stringer’s career might not have provided sufficient revenue for him to live on his literary

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earnings alone. He was most fortunate with the timing of his affiliation with Paul Reynolds, which began in April 1902. When Reynold’s list of clients became large enough by the end of that decade, he accepted only already famous authors.133 During one of Stringer’s particularly difficult financial period, Reynolds even lowered his commission to 5 per cent.134 Stringer, then, had a rare opportunity, experienced by few, to build a career with this agent. It is unlikely that Reynolds worked harder to promote any other author.135 The two men developed a mutual respect and friendship which lasted for Stringer’s entire career. In spite of being comfortable with the old, genteel tradition, both were in tune with the commercial spirit of the era. Although Reynolds preferred to conduct his business by letter and telegram, Stringer was a frequent visitor to his office, where they discussed ideas for stories and future prospects. In spite of his confessing to a friend in 1904 that he was now “commercialized to the extent of being forced to surrender everything to a literary agent, who, in turn, peddles it about the literary world,”136 Stringer continued to have direct contracts with publishers and some magazine editors. Reynolds’s principal role was to find magazines and publishers willing to accept Stringer’s stories at the highest price. Unwilling to bargain with editors and publishers, he offered manuscripts at a fair market value and, if they were rejected, tried to find someone who would accept them at his specified rate. In this way, he maintained the reputation of his authors and maximized both their and his own revenue. He also patiently schooled Stringer in the requirements of the industry.137 Nellie McClung used both Edward Caswell of the Methodist Book and Publishing House and Henry W. Lanier of Doubleday, Page and Company as her agents early in her career. In addition to securing his sister Jessie to produced the typed manuscripts of Danny and The Second Chance for American publishers, Caswell found a U.S. firm willing to accept the manuscript and advised McClung what terms to demand for the normal 10 per cent agent’s fee.138 Caswell continued this relationship for her second novel, even though he had left Briggs for a position at the Toronto Public Library. From New York, Lanier submitted McClung’s stories and novels to magazines for publication at the normal fees.139 He also arranged for reprint editions of the first two novels. Charles Gordon received repeated invitations from both Watt and Reynolds to allow them to represent him. He declined their offers and appears to have had no understanding of the role or value of a literary agent.140 Although he would not have benefited substantially from the services of an agent for his book contracts, he could have im-

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proved on his record-keeping and subsidiary contracts with such services. In some instances, he acted as his own agent; in others, he permitted his publishers to represent him. After the collapse of Westminster, he also kept the services of William E. Robertson, as the collector of royalties for some of his books at a 6 per cent commission.141 Overall, the situation with regard to the collection of royalties and what previous movie and other rights had been granted was confused. By the time that Gordon turned to the agencies of Cora Wilkening and Son and Jacques Chambrun of New York in the 1930s, it was too late either to benefit financially from literary agents or to rescue a declining career.142 In the latter part of her career, Montgomery used the services of Ann Elmo of the A.F.G. Agency of New York, a firm connected with a Hollywood movie-script agency. Although she did not benefit greatly from this relationship, through it she was able to sell a story to Good Housekeeping for $400. “The joke is,” she noted in her journal, “I had sent it to Good Housekeeping a few months before on my own, and they rejected it.”143 For Montgomery, even in the last decade of her career as a writer, it was worth having an agent. It is unfortunate that she had not had the services of an Ann Elmo as early as 1908. Each of the five people in this study gained international reputations as Canadian authors. Although they experienced some problems with publishers and editors, as determined, aggressive individuals, they strove to maximize their success in the marketplace. They also were adept at self-promotion in the advancement of their careers. Yet commercial considerations did not dominate their agendas. All of them wrote the type of fiction that interested them and fulfilled what they saw as their mission, and as the popularity of their genres faded, they refused to conform to more modern tastes with greater gloom, sordidness, and graphic descriptions of human sexuality. As well, they all refused to follow the path of so many other popular writers and sensationalize their work. In an era that saw authors increasingly separated from the details of publishing, these five authors, irrespective of whether they engaged an agent, remained vigilant and intervened with publishers and editors over details, large and small, which might affect their success. Although in the final analysis the publishers exercised the dominant power over their careers, their attentiveness maintained a balance which ensured a measure of independence. In the competitive world of this modern, commercially oriented publishing industry, as long as people wanted the books, there was always another publisher waiting for the opportunity to satisfy the demand.

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5 Ralph Connor, the Sky Pilot

In marketing Ralph Connor, his publisher and close friend George Doran stressed the author’s birth in the Canadian forest and his Thoreau-like love of the wilderness. Although young Charlie had trekked two miles through this forest to attend a log-cabin school, he lived with cultured parents in a large brick house with a wide veranda. Also highlighted by Doran was Connor’s affection for little children, his confidence in humanity, and the successful combination of virility and tenderness portrayed in his character and in his fiction.1 With its images of a positive belief in progress, the care and nurture of children, and a civilized wilderness, this portrait tapped into both the aspirations and the fears of the reading public. Connor’s earliest novels were above all preoccupied with maintaining social equilibrium in a society undergoing an immense transition into its modern, urban, industrial phase. Doran offered Connor to readers as the friend of all who needed a friend, and as a man who saw good hidden away in everyone. He was a Sky Pilot shepherding his flock of readers into a moral and wholesome future in which evil would be restrained and the integrity of communities maintained. That his mission would be successful was, for many, not in doubt because of his solid links to the real Sky Pilot and Master in heaven. “Clergymen were not simply sidewalk spectators of the progressive age,” write Nancy Christie and Michael Gauvreau in their study of social Christianity, “but must be viewed as key actors who both witnessed and actively shaped the new mentalities and organizations which had developed to cope with modernity.”2 Connor’s immense

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popularity resulted from his ability to link popular fiction in the form of gripping adventure novels with this progressive reform spirit and the religious needs of the age. As one of the leading Presbyterian advocates of a more progressive Christianity, he argued for the abandonment of “stultified formal and doctrinal” preaching and its replacement with non-sectarian, warm, emotional evangelicalism.3 His early novels provided such sermons for millions of readers; they fell in love with his well-defined characters, who served as models of exemplary Christian lives and service in modern, early-twentieth-century society. Another key to Connor’s great success as an author was the emotional intensity with which his readers interacted with his fiction. It is important to note that Connor built his reputation on his first two novels, Black Rock (1898) and The Sky Pilot (1899), both published before the turn of the century and set in the Rocky and Selkirk mountains and foothills. These two books established his reading audience, and with their strong sales over the next three decades, they continued to augment that audience and entice readers to other Connor volumes.4 Given the prominence and the content of these first two novels, it becomes necessary to pose some new questions about the role of romance, adventure, and muscular Christianity as important sources of this author’s popularity. Gordon is criticized for his inept handling of romantic love in later works,5 but he made no attempt to build his first novels around a romance theme. While the hero and heroine do marry in the last chapter of Black Rock, the focus remains on their love of and service to others rather than for each other. Gordon described The Sky Pilot as “a unique, purely spiritual, non-sex idyll.”6 If romance is to be found in these narratives, it is in the scenery and action rather than the people – in the breathtaking beauty and the silence of the mountains and the forest and their strange power. “Listen, Can’t you hear them breathe,” is a line from The Sky Pilot that returned as an echo to Gordon from his readers, as the hills, trees, and flowers became almost human for them.7 Located in mining and ranching country far from civilization, this volatile frontier sheltered a host of renegades and misfits who led wicked and adventurous lives. If Connor’s heroes and heroines could tame such a society to the level of modern expectations, there was also hope for the more civilized places where most of his readers resided. This theme of taming the wilderness is an important aspect of late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century societies. In Canada it received its most vivid expression in the mythology surrounding the North West Mounted Police.8

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The villains in Black Rock are saloon keeper Mike Slavin and his gang of bloodsuckers, while in The Sky Pilot they are The Duke, son of a lord and remittance man, and his gang, The Company of the Noble Seven. As the dominant force in their community, the leaders are able to lure most of the citizens into their realm. Into this turbulence come the heroic forces of tamed civilization. Against Slavin and his band are pitted the Reverend Craig and Mrs Mavor, and against The Duke and his Company, the Reverend Arthur Wellington Moore, The Sky Pilot, ably assisted by his converts, especially Bronco Bill and Gwen. Charles Gordon would later introduce the famed Mounties as tamers.9 In his preface to The Sky Pilot, Connor portrays this frontier of escape and refuge as a place where men “dwelt safe from the scanning of the world, freed from all restraint of social law, denied the gentle influences of home, and the sweet uplift of a woman’s face.” It is a frontier of guns, knives, and fighting. Ranch hands fire their revolvers into the air to celebrate a win in a horse race and shoot the horns off wandering steers for fun. Idaho Jack, a professional American gambler, knifes Leslie Graeme in a fight over whisky. A drunken Davie Bruce fatally wounds himself in a shooting spree. Even Connor, the narrator and schoolteacher in The Sky Pilot, packs a pistol in his belt, as does the teenage heroine, Gwen. The only place where British tradition bans guns is at the poker table. Sundays are a renegade’s feast of horse racing all day and poker all night, with plenty of whisky at both events. This is not the typical image of the Canadian west in which Mounties confiscated guns and prevented violence. Critics have often accused Ralph Connor of failing to understand and portray a real prairie west.10 Nevertheless, his west was as legitimate as the farming frontier later portrayed by Frederick Philip Grove, Robert Stead, W.O. Mitchell, and others. Writing from a world of experience, Connor would have been unable to use such an agrarian settlement frontier at this time because of his own lack of familiarity. The mining and ranching frontier of his first two novels would become a familiar one in the literary and movie world. Used by Zane Grey and others, it provided an interesting and romantic setting for action-packed novels, the very backdrop that Connor required for his message of heroism, renewal, and hope. The necessary volatility could not as easily have been found in a typical western farming community in the wheat lands. This was a world of strong, silent men, loose-jointed cowboys, miners, and lumbermen caught in a web of drinking and gambling and unable to establish solid lives or support families which included wives and children in eastern Canada or Britain.

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Although they did what they pleased regardless of others, they were not in fact free. Rather than dragging one another down, what they needed, The Pilot believes, is positive support to pull one another up. This was “a new doctrine for the West; an uncomfortable doctrine to practice, interfering seriously with personal liberty, but in The Pilot’s way of viewing things difficult to escape.”11 In attacking Ralph Connor for the degree of violence in his fiction and ascribing this element to his Highland Scottish blood, some critics have failed to understand both the prevalence of violence in latenineteenth-century society and the fervent desire of the middle class to repress it.12 Gordon revelled in competition but stopped far short of condoning violence. Later, in Winnipeg, he would help to establish a church-sponsored league expressly for the purpose of eliminating violence in sports.13 In his fiction, violence is a realistic, natural product of an uncontrolled frontier, as well as a component necessary for the development of the story. Without its horror, there would have been no moral improvement in the communities. Highlighting it also tapped into one of the great fears of the modern middle class. This focus on the need for social equilibrium or public order in modern society has been an important theme in the nineteenth and the entire twentieth century. Although posited as an anti-modern force by T.J. Jackson Lears and others, it is actually a central tenet necessary for the success of modern, urban, industrial society.14 “People in all classes,” writes Keith Walden in his Becoming Modern in Toronto, “sought assurances that order existed or could be made to exist.”15 In an era in which the urban professional and managerial class revered “the new values of continuity, functionality, rationality, administration and management,” notes Robert Wiebe in The Search for Order, “… most reformers conceived the world as an orderly affair where societies, like planets, normally functioned according to rational laws.”16 They sought peaceful solutions to society’s problems and a continuation of progress and enlightenment that would result in a more perfect world, in which there would be the fulfillment of self for all citizens.17 There was among the middle class a genuine fear of those who might thwart these goals, including anarchists, communists, labour agitators, and even adolescents. Between 1876 and 1914 the Canadian militia was called into service forty-eight times to respond to threats to the public order.18 Throughout the Western world, governments at all levels passed laws and bylaws designed to guarantee the maintenance of public order in the face of increasing threats.19 At the heart of the problem was the evil trio of drinking, gambling, and violence – the focus of much of the western world’s concern in

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the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.20 Although Gordon began to write novels to call attention to the financial and manpower requirements of the western Canadian missions, in many ways his early books represent the beginning of his lifelong campaign against alcohol, the worst of the three evils because its influence led to the gambling and violence. In his first two novels, drink also causes mining accidents resulting in death, babies being poisoned by doctors too drunk to provide the correct dosage of medicine, and deaths from gunfire. This frontier experience would help to shape his attitude to alcohol for the rest of his life. Later, in Manitoba, he would be a powerful voice in the prohibition movement, which successfully effected a ban on provincial sales in 1915.21 This temperance crusade, which increasingly focused on the saloon, was one of the most important for North American reformers in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. A central premise was that the drinking culture of the disappearing pre-industrial society was unsuited to a world that featured factories, enhanced family responsibilities, and automobiles. “The saloon clashed with the values of Industrial America not just in it communality and mutuality,” writes Roy Rosenzweig, “but also in the unwillingness of some patrons to endorse fully the work ethic of that society.”22 It also segregated leisure by gender in an age in which family-centred recreation was becoming the middle-class norm. Connor’s literary voice in the crusade against alcohol was a new and different one. Although considered didactic by many modern secularists, in comparison with the browbeating temperance tracts of the day, his message was subtle and hidden within thrilling tales of adventure.23 Also, unlike much of temperance literature, he captured an audience that included both sexes from preteens to the elderly. Black Rock became a bible for many temperance leagues and prohibitionists throughout North America. A school principal from New York State wrote to tell Ralph Connor how her father had been cured of his alcoholism after reading the novel.24 From Gladstone, Manitoba, a clergyman, after thanking the author for Mrs Mavor, “pure, sweet, loving and true – with her angelic Christ-like spirit making earth an Eden and the desert like the Garden of the Lord,” told of a similar young lady who had led a successful campaign to stop drinking, swearing, and dancing in their community.25 In New York City, the Life Boat organization christened its harbour mission ship, launched in 1906, The Sky Pilot, in honour of Ralph Connor.26 Closely associated with drinking in the minds of North Americans was gambling. In the typical Connor novel, an innocent worker sacrifices his season’s wages at the gaming table before being rescued by

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the hero. Considered a bad habit that undermined the work ethic, gambling was not only morally wrong but also had, like alcohol, the potential to destroy individuals and families.27 “Popular accounts place gamblers in wild, unsettled moments in certain economies, particularly frontier extractive industries,” writes Ann Fabian, “– where labor was not yet fully governed by the industry, sobriety, and frugality that moulded daily life to the rhythms of industrial production.”28 The messages in these accounts, however, targeted both frontier and metropolitan audiences. Although in Black Rock, Idaho Jack is a professional American card shark and Nelson dies at the gaming tables in San Francisco after a fight provoked by cheating, the disease was not confined to Americans. It was epidemic on Connor’s frontier, an affliction from which no community or nation was exempt. During this period several North American communities restricted many types of gambling through their bylaws and criminal codes. By the end of the nineteenth century, gambling was generally illegal in most North American and British jurisdictions. For Connor, the key to solving the problems of New York City, Gladstone, Black Rock, or the Swan Creek country of The Sky Pilot rested with individuals such as Mrs Mavor, Craig, and The Pilot. But as important as individuals were to Charles Gordon, they were not enough. Both institutions and communities had important roles to play. In the novels, even the combination of all these factors is not sufficient to transform the communities. It takes a crisis of violent deaths to spur them to action. In the town of Black Rock it is Billy Breen’s alcohol-induced death from lemonade laced by the scoundrel Slavin and the death of Slavin’s baby at the hands of a drunken doctor that prompt Slavin to abandon his irresponsible lifestyle. In Swan River it is Bruce Davie’s death that leads to the disbanding of The Company of the Noble Seven and the transformation of The Duke. Individuals had to be sacrificed before there could be redemption. In Gordon’s theology, struggle and sacrifice were necessary prerequisites for the attainment of better lives and a better world. The agencies of change were from an external, metropolitan world of a rising middle class. Whether from eastern Canada, the United States, or Britain, the culture, the theology, and the education represented a civilization from which there was no escape. In both novels it is the clergymen who are its prime instruments. Even their language carries powerful symbols. When Connor speaks of the community of Black Rock becoming “a suburb of Hell,” urban readers could connect an ancient theological message with a modern phenomenon. Families are particularly effective representatives of the external world. A newly arrived Reverend Craig wins the attention and the

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respect of lumber workers in their camp on Christmas Eve by linking Christ’s family with their own families far away. The longing for family and home is a powerful emotion on Christmas Eve. In Swan River it is a dying Bruce Davie’s last letter from his mother, read to him by The Pilot with tears in his eyes, that confirms his salvation and assists The Duke in his conversion. In an era with a strong focus on the family as the basic unit of society, readers everywhere could relate these scenes to their own personal values and lives.29 Music is another useful agency. On that same Christmas Eve, Craig plays Scottish laments on the violin and sings “The Sweet By-andBy” and “We Shall Meet by the Beautiful Shore,” songs that roused sobs from the toughest men. Part of the solution to every critical situation in Black Rock is Mrs Mavor’s rich, soprano voice, even and true, which leaves her audience in a trance. For the Reverend Charles Gordon, music was just as important. With a rich, tenor voice and command of several musical instruments, he made extensive use of music on the mission field.30 This was an era in which sheet music and piano sales soared and in which family singing was popular. Closely associated with music is the narrative. Biblical stories of the birth of Christ, the Prodigal Son, Zacchaeus, and others, often set anew in cowboy land, became real to Connor’s fictional and actual parishioners. A young woman in his mission congregation at Canmore remembered his effectiveness. “The old story of the Gospels lost its remoteness and became a living, genuine fact as the men heard it from his lips,”31 often with tears in their eyes. Years later this person would remember feeling closer to heaven in these services than she would ever feel again. All this activity contributed to the reconstruction of communities out of the chaos of their past. Whether it was the creation of new communities on the frontier or the maintenance of communities in the agrarian and settled districts, this focus was an important one for turn-of-the-century society. Fear of the loss of community in the rapidly changing demographics and technology preoccupied many minds. “In the 1890s,” notes Robert Wiebe, “champions of the community seemed to materialize everywhere at once.”32 Part of the process of creating communities, as well as maintaining them, involved the establishment of institutions. In Black Rock the focus is on a temperance organization, The League. Like a similar society formed by Gordon in Canmore in the early 1890s, this one involves struggle and sacrifice. With drink and poker as the principal entertainment available, there are many lapses, but Slavin’s saloon eventually becomes a community centre run by The League, with its Minstrel and Dramatic Company providing the entertainment. It now conforms to emerging

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precepts of middle-class, family-oriented leisure. In Swan River, Latour’s Stopping House, now devoid of alcohol, serves a similar function, but in this community the church becomes the more important institution. Built at the same cost as Gordon’s actual church in Canmore and with the same spirit, the Swan Creek church unites owners and workers, ranchers and farmers, and their families into an effective and caring community, in which individuals support one another and prevent lapses into old habits. Although one Connor reader thanked him for doing him, “a bad man,” much good,33 and others shared testimonials of transformed lives, his novels did not become a magical antidote for alcoholism. But there was a general consensus in the reviews and in readers’ letters that no one could read Connor without becoming a better person. His works illustrated the beauty of just being good. It is also unlikely that his books led hosts of the unchurched into the fold, but for those striving to maintain their faith in the modern world, he did provide an effective catalyst. Speaking before the Social Service Congress in Toronto in 1914, Charles Gordon pleaded with the delegates to abandon a God who was a distant and transcendent, stern ruler of the universe, exacting obedience and hard on the trail of every sinner, and replace him with a more human, loving God who was active in the daily affairs of the world.34 Connor’s readers were aware of his modern theology, for it was in this sphere that the author’s voice came closest to invading the text. The messages came from the lips of Craig, The Pilot, and others, but clearly it was the author speaking.35 In Black Rock, Leslie Graeme has just such a debate with his father, while Craig, upon his return from Edinburgh, decides that the future of the church rests not in the great minds or great books but in the practical affairs of society. In the same novel, all denominations commune together in spite of the protestations of Geordie Crawford, who sees himself defending the Lord’s Table from such modern trends. The Pilot conducts his first service in the saloon in the presence of whisky and guns, and for some time, alcoholic Permit Sundays and Preaching Sundays alternate. Having abandoned religion from the moment he enters the frontier, Bronco Bill, under The Pilot’s influence, becomes his community’s most effective evangelist, an authority on the questions of morals and religion; but “no one could ever accuse him of ‘gettin religion’ [as] he went about his work in his slow, quiet way.”36 Such tolerance, understated ministry and interdenominational cooperation represented an important part of Connor’s message. With the most effective ministry occurring among the people in homes, in lumber camps, and even on the baseball field, it was truly a faith

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which had escaped far beyond the four walls of the church into the community and the real lives of the people. Far from hastening the secularism of consumer culture, write Christie and Gauvreau, Connor’s popular novels were “potent inducements for personal conversion. This was especially the case among young males like Ramsay [a reader] who were struggling to escape both their lowermiddle-class circumstances and the alienation brought on by routinizing and impersonal modern bureaucracies.”37 In his faith, Gordon upheld one of the central tenets of the Presbyterian Westminster Confession that one’s chief aim in life was to glorify God and enjoy him forever. To traditional individual salvation and responsibility, an appreciation of the mystical presence of God, and the requirements of self-denial, self-control, and patient endurance, he added a practical message of love, service, and social renewal. The most challenging of these was self-mastery. As a young woman from Australia wrote, “there is so much of self to be conquered.”38 Leaving no room for dogmatism or sanctimoniousness, Gordon’s faith placed a premium on decency and common sense and expressed a strong, optimistic, liberal belief in the perfectibility of human nature. True faith also still involves sacrifice, whether it is Mrs Mavor staying to minister to the citizens of Black Rock, The Company of the Noble Seven relinquishing much of its freedom, or the supreme sacrifice of The Pilot, who works himself to death for the community of Swan River. The sacrifice of The Pilot provides evidence that modern readers could carry a novel to best-seller status in spite of the absence of the traditional happy ending. Like Christ’s, his death is neither tragic nor in vain. The good citizens of Swan River carry on his work; his church and ministry do not die. There is another ministry in The Sky Pilot – the parable of Gwen – which explains one of the most difficult questions of faith and was partly responsible for the popularity of the novel: Where is God in the midst of human suffering and pain? A child of the frontier with yards of red hair, a temper to match, and the coldest kind of nerve anyone had ever seen, Gwen lives a wild, idyllic, but lonely life with her father, The Old Timer, up in the hills far from Swan River. Having lost her mother as a small child, this uncontrollable teenager, as untamed as a yearling range colt, is gradually being civilized by teacher and preacher when a heroic accident on the range leaves her paralyzed. Using a nearby canyon with its array of wild flowers as a metaphor, supplemented with stories from the Gospels, The Pilot assures her that God is still with her and that she can plant her own flowers in the service of others. Here is an instance in which the denial of self, complete with pain and self-pity, becomes a prerequisite for a future,

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wholesome life. Gwen takes his advice and becomes one of the primary enablers of the building of the new church. Connor received heart-wrenching letters from similar victims who, like Gwen, found new hope and new life through his ministry. “You have beautifully shown to me the two ways of self,” wrote a young disabled woman from Grahamstown, South Africa. “I think I can say that I have not knowingly made others miserable through my affliction … and I hope I shall be as brave as your Gwen to bear everything that way.”39 Many others wrote to express their thanks for the help that Gwen’s example had provided during their illnesses, at the death of a spouse, or during general depression. They all found flowers in their canyons. The novel was better than medicine. Fleming Revell’s separate, illustrated publication of chapters 9 to 13 of The Sky Pilot as Gwen: An Idyll of the Canyon in 1904 reflects both the impact of Gwen’s story on readers and its continued potential in the marketplace. Often placing their Connor novels next to their Bibles on the bookshelves, readers everywhere responded positively to the author’s modernized faith. By making Christ real, he invigorated tired hearts and souls, stiffened the resolve to help others, and strengthened Christian faith and living for so many people, who often found that their own churches had failed them. “Better than a thousand sermons, this pulse stirring, man-making, soul-awakening preaching of yours,”40 wrote one male correspondent. One of the most dramatic reactions came from a forty-four-year-old Norwegian Lutheran pastor from Rhode Island, who after reading Black Rock, resigned from his church, with its “barren, beaten road of dogmatic theology,” and found new power to launch out and toil on the “blood-stained road of Christian love and fearlessness.”41 It is in this general realm of emotion that Connor’s audience reacted to his novels, and where the secret of his popularity resides. Through their pathos, atmosphere, likeable characters, and realistic events, these early novels offered a heart-to-heart or soul-to-soul experience rarely matched in fiction. For a Boston reviewer, The Sky Pilot was sure to be a success because it touched “just those chords which vibrate luxuriously in the popular heart.”42 After reading Black Rock, a woman from Virginia confessed that “its melting tenderness softened some of the callousness that has been gathering thick upon me and brought back, with a rush, some of the tender emotions of my girlhood days. It filled me with a sort of sadness that was full of tears, but, at the same time, brim full of hope.”43 Connor provided rainbows in the rain – rain that encompassed tragedy, death, and tears. Contained within these first two novels are eight deaths relevant to the plot and twenty-four circumstances involving tears. Readers of all

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ages and both sexes responded with unrestrainable tears trickling down their cheeks.44 In this age, when the virtue of self-control involved the rational command of one’s emotions, this was an noteworthy phenomenon. Perhaps society’s repression demanded such private outlets for a deep human need, or was it merely a residual remnant of a Victorian preoccupation with death?45 For some, it could also involve Christian, evangelical emotions tuned to the concepts of caring and sacrifice. Although raised in a dour Highland Scottish tradition in which reserve was a prime virtue, Charles Gordon also inherited his mother’s propensity to smiles and tears. Upon hearing the Seaforth Highlanders’ pipe band for the first time, he confessed that his “throat was hot and choking, the tears were dimming my eyes.”46 In reality, Highlanders were renown as “the most passionate and deepfeeling of men,”47 but like Gordon, they projected a reserved image. According to his son, he did not cope well with deep emotions.48 Perhaps both he and his readers found an outlet for their feelings in the private experiences of writing and reading. Given the era’s preoccupation with masculinity and Connor’s reputation as a patron of muscular Christianity, this evidence poses some interesting questions. Where did Gordon really stand on the issue, and why is it that his male readers empathized more with the pathos and tenderness than with the violence and macho manliness? He certainly sent mixed signals and was probably caught between two worlds. Inheriting a Scottish masculine tradition which celebrated courage, honour, and competition, and realizing that frontier missions required virile men, he included prefaces in his novels that spoke of the need to demonstrate that “it is good to be a man” and to fight for a “strong, clean, God-conquered” manhood. Yet he could also characterize The Pilot as a man with “a warm, clean, sweet heart and a courageous soul.”49 Believing that being fit was one of the supreme joys in life, as a university student of only 125 pounds, Gordon had opted for boxing and other sports in place of football.50 Throughout his life, he was an outdoors man, skilled at canoeing, curling, and chopping wood. He lived, or sought to live, a manly life as defined by the society of which he was a part, but there was also a distinct tender, caring, emotional side to him which found outlets in social service and writing. At times the two streams lived uncomfortably within his body. In a letter to Robert Stead, Gordon expressed great pride in the enclosed picture of himself in Highland dress taken by a famous New York photographer with an exclusive male clientele, who “never takes anything less than a man,” but he asked Stead to keep this a secret because he wanted to “stand well with the imperious sex.”51

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Had it not been for critics both aware of and supporting a tradition of muscular Christianity, Ralph Connor might never have been absorbed into its fold.52 He certainly had little in common with Thomas Hughes or the other British advocates of the philosophy. For Connor and seemingly for his readers, overt masculinity in a Christian context was a means to an end rather than the end itself. Most of the virtues involved – the unflinching courage, the bravery, the nobleness, and even The Pilot’s skill as a baseball pitcher – existed in society outside the realm of Christianity. Whether his readers were men or women, they responded, not to the violence or macho qualities in his male characters, but to their tenderness, honour, nobility, purity, and chivalry. Writing from Western Australia, a male Sunday school teacher related how his class of teenage boys were exhibiting “a much fairer spirit of manliness” after reading The Sky Pilot.53 Concepts of gender were in a similar state of flux as many other aspects of society. It is, then, difficult to generalize about masculinity in the early twentieth century. Privately, many men could unashamedly admit to tenderness and tears while, at the same time, comment favourably on virile manhood. Ralph Connor maintained his momentum and his growing audience with his next three novels, The Man from Glengarry (1901), Glengarry School Days (1902), and The Prospector (1904). While The Prospector remains in his favourite western setting, the Glengarry novels lovingly portray Connor’s childhood community, in which Mrs Murray, the minister’s wife, modelled on his own mother, provides a heroine to rival Mrs Mavor and Gwen in popularity. In these novels, Connor maintains his thematic focus on the role of leadership, the importance of family, community, and religious faith, and the need for stability. These works, however, could never match, in the minds and hearts of his readers, the first two novels which had made their author famous. Written in the fresh, vivid, natural style of an eyewitness, the earlier novels show no evidence of the ancient classics on which Gordon had focused for his university degree. These were books to be read again and again. Many readers committed whole sections to memory. The characters became their friends, “so natural, so human, so real.”54 Readers wept when The Pilot died and experienced a sense of personal loss and grief. A teenager from Bristol, England, wrote that Connor’s books were “so full of life and are so beautifully written, and the characters are so fine and admirable. One’s feelings and emotions are stirred up by their noble traits, and especially by their wholeheartedness and devotion to any cause which they take up.”55

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For a generation clinging to concepts of nobleness and gentility, but also wanting modern excitement in their lives, Connor offered the best of both worlds. With Mike Slavin, The Company of the Noble Seven, and Gwen tamed, the frontier would still be an exciting place, but now there were true moral, supportive communities curbing the worst abuses. Moreover Connor had inspired some to abandon their addiction to alcohol, built new lives for many other Gwens, and assisted thousands in the quest to maintain their spirituality in the modern world. For many others, he had confirmed the relevance of emotion as a comfortable companion for rationality in modern society. Connor’s best novels were books with a purpose. Critics routinely scorn such fiction, but he was careful to avoid being didactic. “For any writer who allows his personality to express itself apart from the personalities which he creates is to that extent inartistic in his work,” he wrote, but he also did not know of “any great novel which is not throbbing with purpose.”56 Connor used the immediacy of his experiences in Winnipeg and the First World War to address contemporary problems in four additional novels. In The Foreigner (1909) he portrays the Canadianization of a young Galician immigrant. Although one member of this immigrant community objected to the degradation of the immigrant lower classes portrayed in the novel,57 Connor’s treatment, while paternalistic, is more sympathetic than the attitudes of many other Canadians, among whom the desire for assimilation was almost universal.58 His war novel, The Major (1917), was connected to the recruiting campaign and subject to Allied censorship. Although The Sky Pilot in No Man’s Land (1919) is a slightly more realistic portrayal of the western front, it falls short of revealing the terrible carnage, which Gordon as a chaplain witnessed. In spite of this failing, or possibly because of it, both novels made the American best-seller list.59 During his tenure as chair of the Manitoba Council of Industry in the aftermath of the Winnipeg General Strike of 1919, Connor used his experiences as an arbitrator to write To Him That Hath (1921). Given the volatility of the labour climate, which even delayed the writing of the book, Connor’s choice of subject was bold.60 This was not, however, his first experience with mediation. In 1912 his work as a member of the Conciliation Committee attempting to settle the coal miners’ strike at Coleman, Alberta, delayed the publication of Corporal Cameron by a year.61 Although he valiantly attempted to provide a sympathetic portrayal of the workers, his position as a government arbitrator complicated both the writing and the reception of the book.62 After 1904, however, Ralph Connor increasingly became a victim of his own success. Having to stretch further for plots and stories for the

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volumes now demanded by his publisher and readers, as well as by his own accelerating material requirements, he lost much of the naturalness that had been the key to his success. By the close of the first decade of the new century, reviewers were commenting that, if The Doctor (1906) had been his first novel, there would have been no fame for its author.63 The quality of Connor’s novels and their relevance to the real world in which readers lived deteriorated after 1905. He lacked the talent to write successful, more conventional adventure and historical romances with complicated structures and plots. Ironically, by importing heaving bosoms, frenzied passion, and swearing into The Doctor in an attempt to be modern and attractive to his readers, Connor slowly began to lose his audience.64 His early novels, however, continued to attract many new readers throughout the 1920s. For a generation of Canadian writers, Ralph Connor was a model of success to emulate. He had demonstrated more effectively than anyone that a fiction writer could remain in Canada and become internationally famous and prosperous. One such aspiring writer had first met Charles Gordon in the early 1880s, when, as a mission student from university, Gordon had spent the summer at the Stead farm near Chesterville, Manitoba. Although only a toddler at the time, Robert Stead later romanticized being carried on Charlie’s shoulders and never forgot that the young man became a famous Canadian author.

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6 Robert Stead, Philosopher and Artist

In the summer of 1912, Robert Stead informed his readers in the High River Times that his duty as a writer was to make people think, for “the world is moved by thought, and every human brain at work is a dynamo generating the energy which is building up civilization.”1 That energy, he believed, could transform individuals, communities, and even nations. Bob Stead, the resident philosopher, struggled with Robert J.C. Stead, the serious creative artist, for most of his literary career. Caught in the popular mind somewhere between a writer of westerns and an author of the less-defined homestead novel, Stead in his early writing resisted pressure to move wholly into either camp. Agreeing with his literary agent, J.C. Brandt, that deviating from one’s own ideals was never worth it for an author, he continued to compose novels which, while providing entertainment, also invited his readers to think.2 His first novel was The Bail Jumper (1914), in which many of the prominent themes of his later fiction appear. Stead worked hard to improve his craft; each new work revealed a more mature literary artist. Ironically, he was the only one of the five authors in this study who did not attend secondary school. Like Connor, Stead was able to tap into the progressive reform spirit of the age, but unlike Connor, his reforming zeal was secularly based. His focus was on maintaining quality of mind and soul in the face of modern materialistic values. Although his methodology of reform by example and motivation was similar to the approach of evangelistic Christianity, Stead did not place his faith in institutions of any kind. For him, the keys were the positive force of the individ-

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ual and the influence of culture, such as his own fiction. As with Connor as well, the secret of his popular success was to package his message in exciting adventure stories with frontier settings. He was also one of the literary pioneers who introduced the homestead novel to readers. Although Jackson Stake in Stead’s novel Grain (1926) declares that farming is a “pursoot,” not a business, Stead knew that modern farming had left the self-sufficiency of the producer realm and become part of the capitalist, consumer sphere in which sophisticated, expensive machinery and globally determined commodity prices were facts of life. Stake’s household owns a telephone and an automobile, uses canned fruits and vegetables, has carpeted floors and furniture with patterned upholstery, and covets a piano. “From at least the 1880s,” William Leach states, “the term desire entered the American discourse at all levels.”3 The Stakes and many other families in Stead’s fiction share this characteristic of modernity with their American neighbours. The goods with which these people surrounded themselves provided status and identity, made life easier and more enjoyable, and inspired self-confidence. Many people “looked to expressive texts as novels, artifacts, and communities,” writes Simon Bronner, “to provide interpretations of unresolved ideas and experiences towards the goal of resolution.”4 While Stead’s fiction helped to familiarize readers with many modern consumer products and the lifestyle they created, it also included stern warnings against allowing these material possessions to become the sole definer of one’s selfhood. Many other critics of modern society shared Stead’s apprehension, but unlike some of them, he welcomed modernity and sought only to shape its impact on society.5 After rereading The Bail Jumper in 1948, Stead noted in his diary that he found it “juvenile and stilted, especially in dialogue, but a good tale nevertheless.”6 For many readers and critics, his early novels, with their good stories and intimate atmosphere of moral goodness and wholesome advice, had a flavour reminiscent of Ralph Connor. “You have a great power, and I rejoice to think you are exercising it for noble ends,” wrote the governor general, Earl Grey, after reading Stead’s first volume of poetry.7 What was different from Connor was the source of the advice and the tone employed. For those who wished by this time that Connor could forget in his writing that he was a clergyman, Stead offered a secular alternative more in tune with the world emerging in the first decades of the twentieth century. It was also a voice in which reason prevailed over emotion. A Montreal reader wrote that “without posing as a critic I do know when I enjoy a story, and the vivid description, the quiet humour, the

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friendly feeling that grew on one for the characters and settings, and through it all the helpful undemonstrative message make the book cause me to look forward eagerly for the next production from your pen.”8 Although some professional critics, such as the one from the New York Times, ridiculed Stead for “the duty which seems to weigh heavily upon him of inculcating morality,”9 many readers, searching for guidance in a rapidly changing world, appreciated the advice. Indeed, the idealistic reform attributes of Stead’s novels were one of the reasons for their popularity. In contrast to the New York Times, the Canadian Thresher and Farmer found The Cow Puncher (1918) “a story of gripping interest with a splendid, well-sustained moral background that leaves the reader with a fine taste in the mouth.”10 On the Canadian west coast the Vancouver Sun reviewer found that the almost David Harum-ish philosophy added to the charm of the book.11 Stead took for granted the basic social stability of society and focused his concern on the quality of life and the viability of the community in a modern settlement frontier. Would the quality of the mind and soul of the people match their material growth? Another aspect of this frontier recognized and appreciated by readers was its legitimacy. He gave the “farm people of the wheat lands their first authentic portraits,”12 and these came from the pen of one of their own, not a visitor or an interloper. For the Morning Albertan in Calgary, where Stead had worked, his second novel, The Homesteaders (1916), represented “not a literary vapour but the hard kernel of Western Canadian life of the last twenty years; its atmosphere is sweet and wholesome, and it reflects the country and its people frankly and without guile.”13 This was one of the primary reasons for the phenomenal sale of his books on the prairies.14 In painting a picture of the prairies recognized by his western readers, Stead assisted this first generation of settlers in adjusting to this strange, treeless land and helped the process of making it home. He was also conscious of his role as an interpreter of this region to other parts of Canada.15 According to Leo Charney and Vanessa Schwartz in a recent study of modern life, “re-presentation of the ’real’ marked the defining form of modernity.”16 Modern readers demanded authenticity above all else. Stead uses three different frontiers: the homestead frontier at the time of its first promise of creating a new, unique society; the same frontier a generation later, with emphasis on opportunities lost; and the foothills frontier of Ralph Connor’s novels, still raw and new, but now enveloped in a boom mentality. His first novel, The Bail Jumper, introduces Plainville, a small, southern Manitoba community which reappears in The Homesteaders, The Smoking Flax (1924), and Grain.17 In

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the last half of The Homesteaders, Stead presents the foothills, which appear again in The Cow Puncher and Dennison Grant (1920).18 As was appropriate for someone promoting immigration, he saw a farming, rather than a ranching, future for much of this frontier. Into these settings, Stead poured not only his philosophy of life but also his observations of and experiences with farming, small-town life, retailing, and journalism in Cartwright, High River, and Calgary. Stead’s first frontier is one of idealism, romance, and opportunity – an empty land to which people come for a new beginning. Some, like Raymond Burton, a bail jumper, are escaping their past. Others, like John and Mary Harris, in The Homesteaders, full of young love and optimism, are beginning their life together in a land which promises success. Part of the magic is the new land itself. As Raymond enters the prairie on the train, he and his fellow passengers “underwent an evolution, a broadening, a disassociation with established things, and assumed an attitude of receptiveness towards that which shall be.”19 For Mary Harris, “the vast plains, heart-breaking in their utter emptiness, could only be full to her – full of life, and love, and colour; full of happiness too great to be contained.”20 It is a land of open spaces, silent and awe-inspiring, in which vision and opportunity synchronize with the limitless horizon and the youthful vigour. Here is a land of exhilarating freedom “unchecked by tradition, unhampered by convention, undaunted by arrogant precedent,”21 in which the newcomers can establish a more perfect, modern society. The romantic lives and atmosphere are important ingredients, not only because they tap into the most popular fiction genre of the era, but because they are a real part of the spirit of the frontier. In a letter to his British publisher, T. Fisher Unwin, after assessing the suitability of another author’s work for Canadian Pacific Railway publicity, Stead stated that “if the book didn’t have that romanticism, it wouldn’t be real, wouldn’t breathe the real spirit which emanates [sic] those who seek a home in the more backward parts of the prairie country.”22 Involving the founding of new lives in a wilderness, which invited – indeed, required – heroic action, the establishment of the settlement frontier was a story of romance and adventure. John and Mary Harris experience life in a rustic cabin made of poplar and sod, the thrill of ploughing virgin soil and watching the first crops grow, the hazards of horse thieves, fierce blizzards, and childbirth, and the satisfaction of participating in the construction of a new community. One of the prerequisites for facing the challenge and the opportunity of this land in creating a new society was for it to be empty. While Stead was aware of settlement dating back to the fur-trade era

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and of the Native population and the Métis, he followed an established Canadian tradition in presenting an uninhabited wilderness awaiting settlement.23 Neither this emptiness nor the conscious desire to leave traditions behind, however, was sufficient to prevent the distant, modern metropolis from encroaching. On their first night in the Arthurses’ crude, prairie shack, Mary Harris and Lilian Arthurs, adorned in their wedding dresses, set the table with fine linen, china, and sparkling glass for a feast of fried potatoes and ham. Within a few days, drapery and carpets augment a modern, middle-class refinement and eastern lifestyle. Soon baseball games, sewing machines, and harvest reapers reveal a sophisticated society dependent on the metropolis for both work and play. As this society matures, how to maintain its youthful vigour and openness in the face of increasing refinement poses a problem. This is one of the challenges of Stead’s second frontier. Many of the first generation of settlers never entirely lose the restlessness and lust for adventure which prompted their original move to the wilderness. Plainville is now a community with rail service and daily newspapers. Among the most prosperous farmers in the district, Harrises live in a spacious, new brick house, complete with parlour, and move in a world which embraces tailor-made suits, patent-leather shoes, a steam tractor, and a cream separator. John Harris is uncomfortable with the desire of his daughter, Beulah, to have the family eat its meals in the dining room with proper modern manners, rather than in the more familiar, less-formal kitchen. Meanwhile, Beulah grows frustrated with and ashamed of her uncouth father and brother, Allan, who place their elbows on the table and gulp down their food using whatever utensil happens to reach their mouths first.24 In The Cow Puncher, Thomas Metford, a poor coal carter, having accumulated great wealth in real estate speculation, builds a mansion in which he eats his breakfast in evening dress. Realizing that their family of six clashes with the ideal, modern, refined lifestyle, he and his wife dispatch three of their children to relatives in the country. This dialectic between the universal model of modern, middleclass refinement in speech, manners, and lifestyle and the realities of farm and working-class life, which involved dirty clothes, was widespread throughout Western society. “Collectively they [urban societies] created a detailed, extended commentary on how to dress, how to speak, how to act without losing face,” writes Keith Walden, “… these were not lessons about the development of proper moral character, [but] the small things that provided clues about who one was and where one originated. Their effect was to heighten selfconsciousness and diminish spontaneity.”25

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This was a particularly sensitive issue for those on the prairies who maintained conventional images of the farmer or were proud of the region’s lack of tradition and conventionality. Beulah Harris admires the neighbouring Grants, who practise all aspects of refinement including taking their evening meals in the dining room with linen and napkins. For them, as for other farmers, however, this custom involves removing the dirty work clothes, which then have to be donned once more for the evening chores. The placing of women as the central guardians and teachers of refinement led to many disputes between men and women, as well as between mothers and children. This, however, is only one of the dialectics at work in the Harris household. Far more serious are the attitudes towards wealth. A part of John Harris’s restlessness involves what Stead calls a collector’s materialism. He now looks upon his expanded homestead as a commodity, something to be traded, and a measure of his status, rather than as a home for his family. At a wedding in Neighbours, the clergyman warns that materialism “is the murderous outlaw of the age, an enemy that goes bullying through the land, outraging our fine natures, polluting our ambitions.”26 Men like John Harris, who made a god of ambition, lose their spiritual values, their ability to love, and their capacity to enjoy leisure time. Mesmerized by wheat, John now scorns picnics and sports as useless frivolities. Other casualties of materialism are the unity and integrity of the community. Individuals like John focus their sense of self on their addiction to accumulation rather than on good citizenship. Such a person, says Christoph Asendorf, displaces his passion “from people onto things, the gathering of which signifies … psychological fulfilment,” and in the process, he “kills himself while still alive.”27 For Stead, this was the central issue in Canadian society. The first poem he offered as a subscription service to Canadian newspapers when he published the Rock Lake Review in Cartwright was called “The Dollar.” Its concluding verse lamented the sacrifice of society to the materialistic ethic: Honor, Justice, love, and truth, Are placed upon my altar, Chastity, beauty, joy, and youth, Rejoice to wear my halter!28

In his novels and speeches, Stead outlined the complexity and allencompassing nature of the disease. Realizing that it was natural for a society only a short distance removed from the necessity of getting

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enough to eat to measure success with material possessions, he nevertheless continued to see thrift and independence as the prime virtues.29 If thrift went, independence followed, leaving in its wake a dependence on the government for that which we should provide for ourselves. Even democracy might be jeopardized, for in Stead’s opinion, its existence rested on the fulcrum of an independent citizenry. Another casualty was the inability to enjoy leisure time. “If there is one thing the people of the West need to learn,” he told his readers in the High River Times in 1913, “it is the art of living leisurely. In undiscriminating minds, leisure is connected with laziness … On the other hand, the spirit of hustle and rush is almost deified … [and] considered indispensable to success.”30 “Leisure was now being depicted,” notes Cynthia Comacchio, “as a positive social force that actually sustained the work ethic by allowing human beings to recover and recreate their energies for another day’s work.”31 While many learned to balance these competing forces in their lives in the interwar period, and to feel comfortable with the idea of fun for fun’s sake, there remained a sufficient number devoted to collective materialism to foster booms followed by inevitable collapses, a pattern that became a prominent and permanent feature of modern society. In her study of American gambling, Ann Fabian reveals how, with the banning of most forms of conventional gaming by the 1890s, reckless speculation in real estate, stocks, and futures markets replaced much of the earlier activity. Engaging in this sphere to gratify their love of excitement, these individuals believed themselves to be rational, modern citizens far removed from the evil gambling that involved cards and other games of chance. Their critics, like Stead, however, saw them as depraved – destroying family and community and wrecking havoc in human lives.32 In short, they cut a wider swath and inflicted much more damage on society than the earlier gamblers had. It was generally the men who imposed their materialistic crusades on their wives and children. Families disintegrated, women were broken and crushed, and the children fled rather than endure the relentless, empty struggle to increase their father’s wealth. In the Harris household, Beulah chafes at the lack of vision and enjoyment and the daily grind of work, which for her, as for most farmers’ daughters, includes the milking and the separating. Although her mother longs for time for thinking, reading, walks on the prairie, and kindness, she deludes herself into believing that incessant work is rewarding because it prevents one from thinking of what might be. There is, however, a breaking point. Beulah finally defies her father, refuses to milk, and departs on the morning train after secretly walking all night away

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from the farm. In the Alberta foothills, with the former neighbours, the Arthurses, she finds the freedom that she so desperately needed. Daring to ride astride and bathe nude in the cool waters, she also perfects both shooting and fishing skills. Saddled with her husband’s blame for the loss of Beulah, Mary suffers a while longer and then leaves for a visit with her daughter in the foothills, with no intention of returning. While male critics could congratulate Stead for redressing the balance in fiction because his central characters are men,33 women are, in fact, more essential to his purpose. It is they who possess the vision and the larger picture; it is they who cultivate beauty, refinement, and the finer things in life; it is they who show the men more correct paths to follow. Some are like Suzie Stake in Grain, who, submissive, broken, and old at forty-five, stays at home to milk the cows while her family attends the Victoria Day celebrations in town; but we should take closer note of the younger generation of women in Stead’s fiction. In contrast to Connor’s wilderness Gwen, these are modern young women, strong and independent, in tune with their times, and ready to exercise their power to achieve the results they desire. At the end of The Homesteaders, Mary and a chastened John are together again, but on her terms rather than his. Deciding on a life with Jim Travers, Beulah proposes to him. In The Cow Puncher it is Rennie Hardy who opens the vision of the wider world, represented by feminine values and the metropolis, which prevents Dave Elden from straying too far. In Grain another daughter, Minnie Stake, flees the milking and narrow vision as Beulah had. In the same novel it is the urban visitor, Jerry Chansley, who does much to steer Gander Stake’s path toward a life in the city at the close of the novel. In Neighbours, Jean Lane refuses to marry Frank Hall until his vision extends beyond the corner post of the farm. A.T. Elder suggests that Polly Lester, a girl detective in The Bail Jumper, sets the trend for a series of Stead’s heroines when she states: “I am not a woman as other women are. I defy traditions; I defy conventions. I claim the right God gave me to living life as I will, where I will, how I will, with whom I will.”34 These are modern women who defy conventions with such activities as riding astride adorned in male-style trousers rather than on a English sidesaddle, and who decide when, where, how, and with whom they are going to live. Stead’s typical male hero is more difficult to define. Often the women seem more naturally in tune with their environment and values than the men, who respond to the many currents swirling around them and are therefore more susceptible to straying. The author’s

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voice, always critical of this perversion, too frequently intrudes and prevents them from living their own stories. Raymond Burton in The Bail Jumper is more of a stereotype than a character, but Stead worked consciously at developing more complex characters in each successive novel. Generally, these heroes first appear as virile young men at the start of their careers. Romance, work, and other aspects of life are difficult. Dave Elden, the cow puncher, after a roller-coaster ride on the real estate market, finds atonement in war service but dies at Courcelette, never having married his Reenie. Dennison Grant, with his grand ideas but limited success, is unable to win the romantic Zen, while Gander Stake in Grain, although a true son of the soil, abandons both his childhood sweetheart, now married to a shellshocked war veteran, and his farm community to find a new life in the city. These are not the conventional heroes of popular fiction.35 Lured to the foothills by his own restlessness and a scheming neighbour, Hiram Riles, John Harris is immediately captured by the reckless boom mentality. Rather than invest in agricultural property, he becomes trapped in a coal-mine fraud perpetrated by Riles and a former Plainville criminal, Gardiner. Allan Harris kills Riles, while Gardiner, pursued by Sergeant Grey of the North West Mounted Police, plunges to his death down a canyon. Defrauded of his wealth and with son Allan hovering near death from gunshot wounds, John Harris is overcome by grief and loneliness, and weeps. The tragedy is sufficient to turn his life around. Henceforth, he pledges to live like the Arthurses, the neighbours with whom he came west twenty-five years earlier. In their foothills lifestyle, “wealth was a merely incident – a pleasant but by no means essential by-product of their lives. They live simply, but well; they work honestly but do not slave; and, in all their living and working they demonstrate a kindliness and courtesy that communicates itself to all with whom they come in contact.”36 Fred Arthurs plays games with his workers every evening, rides for pleasure, discusses theology with visiting missionaries and philosophy with a bookworm neighbour, and reads poetry with his wife on Sunday afternoons. Lacking children of their own, the couple plan to leave their fortune to charity. This is exactly the balanced lifestyle advocated by Beulah and sanctioned by Stead back in Plainville. Stead’s third frontier, in which these events transpired and which is the setting for the next novel, The Cow Puncher, is similar in many ways to the one in Connor’s Sky Pilot. There are the same brown, green, and saffron colours, the same friendly hills that can be climbed, the trees that lisp in the light wind, the water that babbles playfully over gravel ridges, and the sunsets that keep the soul alive. Soothing and peaceful, yet at the same time electrified with ozone-

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laden vigour, the region casts its spell and promises a new manhood and a new womanhood “that should weigh mightily in the scales of destiny of a great nation.”37 Although in a later time period and more civilized than in Connor, the foothills still exude a primitive quality. Men ride their horses into taverns, and there are still gamblers, guns, professional card sharks, confidence men, and alcoholics, but the Mounties now maintain social stability. For Ralph Connor and Nellie McClung, alcohol was society’s worst evil, but Robert Stead was ambivalent, even contradictory, in his approach to the issue. Several people, including doctors and Dave Elden’s father, appear as alcoholics in his fiction, but there is more emphasis on understanding what has led to the condition than on the condition itself. Like young Dave, Stead was not a drinker. Although he did not believe in mixing alcohol and business decision-making, and he agreed with Sam Hughes’s decision to make the army canteens dry in 1914, he wrote an editorial in 1902 advocating a return to the tradition of “treating” the harvest workers in the field with alcohol.38 For Stead, there were no magical solutions to society’s problems. The removal of alcohol would not, he believed, effect the results that its proponents envisioned. Far more serious was the greed of the boom economy which Dave Elden experienced. Beginning as a cow puncher on his alcoholic father’s dilapidated ranch forty miles from the nearest town, Elden becomes a respected paper millionaire in a reckless real estate boom that would have been familiar in the real lives of both Charles Gordon and Arthur Stringer. Throughout this transformation from illiterate cowboy to modern businessman by a path which includes coal carting, journalism, and wholesale retailing, Stead’s focus is on the personal and psychological effects of the boom on Elden and a host of other individuals in the community, and on the means by which one can maintain one’s equilibrium in such an atmosphere. Upon his arrival in town after the death of his father, the eighteen-year-old Dave nearly succumbs to a life of gambling, drink, and pool-hall inertia. Later, as a reporter, he meets Conward, who entices him into a real estate partnership with a vision of wealth in a future city of 250,000. Caught up in a frenzy of boosterism, the entire community succumbs to its magical promises. Even the innocent find themselves devastated after the inevitable collapse, which leaves in its wake unemployment, empty stores and offices, and vanished fortunes. What maintains Dave Elden’s balanced perspective through this turmoil is the memory of the sixteen-year-old Reenie Hardy, from an eastern, urban society, who spends several weeks on the ranch after the injury of her father in an automobile accident, and the refined

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Duncan family, including daughter Edith, who become his friend and confidant. Elden’s journey brings him into contact with institutions and ideologies of modern society hitherto unknown to him. His encounter with the church provides Stead with the opportunity to present a wonderful caricature of a hypocritical organization out of touch with reality.39 More current but equally unsatisfying is Elden’s visit to a socialist meeting. In the end, his salvation comes through education provided in free tutoring by members of the Duncan family, who also teach him to measure success by service and satisfaction rather than by money. Stead might well have been describing himself as he details Dave’s out-of-classroom training in a distinctly non-classical education, which, Dave feels, has left him better trained than a college could have. Spending two to four nights a week being tutored and reading a pocket encyclopedia on his lunch break at work, Dave meets for the first time the world of reason. He also finds his imagination fired as he moves on to Shakespeare’s Hamlet and other works. “Read enough to keep your mind fresh, alert, and vigorous,” advises Mr Duncan. “Give it a new thought to wrestle with every day.”40 Fortunately for Dave, modern publishers offered the consumer inexpensive editions of the great writers. Duncan also confirms the necessity of individual initiative, when he tells Dave that life is forty per cent heredity, fifty per cent environment, and ten per cent his, but that ten per cent is like the steering wheel of a car.41 Through it one can secure a firm grip and control one’s life. Learning to accept the finer points of civilized life, including high fashion, Elden blends the best virtues of the frontier with those of the metropolis. In contrast, Rennie Hardy, returning from the urban east, willingly leaves that more formal, class-conscious society behind and accepts the more hospitable, freer ways of the west, which are more in tune with the spirit of modernity. The Cow Puncher was Stead’s most successful novel in commercial terms. Of all his fiction, this novel most closely resembles the adventure action story in a western, non-agrarian, wilderness setting that was such a popular genre with readers. Combining features of western, adventure, and mystery genres, Stead did not treat romance in a typical fashion. After a teenage infatuation in the first chapters, Dave and Reenie live far apart without contact, and when reunited, they do not further the relationship. It is only in the last pages of the novel that we learn of Dave’s death at Courcelette, Reenie’s new life on his old ranch, now transformed into a farm, and the child who results from their one night together. Part of the attraction of the novel is the tension involved in this relationship, especially the tension surround-

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ing the probability of two people with such different social backgrounds bridging that gap.42 For readers with roots in farms or ranches and similar remote settings, The Cow Puncher provided affirmation of their lives and a guide to their future in a world of automobiles, telephones, and other modern amenities.43 Its optimistic tone and moral advice in turbulent times reassured those who had fallen into despair, and for a warweary generation, its message of individual heroism and sacrifice helped to reconcile them to their own suffering. Written at the time during the war when the possibility of an Axis victory concerned many, the novel reflects Stead’s own concern and his experiences as chief fundraiser in Alberta for the Victory Loan Campaign. In a March 1918 speech he told a Calgary audience that “with all the world topsy-turvey and the bottom fallen out of almost all our old beliefs and securities, it was wonderfully calming to be able to turn our eyes … to the rangeless, everlasting hills.”44 The Cow Puncher is by far the most emotional of his novels; this was also part of its appeal. Stead’s reform impulse peaked with the publication of Dennison Grant in 1920, a fact that comes as no surprise. After more than half a century preoccupied with a variety of utopian idealisms and a war that had promised regeneration through violence and sacrifice, many observers passionately hoped that there would be no return to a problematic past. At the end of The Cow Puncher, Reenie had cried: “We won’t let it go back. We’ve paid too much to let it go back … There has been such a common cause, and such a wave of common suffering, that it seems to flood out over the individual and embrace us all. Individualism is gone. It’s the community now; the state; mankind if you like, above everything.”45 Just seven months before the end of the war, in a commissioned article in the Evening Tribune of Winnipeg, Stead had called on Canadians to adopt a new spirit of service and to pray, not for the preservation of their civilization, but “that we may develop a civilization worth preserving … That community of spirit in which we are brothers, not competitors, more eager to serve than be served.”46 In this same period, Ralph Connor published a series of articles in Maclean’s Magazine entitled “The New Canada and Its Needs,” and J.O. Miller edited a volume of essays called The New Era in Canada.47 In Dennison Grant, Stead presents his ideal rural community, which combines the best of the agrarian and metropolitan worlds. If rural strength and values, practical intelligence, tact, and hard work were blended with urban culture, technology, learning, and sophistication, he hoped, no one, even the farm children, would want to leave such a community. Designed to maintain a balance between individual

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initiative and community integrity, the plan – or Big Idea, as Dennison Grant calls it – uses the community to support and protect the individual. In employing a European-style village survey with farm lots radiating out from the centre, and with rules to prevent speculation, the plan contrasts sharply with the general prairie topography and Canadian practice.48 With standards for order and beautification, access to the latest scientific expertise, and the benefits of urban culture, education, and medicine, the community provides a self-contained unit, but one which is still linked to metropolitan culture, technology, and ideas. For the farm wives, there are even catered meals for community events. One of Dennison Grant’s friends jokes that he should incorporate sewer smells and trolley-car noises as the final touches of modern, city refinement. Although Canadian sales were respectable, the book was a bitter disappointment for Stead.49 His British publisher, Hodder and Stoughton, forced him to rewrite the novel, eliminating all the theoretical and philosophic material and recasting the love story to eliminate the affair between a flirtatious and married Zen Transley and Dennison Grant and replace it with mutual love and marriage. Having requested and received world rights for Dennison Grant, and expecting a bonanza after the impressive sales for The Cow Puncher, the Canadian publisher, Musson, was unable to secure an American edition. Even in Canada, smaller dailies serialized the British romance, published as Zen of Y.D., rather than the original Canadian version. More interested in entertainment than uplift, audiences of the 1920s exhibited an increasing intolerance for the integration culture and reform. Having learned the lesson, Stead in his next three novels focused more on the development of character and dialogue in an increasingly realistic wheat-belt setting. The Morning Albertan in Calgary found that readers needed no introduction to the characters in Neighbours (1922), “for we know them well. They live across the street from us, next door, around the corner. They are you and I. Reading a novel by Stead is like travelling leisurely along the banks of a quiet little stream.”50 The reviewer then praised the author for avoiding the “hectic sex stuff, jazzed up to suit the movie age.” While this approach won increasing praise from the critics, who embraced Stead as a serious, modern realist,51 his reading audience was less impressed. It had been the action and romance, combined with the western atmosphere and reform spirit in a realistic setting, that had built his audience and created the popular author. For many, reading about themselves without the extra action and romance had limited appeal. In spite of his pride of achievement with these later novels, Stead was

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embarrassed at the large portion of unearned royalties, which were “a blow to my expectations and to my self-respect as an author.”52 Robert Stead analyzed society with a modern, empirical methodology borrowed from the social sciences. In exposing problems and offering solutions through the popular medium of the novel, he had hoped to forge a new and better civilization. Falling short of that goal, he did not retreat into an idealized agrarian past or despair, but remained optimistic, democratic, and adaptable to changing circumstances. The need for worthy goals, culture and the appreciation of beauty and order, and selfless love and service remained. It was possible, he suggested, to enjoy the benefits of modern society without sacrificing everything to a crass, selfish, materialistic ethos. For him, the salvation of agrarian society rested with the retention of the traditional values together with the best that modern society had to offer. With the publication of Grain in 1926, Stead demonstrated that the creative artist had effectively silenced the conspicuous voice of the philosopher. In its main character, Gander Stake, he “created a thoroughly believable portrait of a belaboured soul struggling into light.”53 One of the titles that Stead had proposed for the novel was “Half a Hero.”54 Perhaps a more fitting characterization of Gander would be as anti-hero. Inept at social relationships, too shy for romance, and too timid to answer the call for war service in spite of intense personal and community pressure, he is only truly comfortable when working with modern farm machinery. Acutely aware of his own personal inadequacies, including his lack of education and culture, he nevertheless is able to master one of the predominant features of modern society, its technology. For both Gander and Stead, the pull of the metropolis became a dominant force in their lives as they left the farm to seek fame, fortune, and fulfillment in the city.

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7 Nellie McClung and Pearlie Watson

In Nellie McClung’s novel The Second Chance (1910), thirteen-year-old Pearlie Watson, a student and school janitor, watches after school one afternoon as the teacher coaches Maudie Ducker in the art of elocution in preparation for a recitation in the Millford Woman’s Christian Temperance Union’s forthcoming contest. At the family supper table that evening, Pearlie shares the recitation with her family and explains that Miss Morrison and Maudie focused on the exaggerated gestures and pronunciation rather than on the meaning of the story. Knowing that she could do better, Pearlie involves her whole family in acting out the temperance drama with so much intensity that her father forgets it is fiction and sheds unashamed tears. As the day of the performance approaches, two of the contestants come down with the measles. When Pearlie’s friend, Camilla Rose, suggests to the teacher that Pearlie could substitute for the stricken Maudie, Miss Morrison reluctantly places her as the last speaker, in spite of her lack of official training and the poverty of her family. Following such selections as “The Saloon Must Go” and “How Father Signed the Pledge,” in which wayward sons, stormy nights, and railway accidents featured prominently, Pearlie mounts the stage. Transforming herself into Old Nan, a bowed and broken poorhouse resident, she electrifies her audience with the pathos of the sad tale about a drunken husband and the wayward son, Jim, who followed his father’s debauched life. Arraigning the liquor traffic before the bar of God, Pearlie sweeps her audience into the story, which con-

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cludes with a chance meeting in the poorhouse between a reformed Jim and Old Nan, his mother. As Pearlie ends the prayer which thanks God for the reunion and the redemption, the audience sits stunned for a moment before bursting into “such a tornado of applause that the windows rattled in their casings.”1 Returning home after the presentation of the winning medal to Pearlie, Miss Morrison begins to wonder if there might be something more to elocution than gesture, voice, memory, and articulation. Contained within this short chapter is the essence of Nellie McClung’s fiction, life, and popularity. Like Ralph Connor and Robert Stead, she used her fiction as a vehicle for the advocacy of reform, but unlike them, she was primarily concerned with opportunities and rights for women. All three authors shared a liberal idealism that was prevalent in the society of the time; they hoped that, through their fiction, readers would learn how a better world could be achieved. McClung also shared with Connor a focus on the importance and dignity of lower-class people, and she invited readers, as he had, to become emotionally involved with their lives and problems. She related her stories in an easy, natural style with a language appropriate to the setting in rural and small-town Manitoba in the early twentieth century. The most important message to emerge from the story of Pearl’s performance on that stage in Millford is “You, too, can do it!” As one of nine children in a poor family, not taken seriously by the neighbourhood, Pearlie is the least likely person to carry away a trophy in a competition with the best children in town. Displaying the same strength of character, the same courage and determination, the same tenderness towards humankind, and the same practical naturalness as McClung, Pearlie not only wins but also transforms the community. No longer will its residents view the Watsons or their own mothers the same way. During Pearlie’s performance, as an audible sob emerges from the back of the auditorium, young men remember their mothers with a sudden, new tenderness. McClung’s emerging feminism is self-evident. Another important aspect of the success is the perspective of the leader. Remaining modest in victory, Pearlie had never thought that she might win. Such leadership is also apparent in the Watson family. Involving them in the dramatization of the recitation is reminiscent of McClung’s reading the newspaper to her family with spirited commentary at the morning breakfast table.2 Family was important to her. In the Watson household, each person is treated as an individual with rights as well as responsibilities to both themselves and the family.

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McClung was also celebrating community. Although divided by status, ambition, jealousy, and petty squabbles, this and other communities could be united in a positive, supportive entity through an enabler such as Pearlie. Lacking artifice or conceit, Pearlie’s emotional approach to her material and her audience also reflects the essential McClung. The oncepopular and then still practised Delsarte method of dramatic elocution, with its studied, elaborate gestures belonged to the Victorian era. Pearlie’s approach is more in tune with the naturalness and growing empathy characteristic of the Edwardian period. More polished as a platform speaker than as a novelist, McClung had a full, melodious voice and easy gestures which, as she wandered about the platform, left her audiences entranced. She swayed her listeners, “not by any flights of rhetoric or fancy, but by giving herself to them frankly and freely. Studied is the one word you can never connect with Mrs. McClung,” one observer proclaims; “her talks are as natural as her movements.”3 This simple, engaging, folksy style was also typical of her novels. Like Ralph Connor in her use of pathos and the real language of common humanity, she also exhibited his combination of strength and tenderness. Both authors played on the emotions of their readers, invited them into their stories, and expected renewal and transformation to follow. Self-control was, however, necessary. Although Pearlie finishes her piece with tears streaming down her face, her voice remains steady and clear. Another important dimension of McClung’s literary and real worlds was reform. In this pre-war period, much of her interest focused on the wctu’s campaign against the scourge of alcohol and the liquor trade.4 Her general tone in describing the contest won by Pearlie, combined with her treatment of the subject in her first two novels, suggests that her preferred approach was less rhetorical and more human than the wctu’s more typical shock method of the melodramatic horror story. While the dramatic might play some role, the story of Bill Cavers in her novel emphasizes the context of his circumstance; like Ralph Connor, she placed most of the blame on those involved in the liquor traffic, including the saloon keepers.5 The real tragedy was the wasted lives and broken families – the failure to realize the full potential of the gifts that God had provided. Bill Cavers could have been a good father, but his only son dies of croup because, on the way to fetch the doctor, he stops at the bar. When he arrives home the next day, he is still in such a stupor that he is unable to grasp the fact that little George has died. Later, Bill himself dies from an alcohol-induced sunstroke.

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The only essential aspects of McClung not fully revealed in the chapter are her wit and humour and her bedrock Christian faith, from which all else grew. Fittingly, she begins her chapter, entitled “Something More than Gestures,” with a quote from a poem by Robert Browning. His bold energy of expression, vigorous optimism, and pursuit of an ideal made him a natural favourite for McClung. Convinced that individuals could improve through sheer moral determination, he also believed that “great things are made of little things.”6 These sentiments mirror those of Pearlie Watson and the lives of the inhabitants of Millford. Widely known for her best-seller, Sowing Seed in Danny (1908), which introduced a twelve-year-old Pearlie, McClung followed with The Second Chance (1910) and then waited eleven years before issuing the final volume of the trilogy, Purple Springs (1921).7 Like both Connor and Stead, she built these three novels on detailed observations and experience, which in her case was with farm and smalltown life in southern Manitoba, including the Mooneys’ real town of Millford, and in Winnipeg. These are community novels which, for eastern reviewers especially, seemed to breathe the invigorating and straightforward atmosphere of the prairie west.8 Writing straight from the heart in a plain, accessible, friendly style that synchronized with her subject matter, McClung sought “to plant ferments in the minds and emotions of her audience, to inspire and empower them.”9 Her attention to the minute details of country life endeared her to readers, who shared their lives with her characters while delighting in her burlesque ridicule of pomposity, artificiality, and the petty squabbles of life.10 “The first sentence of every McClung story,” writes Marilyn Davis, “grabs the reader’s attention with its immediacy and economy of words, and effectively plunges the reader right into the tale … The descriptive details, too, are carefully chosen to convey the mood and personality of the characters.”11 Numerous small-town Manitoba audiences confirmed the authenticity of her portraits with repeated invitations for public dramatic readings from Danny and The Second Chance, in which the bright, vivacious, optimistic McClung merged with Pearlie in offering their philosophy of life. By the fall of 1910, McClung was advertising her professional services as an “Elocutionist, Entertainer, and Reader.”12 Although impressed with her warmth, humanism, wit, and spirited imagination, male urban critics were sometimes disturbed by what they defined as a didactic enthusiasm, which at times overpowered her art, and they labelled her descriptions and philosophy

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quaint.13 McClung was intentionally instructive and established in her novels a “tension between the world as is and the world as it could be; and, through the actions of her characters shows her readers how that better world is to be achieved.”14 “The great object of all our effort,” she wrote, “should be to raise the standards and try to make it easier for people to live up to their highest.”15 She also hoped that this message would reach new readers, rather than just the traditional book lovers. Disregarding the sneering at uplifters, she wrote “to amuse, entertain, instruct, inform, comfort, and guide the reader.”16 She was, however, never self-righteous in tone – the major feature that separates acceptable and unacceptable didacticism in modern literature. Indeed, Marilyn Davis states, “Today’s feminists would call this consciousness raising, and they would relegate the contemptuous term didactic to the dustbin.”17 McClung made no apology for the Sunday school ambience of her fiction, and she did not view the material or her philosophy as quaint. This pejorative term symbolizes a gender bias which dismisses the women’s and domestic spheres as inconsequential. From a modern, urban perspective, it also categorized her agrarian world as traditional and backward.18 Rather than celebrating a lifestyle that was old-fashioned and disappearing, she attempted its modernization. In her personal experience of the transformation into modernity, McClung witnessed the replacement of homespun clothes and lye soap with a consumer economy dependent on factory production and retail stores. As the youngest child, she had become ashamed of these lingering features of her family life, which for her meant the embarrassment of made-over coats and scarlet bloomers in her final years at the Millford school.19 Now, as an adult, she advocated something even more radical – that women should take charge of their domestic spheres and win a measure of independence. Of even greater significance is the fact that the sphere was ever widening to embrace the world beyond the home, including community, province, and nation.20 In her trilogy focused on Pearl Watson, McClung defines the parameters of the ideal person and the ideal life and how to achieve it, beginning with individual homes and their problems in Sowing Seeds in Danny, and then moving more into the community and offering solutions in The Second Chance and on into the world of Manitoba provincial politics in Purple Springs. In defining the ideal, McClung employs the polar opposites of evil and good to highlight the many iniquities which had to be overcome if there was to be a better world. Although poverty could be an evil in instances such as the Cavers family in The Second Chance, which endures hunger and hopelessness as the result of a father’s alcoholism,

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it is not intrinsically debilitating. McClung not only provides one of the more compassionate fictional portraits of rural poverty in this period with the Watson family, but she also details the means by which its members cope with it and then conquer it. Living in converted cpr box car no. 722 on the edge of Millford, this family of nine children survives on the meagre income of John’s unskilled labour and his wife’s washing of clothes in neighbouring farmhouses. When Pearlie entertains her siblings with a repeated story of a rich, pink lady who feeds potatoes and gravy to her dog and throws out cake just to be free of it, young Bugsey, who recycles his chewing gun by storing it under the kitchen table, reacts as incredulously as when he asks, “What’s a stair?”21 Such stories are an important part of the family’s coping with poverty.22 Later, Bugsey refuses a bite of pie brought home by his mother from one of her employers because “it just lets you see what yer missin.” But in spite of their subsistence living and their being shunned by the neighbours because of their alleged coarseness and roughness, the Watsons are a happy, welladjusted family, living interesting and wholesome lives which improve under Pearl’s ministration. She is deeply hurt when Maudie Ducker informs her that she has no time to play because she is poor. Prancing around with four-year-old Danny in the baby carriage pretending to be the “Czar of Rooshia” is creative play and fun. The Watsons have pride in themselves, are always clean and dressed as smartly as they can for public presentation, and they donate what they can to the local Methodist church. Whether they are at home or in the company of others, their manners are impeccable. “I am convinced,” McClung later wrote, “that, for the casual relations of life, manners are more significant than morals.”23 This portrait contrasts sharply with the hollow lives of the Motherwells and Perkinses, two of the richest farm families in the district, who are trapped by a variation of the same collector materialism denounced by Robert Stead. Writing in 1913, McClung stated that she had personally known fourteen of such homes. “The same big, bare house, the same stuffy parlour that is never used, the big bank accounts, and the stolid and selfish grey lives! They are cold and hard and greedy, but even they can loosen up when it is put to them good and strong.”24 That is exactly what she accomplished for them in her first two novels. Fifty-year-old Sam Motherwell epitomizes the fathers of such families. Sullen and suspicious, he never lets go of the past in his life as he holds neighbours accountable for petty scandals that are decades old. Judging everything by an utilitarian, materialistic standard, he forces his hired man, Arthur Wemyss, to sleep in the cold, musty granary among the bags of grain, believes the clergy to be

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parasites feeding on society, and even denies Pearlie a lamp in her attic room during the three months she works for him to pay off a family debt. Beaten down by her husband, Ettie Motherwell “settled down in sullen submission, a hopeless, heavy-eyed, spiritless woman, and, as time went by, she became greedier for money than her husband.”25 There is no joy in these lives, which is a tragedy because, for McClung, happiness was one of the greatest human gifts. As abhorrent as the lives of these adults are to McClung, her greatest sympathy is with their children. Young Tom Motherwell, a lad of twenty with stooped shoulders, grows up the clod of the valley. Having been taught to grasp money, hide it, and then grasp again as a way of life, he discovers his rebellious independence in the barroom at the local Millford Hotel, where patrons welcome him into a friendly, happy, family atmosphere. With no money of his own, he acquires some by stealing from his father. Similarly, Bud Perkins flees his family home after being caught with “plugged wheat” at the local elevator. His father has hidden frozen wheat in the centre of a load in an attempt to get a better price. For the daughters of rich farmers, the fate is even worse. “Bashful, self-conscious girls, some of them were old before their time with the marks of toil … stooped shouldered, dull-eyed and awkward,” McClung wrote as she pictured them at the Slaters’ party in The Second Chance. “Good girls they were, too, thinking it a virtue to stifle every ambition, smother every craving for pleasure.”26 Later, broken in health and spirit, they slip away into early graves or chronic invalidism. Foremost among the group is Martha Perkins, who does the work of a hired man on the family farm, but without his pay. Feeling old and wrinkled and unlikely to catch a husband at twenty-five, in spite of her many talents and prepared trousseau chest, she prefers to stay hidden at home. In company, her hands pick nervously at each other, and she never makes direct eye contact. In contrast with the Watsons, these two families live hollow, empty lives without joy, without vision, without hope. It is a portrait of farm children similar to the one that Robert Stead presents in his early novels. For both authors, the spiritual had not kept pace with the material in the evolution of the modern world. In the biblical story of Mary and Martha from Luke 10, which she loved so much, McClung always sided with Jesus in favour of Mary, who sat attentively and listened to Jesus while Martha flitted about the house, too busy with the details of preparation to notice what her guest was saying.27 Overworked wives and mothers were constantly told to slow down, to read and think, to find a balance in their lives.

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These were not the only character types that McClung attacked in her fiction. With playful but devastating satire, she chastises the women who are enveloped wholly in a world of petty details and those who live well-meaning but impractical lives. Many readers would recognize themselves and cringe. The details of pettiness appear in Pearlie’s minutes of a Methodist Ladies’ Aid meeting in chapter 13 of The Second Chance when she substitutes for the regular secretary. Naively reporting all of the conversation, she includes details of sniping, stinginess, the merits of rhubarb, how linoleum is really more appropriate for the minister’s home than carpet, and the deliberations of the knife-and-fork subcommittee. Realizing how difficult it was for women to change, McClung noted in her private musings that they could not forget detail, for “they have lived it too long.”28 Her critique of the fatuous do-gooder is found in the character of Mrs J. Burton Francis in Danny. Naively at peace with herself and all humankind, she reads Dr Earnestus Parker’s Motherhood, delivers papers to the Society for the Propagation of Lofty Ideals, and ruminates on questions of reform. With no children of her own, she is the “pink lady” of Pearlie’s stories and, according to McClung, a real woman who actually wore a pink kimono and addressed conferences, and who, although sweet and kindly, was hopelessly disconnected from real world.29 Mrs Francis has a kind heart, but it is so crusted over with abstract theories that few people know. Ignorant of the society around her, she knows only theoretical cases. In contrast, McClung was rooted in the real world. With her emphasis on the dark side of social conditioning, McClung wrote to “convert women themselves, and to empower them to take responsibility for transforming the condition of their lives.”30 For too long their slave mentalities, their wallowing in martyrdom, and their abnegation of self had circumscribed their potential and killed their happiness. Happiness was, above all, a state of mind, a reflection of the condition of one’s inner self. “Monotony kills people just as surely as motor cars,” McClung told one of her audiences, “and monotony comes not from the environment, but from one’s soul.”31 In her fictional trilogy, Pearlie Watson works these miracles for both women and men. For the modern reader, Pearlie might seem too perfect, too wise for her early teen years in McClung’s first two novels, but for many contemporaries, including the Reverend J.A. McClung, Nellie’s father-in-law, she was exemplary in her Christlikeness.32 Like the potter in the book of Jeremiah, quoted on the title page of The Second Chance, she takes the damaged human beings and, with God’s help, moulds them anew. As is appropriate in the literary genres of the era,

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that help often involves crisis and tragedy, for without some pain, there can be no true redemption. For John and Jane Watson and their family, the second chance comes through a farm purchased by Pearlie with the nearly $600 that she receives as a thank-you from Arthur Wemyss’s English father after she saves Arthur’s life by summoning Dr Clay to perform an emergency appendectomy in the barn, at which she assists as nurse. Ironically, this is Bill Caver’s old homestead, which he lost because of his alcoholism. For the Motherwells, it is the example of Pearlie’s kindness in sending some of the poppies grown by their former English maid, Polly Bragg, to the Brandon hospital where she lies dying from tuberculosis that begins their slow redemptive journey. Having found the level of their shame in remembering their harsh treatment of Polly, they send her mother in England enough money to save her from the poorhouse. For Mrs Cavers and her eleven-yearold daughter, Libby Anne, it is bar owner Sandy Braden’s shame over the death of their husband and father, which leads him to give them a farm as a part of his self-imposed atonement. Just before Bill’s death, Pearlie has forced Braden to promise that he will not serve him any alcohol. For Mrs J. Burton Francis, the ineffectual dreamer, it is contact with the reality of the Watson family and the patient coaching of her maid, Camilla Rose, that sets her on a more realistic reform track. Pearlie has consulted with God for inspiration and advice in effecting these transformations, and has used the church to bring Tom Motherwell to a realization of his potential and to reunite Bud Perkins with a more honest father. Religion is a much more prominent feature of The Second Chance than it is in Danny. There is a greater textual need for God’s assistance in effecting the solutions in this novel, but it may have been that, having achieved success and power with the first book, McClung felt more confident in revealing her own strong faith the second time around.33 For her, faith was the single most important facet of life. It is the most prominent thread running through her personal papers and writing. In the McClung household, there were regular evening devotions, and the family’s life revolved around home and church.34 For both McClung and the people of Millford, religion was more than petitioning God for guidance. It was also a message of love, comfort, and hope, as well as a call to serve others. This was a modern, progressive Christian message, similar to that of Charles Gordon, in which the social dimensions were an important feature. More than any other institution, the church unites the people of Pearlie’s neighbourhood in a supportive, caring community. It also serves an important social function as the community gathers for Sunday services.

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Coming from a generation that placed a premium on duty, service, and sacrifice, especially for women, McClung continued to value those virtues, but for her, there were important limits, which the story of Martha Perkins illustrate. To the casual observer, it might seem that Martha has everything. She lives in a big house, has a comfortable, richly decorated room of her own, is an excellent cook, and has sewn and embroidered the most impressive trousseau in the neighbourhood. An important part of her community service is the extra treats she sends with the bread she regularly bakes for the bachelor Arthur Wemyss. Of sacrifice she knows much, for she devotes her life to saving her father the expense of a hired man, but in the process effaces herself. Martha has wealth, work, and material things; what she does not have is a positive selfimage and the power that would accompany it. “One of the preconditions for the expansion and success of the bourgeoisie was a new programming of the individual,” two Swedish social scientists conclude of this period, “a new character structure, with the key words being self-fulfilment, self-discipline, and an ingrained sense of morality.”35 In 1913 the editor of the “Women’s Department” of the McMaster University Monthly explicitly tied such programming to the feminist movement. “But for us ‘woman’s cause’ has the wider meaning – the opportunity for the expression of women’s newly-found selves,” she wrote. “Individuality is her birthright; and so is the expression of this individuality.”36 Such thoughts were in Nellie McClung’s mind as she guided Pearlie in her reprogramming of Martha Perkins. Concluding that Martha has many fine natural features to work with, Pearlie, who has already developed an appreciation of fine fashion and grooming, contributes her infectious enthusiasm and a variety of beauty-producing devices. A program of breathing and posture exercises eliminates the stooped shoulders and produces the graceful carriage of a confident person. Noting that “a bottle of hand lotion may save a soul,”37 McClung has Pearlie turn Martha’s rough, country hands into soft, white, feminine ones. New clothes, styled hair, and a fresh appreciation of fashion further improve the appearance and the self-confidence. This focus on the use of clothing, hairstyling, and cosmetics in defining self and inspiring confidence is a salient characteristic of modernity. According to Lois Banner, such preoccupation with beauty, which emerged strongly in the 1890s, was a part both of the feminist movement and of corporate capitalism. “With its powders, lotions, its cosmetics and hair dyes,” she writes, “the commercial culture of beauty then became the major claimant to the means for beauty for all women.”38

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For McClung, these were important matters. In her autobiography, she relates how in 1883 a smartly dressed visitor from Montreal, with her city clothes and coloured parasol, “gave a real impetus to dress styles among us,”39 but at nineteen she could still lament the rare attention paid to fashion in the region.40 Viewing the outward appearance as a mirror of the inner self, McClung dressed smartly and, with the wealth of authorship, treated herself to shoeshines, face massages, and fresh flowers in winter.41 Economic independence is another important measure of Martha’s new self-confidence and freedom. Rather than accumulating barter credit at the store with her butter, she acquires cash customers, and with the proceeds, she first purchases a $2.00 subscription to the magazine that her father denied her a few months earlier. For McClung, magazines opened the outside world to their readers and brought with them the modern precepts of beauty, fashion, living styles, and experiences. She regularly sent subscriptions to relatives for Christmas.42 Lady Aberdeen had initiated this practice during her 1890 tour across Canada, when she urged 1,400 women gathered at Knox Church in Winnipeg to send reading materials to remote homesteads.43 The Aberdeen Association, devoted to the cause, spread from Winnipeg to other cities in Canada and Britain. Education is the final component of Martha’s transformation. Already a confidant of and an inspiration to the local schoolteacher, Charles Donald, Pearlie convinces him to tutor Martha and also arranges for him to board at the Perkins house. Having missed three years before she started school again at thirteen, Pearlie, like McClung, sees education as the primary means through which members of the Watson family can make something of themselves. Even her father practises his writing in a scribbler. This was an era in which many of those who had no or little formal schooling took the initiative to conqueror their illiteracy, poor grammar, and poor spelling. To be modern, sophisticated, and respectable, one had to be stylishly literate. When a proud Pearlie surveys the transformed Martha, she sees an intelligent, well-dressed, confident young lady of twenty-five, with steady grey eyes and no trace of awkwardness. Martha now possesses many gifts, one of which is imagination. For McClung, this was synonymous with vision or spirituality, and it was a duty of women to “bring imagination to work on life’s problems.”44 Even though at the end of The Second Chance, Martha is engaged to Arthur Wemyss, she is, as Randi Warne states, a full woman, even without Arthur – a “whole person in herself, independent, and patient, and courageous.”45 She is also happy for the first time in her life. Published in 1921, McClung’s next novel, Purple Springs, reflects her “evolution from the Millford pharmacist’s ’authoress’ wife to a politi-

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cal figure of national renown.”46 Pearlie is now eighteen-year-old Pearl, a Normal School graduate ready to embark on a career of teaching and political activism. After moving to Winnipeg with her family in 1911, McClung, in association with Charles Gordon and others, campaigned vigorously against the liquor trade. As the leading light of the Political Equality League, she also added women’s suffrage and other rights to her agenda. Aligning themselves with the provincial Liberal Party against the Conservative administration of Premier Sir Rodmond Roblin, the reform forces fought fiercely. When the Equality League staged a gender-reversed mock parliament in the Walker Theatre, it propelled McClung, who played the premier, into instant political stardom. Now “Calamity Nell” or “Windy Nellie” of the political cartoons, she embarked on the campaign trail in the 1914 provincial election, speaking more than sixty times. While audiences flocked to hear her devastating wit, ridicule, and satire, Roblin’s team scrambled. His supporters in Brandon even burnt an effigy of Nellie. In the final rally in Winnipeg, McClung enthralled the crowd for one and a half hours without notes. Wounded but not defeated, Roblin clung to power for another year before a scandal forced his resignation. Once in power, the Liberals delivered on their promises of prohibition and suffrage. Invited to the United States by the National American Woman Suffrage Association, McClung addressed audiences in twenty-eight states.47 She had become a star, a modern personality. In Purple Springs, Pearl is the premier in the mock parliament and the campaigner, while John Graham is a thinly disguised Premier Roblin. Although these events and the political system, depicted in the novel as corrupt, self-serving, and anti-women, reflect the reality of Manitoba politics in this era, their appearance in a conventional, melodramatic romance novel seems strange. Why would McClung switch to this genre and feature a love story involving Pearl and Dr Horace Clay, who at first has to forgo marriage because of poorhealth? Why, with suffrage and prohibition already achieved, would she feature these goals? Although The Second Chance is primarily a community novel, with romance as a minor sub-theme, McClung steers Pearl towards romance with a promise from Dr Clay that he will wait three years until Pearl becomes an adult. Given the limitations of both genre and author, there was probably no other way to handle the mature heroine in the final novel of the trilogy.48 The second question, however, is tied to the first, for a closer reading of Purple Springs reveals that suffrage, the mock parliament, and the campaign really only serve as backdrops for McClung’s more central theme of women’s rights within marriage and motherhood. The novel is not a retrospective of battles already won.

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Although there are references in the novel to the blackened eyes of Bill Plunkett’s wife and two abused children, McClung focuses on the plights of two families, the Paines and the Grays, to illustrate the legal and personal difficulties faced by women. A sombre-faced, embittered woman who rarely attends community events, Mrs Sylvester Paine views her marriage as bondage, a form of long-term slavery. Shabbily dressed and living poorly, she and the children cower at her husband’s voice. Even though he boasts of a saving account of $15,000, the few pieces of furniture in their home came from her butter money. She has worked harder than her husband to build their successful farm and has suffered from his verbal and emotional abuse, yet he now intends to sell it, purchase the Millford Hotel, and move his family to the rooms above. With no property rights available to married women, there is nothing that Mrs Paine can do.49 Thirty-one-year-old Annie Gray’s sad story focuses on the absence of a mother’s rights regarding her children. After emigrating from Scotland to the Canadian north, she has eloped with a local fur trapper and prospector, who is killed in a train accident when their son is three. A visit to her deceased husband’s father ends in a shouting match, with the father threatening to send his grandchild to an English boarding school when he is nine. Having no legal child custody rights of her own, and with the grandfather as executor of the estate, she tells him that the rumour that she and his son never legally married is true; she then flees into the wilderness with her son. “It’s a queer story, isn’t it,” she told Pearl. “I ran away and got married, and then I ran away from marriage to keep my boy.” Pearl meets her north of Millford on a farm left to her by a prospector whom she cared for in his old age. Annie represents McClung’s ideal modern woman. She is optimistic, healthy, independent, and a successful farmer; she dresses well, rides astride, wears bloomers, uses a rifle, and lives in a comfortable, cheery home. The one serious flaw is that she exists without a community. No visitors come to her door; no neighbours invite her to their homes. As a single parent with a hidden past, she immediately becomes the subject of gossip and malicious rumour, which drive her and her son away from both church and school. Pearl weaves her magic, so that by the end of the novel, Sylvester Paine decides not to sell the farm and begins to build a fine, new house for his family, and Annie is reunited with her father-in-law, who turns out to be the despised premier, the target of Pearl’s biting ridicule and satire. No longer in office, he spends time with his grandson and assists Annie in rebuilding the Purple Springs community. Best of all, Pearl is about to marry Dr Horace Clay, now the local Liberal member of the legislature for Millford, a model citizen and

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future husband. Pearl accomplished these changes by transforming individuals; the legal barriers themselves remain. Readers should not assume that the happy ending of Purple Springs symbolizes the author’s final word on the subject of marriage. For many women, it remained a type of bondage and slavery. McClung repeatedly called for financial independence for married women, and she viewed the ideal marriage as a partnership; but neither marriage and family nor housekeeping was for everyone. In one of her short stories, she has a disgruntled housewife change places with a teaching relative; each experiences a new, more satisfying life in which her natural talents blossom.50 In a late-1920s article, “Can a Woman Raise a Family and Have a Career?” McClung answered her own question in the affirmative.51 After all, she had both, and was an aggressive, independent, modern woman with a partnership marriage. For those who view McClung’s career and contribution primarily in terms of a campaign for women’s suffrage, Purple Springs is a special novel. Significantly, it is her only work of fiction currently in print. To have included her own controversial, recent, activist past undisguised in a novel was a courageous act, as was the inclusion of the premier whom she had helped to defeat. For some male critics, McClung went too far in oversimplifying the campaign and falsifying the record of Premier Roblin.52 As a stump speaker in the Manitoba election campaign, North American suffragist lecturer, author of a collection of polemical essays entitled In Times like These (1915), member of the Legislative Assembly of Alberta from 1921 to 1925, and one of the four women responsible for defining women as “persons” under the Canadian constitution, thus allowing for their appointment to the Senate, McClung certainly deserves recognition.53 But the restricting of her career to this sphere negates the significance of her early fiction and her post-suffrage contributions. The tone and atmosphere of Danny is as much a part of the real McClung as the “Windy Nellie” of the political cartoon. Adjusting her language and her aggressiveness to fit her audience, she had the capacity to communicate effectively with a group of insurance agents, a girls’ club, or a highly charged political forum. With McClung defined recently as both a maternal and an equalrights feminist, it becomes more necessary than ever to evaluate the entire corpus of her work, including her fourth novel, Painted Fires (1925), her short stories, her speeches, her newspaper articles, and her syndicated column.54 As a politician in the Alberta legislature and in her writings, she fought for mothers’ pensions, a minimum wage, equal divorce rights for men and women, and improved rural health care. Always, it was the rights of women and children that

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predominated in her advocacy. Although she never faltered in her campaign against alcohol, when the beverage rooms appeared in Alberta at the end of prohibition, she fought vigorously for the removal of the exclusion of women patrons.55 Part of her focus on home, motherhood, and family was a direct response to the many criticisms of her own neglect of this sphere. But home and family were also important to her. Rejecting the cold, museum-like, unused parlour of the Perkins family, she opted for the more modern living room that was the heart of their home. A place of light, space, warmth, and homey hospitality, it featured large windows overlooking the garden and a hearth fire. “A class coming to see itself as modern, practical, rational in arrangements, and direct in manners,” notes Richard Ohmann, “rejected the old parlour as artificial, unauthentic, a facade.”56 Celebrating cosiness and casual comfort as significant aspect of modern life, McClung preferred poetry and fiction that offered both.57 Like much modern, late-twentieth-century feminist writing, states Marilyn Davis, quoting Gillian Beer, McClung’s fiction “radically questions assumptions about the limits of women’s experience, and brings into question the masculine portrayal of what they think women’s experience ought to be.”58 As such, her writing was subversive and potentially destabilizing. It was this combination of traditional and modern which attracted a variety of readers to McClung’s writings. Full of wit, humour, human interest, and engaging individual portraits, these were wholesome, enjoyable novels. For some, she offered an exciting, yet comforting, reliving of their own youths.59 For others, such as Wilfrid Eggleston, Pearl Watson was “a spunky, resourceful, red-blooded heroine, sure of a place in our literary records.”60 “Humanity craves heroism,” McClung stated. “No one wants to lead a drab life. We all want to try to tilt with fate; we want to overcome, endure, achieve, experience a sense of glory.”61 Yet there were those who could read even Purple Springs as a traditional love story, not realizing until after they closed the book that “there was powder in the jam”62 – that it was modern and also subversive in its advocacy of more rights for women beyond suffrage. Using the same anti-romantic techniques as those with which Lucy Maud Montgomery introduced Anne in the same decade, McClung presented a recognizable rural world comfortably in the throes of modernization.63 For the Watsons, it is a world of baseball and baseball slang, of chewing gum, of the need to scald milk to prevent tuberculosis, of the enticing attractions of modernity found in the Christmas catalogue. “The country store, the county fair, and the mail-order catalogue,” notes Thomas Schlereth, “functioned as

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agents of modernization. In their interaction and interconnection, they sanctioned and spread a consumer ethic that equated ’new’ with better and ’modern’ with improvement. In contrast to traditional lifeways that emphasized self-reliance, homogeneity, locality, and collectivity, they offered consumer visions that championed convenience, diversity, abundance, and individuality.”64 By the early 1920s in Purple Springs, the Watsons and their neighbours all have telephones and have mastered the art of listening in on all the conversations on the party line. McClung condemns the Motherwells for being scornful of the canned and pre-packaged foods that are coming to dominated the market. The ideal woman of her fiction is independent, aggressive, self-contained, and modern. Early in Danny, adorned in a new dress with real buttons and “not one pin needed,” Pearl “felt she was just as well dressed as the little girl on the starch box.”65 Material goods, however, presented only part of a complete modern life. By the early 1920s the prairie world seemed too obsessed with speed, cursed with too much activity, obsessed with a passion for material achievement, and “deaf, blind, and dumb about things of the soul.”66 There was a need for leisure, humour, thinking, and romance, even in everyday life.67 Humour relieved the monotony and prevented people from taking themselves too seriously. With so much pain and suffering and so much legalized discrimination in the world, with so many unfulfilled lives, McClung continued to insist, until the time of her death, that her writing should guide and instruct, and should end happily. The words “You, too, can do it” continue to echo triumphantly from her pages.

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8 Lucy Maud Montgomery and Anne

In November 1910 an internationally famous Lucy Maud Montgomery, on the invitation of her publisher, Louis Coues Page, journeyed from rural Prince Edward Island to Boston. Reactions to her first “big city” experience by the Boston press, the local intelligentsia, and Montgomery herself provide important clues to the phenomenon of Anne of Green Gables (1908). The event reminded many of Boston’s leading authors and journalists of a similar, now legendary, visit by Charlotte Brontë to London sixty-one years before.1 More outgoing than the shy Brontë, Montgomery played the role well and provided her urban hosts with ample copy for a nostalgic trip into an agrarian past. “It would not be easy to exaggerate the retiring manner and untouched simplicity of this already famous woman,” the Boston press reported, “nor was it easy to induce her to talk about herself or her books.”2 Dressed in a pretty pink evening gown, which “accentuated her frail and youthful aspect,” Montgomery confessed to Boston-area authors that she had never before met any real writers. Living four miles from the nearest telephone and eleven miles from town, in a community that had few problems and no “real society,” she appeared as sweet, innocent, and safe as the fragrant apple blossoms featured in her first novel. This was no modern, radical feminist. She believed that a woman’s place was in the home. For the residents of the bustling city of Boston, the intellectual capital of America, Montgomery’s charm, retiring manner, and untouched simplicity evoked comfortable memories of their own past.3

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Initially, Montgomery had been reluctant to embark on the journey, for her wardrobe was not prepared and she “dreaded meeting new people.”4 Soon, however, she anticipated it with as much zest as Anne of Green Gables would have. Among her purchases for the trip were a mink collar and muff which would be later much admired in “The States.” Although many of the Boston experiences, such as riding in an automobile and eating green turtle consommé and squab on toast, were new, she soon discovered that the Pages’ lifestyle “fitted her like a glove.” Far from being an innocent abroad, Montgomery reveals herself in her journal account of the visit to be a sophisticated, critically astute, informed, professional writer, well aware that her publisher had invited her to pressure her into signing a new contract on the old, unfavourable terms.5 Nonetheless, Montgomery was comfortable with her portrait in the Boston press and would continue to project a public image of a conservative, motherly woman, who, although seeing a need for public-spirited women, preferred to devote herself to home and family.6 Yet she was a more modern writer than Connor, Stead, and McClung. Unlike these three authors, Montgomery identified herself as a professional writer whose primary responsibility was to entertain her readers. After a long apprenticeship, she managed, with Anne of Green Gables, to find the proper mix of good writing, satire, wit, and character portrayal to synchronize with the popular market for fiction. More than anything else, it was the irrepressible, charismatic Anne with whom the readers fell in love. Only five of Mongomery’s twenty-two volumes of fiction did not have Anne and her family as the central characters. As Carole Gerson reminds us in a recent article, Montgomery was linked to a series or serial market in which readers’ expectations shaped and determined the careers of authors.7 In this market, sales of subsequent volumes inevitably drew readers back to earlier titles. Also important to her success was the loving portrayal of the realistic community of Avonlea on Prince Edward Island whose characters were as familiar to many readers as the neighbours, family, and friends of their own communities. “Nobody,” wrote a New York Times reviewer, “makes you smell and see a lovely countryside better than Lucy Maud Montgomery does.”8 Montgomery consistently claimed that she did not write to instruct or uplift her readers, but merely to entertain and amuse them and to bring happiness into their lives. “I cannot think that everyone ought to write with only a didactic and elevating purpose in view,” she wrote to her Scottish friend and confidant, George MacMillan. “In fact, I question if anyone should or if any good is gained by so doing … If we write truly out of our own heart and experience that truth will

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find and reach its own.”9 With this approach to writing, she differed markedly from Connor, Stead, and McClung, and it is one of the reasons for her enduring popularity. The “truths” referred to in her letter, however, also suggest that she expected her readers to be more than simply entertained. There were hidden messages that would instruct and guide – messages more likely to be received by a modern, secular audience than if she had highlighted and preached them.10 Although Montgomery wrote twenty-four books between 1908 and 1939, her many fans and the literary world would remember her most significantly as the author of Anne of Green Gables (1908).11 While this first novel is in tune with the world of 1908, it also provides a nostalgic picture of a disappearing, comfortable, country life which was attractive both to her contemporaries and to a late-twentieth-century audience. This is part of the charm of the novel and a significant feature of its enduring popularity, especially for adult readers. Central to the image is Montgomery’s portrayal of home and family. Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert are a brother and sister household, a social construct familiar to farming communities in the first half of the twentieth century. The shy, silent Matthew, full-bearded in the old style, avoids women, especially young girls, while Marilla, the old maid, has grown brusque and hard. Although they constitute a statistical family, as brother and sister, they could have no children. Into their lives comes a bubbly, irrepressible, twelve-year-old orphan, Anne Shirley, who not only completes the family unit; she also transforms her guardians. Matthew becomes her confidant, comforter, and, most surprisingly, her fashion adviser, ensuring that she wears the latest styles. While Marilla believes that fine fashions will induce vanity, Matthew sees the necessity of instilling pride and self-confidence in Anne. Marilla mellows and grows accustomed to the role of mother. As Anne places her hand in Marilla’s while walking home one evening, “something warm and pleasant swelled up in Marilla’s heart at the touch of that hand in her own – a throb of maternity she had missed, perhaps its very unaccustomedness and sweetness disturbed her.”12 Like Matthew, she senses an emptiness in her life whenever Anne is absent. For Anne herself, this is the first place where she has ever lived for which the phrase “going home” has real meaning. Although Montgomery never fully described the exterior of the Cuthbert house until Anne of Windy Poplars (1936),13 in the readers’ expectation, as in the later movies focused on Anne, it is the traditional, genteel family home of the North American imagination. In the first half of the nineteenth century, the white frame house with green shutters, front porch, and white picket fence spread out from New England

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to become the quintessential embodiment of refined domestic living.14 Green Gables is such a house; even its yard conforms to the ideal. Marilla ensures that it is spotless, with not even a stray leaf to disturb its symmetry. Although, by the time that Anne of Green Gables appeared, “men of advanced taste were beginning to disparage” this icon of family calm and retreat, the wider public would continue to hold it in high regard. It is the image that thousands of tourists still expect to see on their pilgrimages to Prince Edward Island in search of Anne. As Anne progresses through college, teaching, marriage, and motherhood, she continues to live in similar houses.15 The interior of Green Gables also conforms to this genteel ideal, with its front parlour, sitting room, spare room, and kitchen on the lower floor. While the warm, comfortable kitchen is the centre of wholesome domesticity in the Cuthbert household, the parlour is a special, formal place in which to serve tea to the Reverend and Mrs Allan, and where Matthew lies in his coffin at the end of the novel. The manners, the reading of proper books, the beauty of Anne’s floral arrangements, and the balance between fashion and modesty stressed by Marilla characterize the values suggested by Godey’s Lady’s Book, one of the magazines to which Montgomery’s grandmother and guardian subscribed. This was the most widely read women’s magazine and a primary conveyor of North American genteel living in the nineteenth century.16 From it, Montgomery absorbed much informtion about fashion and being modern as she grew from childhood into adolescence. This was a quiet world, as yet undisturbed by suffragettes, in which gender roles were clear and specific. At the outset of the Cuthberts’ decision to keep Anne, Matthew allows Marilla to do the training. The women of the community define their status through their expertise in housekeeping and cooking. With her headaches and “bad days,” Marilla presents a typical image of a late-nineteenthcentury woman.17 The picture of Anne and her bosom friend, Diana making their mayflower wreaths evokes the image of William Brymner’s 1884 painting A Wreath of Flowers.18 In this Avonlea world, children extract their chewing gum from spruce trees rather than purchasing it at a store, pedlars call, and the mode of transportation is the horse and buggy. For Toronto journalist Marjory MacMurchy, Montgomery’s stories rated highly because of their “sane, wholesome, delightful social fabric. Here are standards which have not been confused or broken … Stalwart character, strength of will, intellectual and moral soundness, goodwill, gayety, common sense and happiness are rated simply as the best things in life. There is no preaching. Money is a servant. Luxury is never mentioned.”19

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It would be difficult to overestimate the importance of this picture of the residents of Prince Edward Island in Montgomery’s imagination. Although, at the time of writing her first novel, she sensed “that the Cavendish world of her childhood was slipping away,”20 she would continue to think of its residents as “simple, God-fearing people, farmer folk, to whom Paris fashions, salacious novels, and bridge parties are as sealed books. Quilting parties, sewing bees, sleigh riding and such-like wholesome and simple pleasures form their amusements.”21 Having moved from the Island in 1911, after the appearance of automobiles and electricity on the landscape, she locked the community of her birth in an earlier, time-stalled folk image. Such an image was comforting both to Montgomery and to the readers of Anne of Green Gables in the modern and postmodern eras. It is in this sense that the novel is a regional idyll.22 Just as significant is Montgomery’s depiction of the picturesque, sublime landscape of this unique island with its red earth. Opening the novel with a rich pastoral scene of fields, alders, ladies’ eardrop flowers, and a meandering brook, she proceeds to infuse the entire book with framed pictures of golden sandhills and dark blue sea, spruce woods resplendent with spring flowers, lush fields of clover, fruit trees in bloom, and the sunsets that she loved so much. Having heard before her arrival that Prince Edward Island was “the prettiest place in the world,” Anne immediately falls in love with this “bloomiest place,” as would the thousands of readers of the Anne series. Already in Anne of Green Gables, rich American tourists, who “think this shore is just about right,” frequent the White Sands Hotel in the summer. Montgomery’s books preconditioned readers with perspectives and emotional responses for later visits to the Island. For one young, male reader from Guelph, Ontario, visiting in the early 1920s, the romantic and the picturesque – the sparse but charming woods, the red clay roads, and the blue sea and sky – fulfilled the promise of the novels. “The entire Island teems with romance,” he wrote. “The young girls are so pretty and in their eyes gleams a light ‘ne’er seen on land or sea.›23 At the Campbells’ and the McFarlanes’, where Montgomery played as a child, this reader loved the apple orchard and all her old spots. “I wish everyone who has loved the ‘Anne’ books,” he wrote, “could ’see’ and ‘feel’ what I did.” Concepts of the idyllic “Garden Province” featured in tourist promotion for modern Prince Edward Island originate, to a significant degree, with Lucy Maud Montgomery and her fiction.24 Finding much scope for her imagination in this very civilized setting, Anne personalizes her favourite spots. Barry’s pond becomes the Lake of Shining Waters, and the spruce grove, the Haunted

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Woods, which for a time are also a scene of gothic horror. For Montgomery, the Lovers’ Lane, the Haunted Woods, and the other spots were real places of her childhood which continued to serve as centres of reference for her life. The woods, especially, were a source of solace and inspiration, filled with friends who understood and did not interrupt or chastise. After a walk in the woods in her late teens, Montgomery noted that “the calm, fresh loveliness of the woods seemed to enter the very spirit with voiceless harmony … All the little fears and chafings shrank into nothing … I put my arm around a lichened old spruce and laid my cheek against its rough side – it seemed like an old friend.”25 In the Leaskdale manse in Ontario, where she began her married life, photos of Lovers’ Lane and other Cavendish scenes hung over her secretary desk beside framed covers of her novels.26 Every time that she returned to the Island and discovered altered scenery, as when the spruce and maple woods by the school were cut down, she took it as a personal insult.27 Montgomery, however, did not use nature as a permanent refuge. She was, as she pointed out to Ephraim Weber, equally at home in nature and in the sparkling city, and could “slip from one to the other as easily as I can slip from one garment to another.”28 Both Montgomery and Anne embraced nature with a mystical intensity which shaped their approach to romance and to life in general. This mystical embrace of life is one of the important factors in the character of Anne and the intense love that she inspired in those who met her in the pages of Anne of Green Gables and its sequels. This intense, emotional interaction between reader and subject is tied to the basic character of Anne as well as to circumstance and setting. Unlike Connor, with his Gwen in The Sky Pilot, Montgomery employs little pathos and does not directly prey on the emotions of her readers. Yet they loved Anne as a friend and companion in a way that they could never love Gwen or McClung’s Pearlie Watson.29 “There is psychological therapy in the reading of a book,” writes Elizabeth Waterston, “that helps externalize hidden parts and conflicting parts of self.”30 One thirteen-year-old reader, who spent five months in bed after being thrown from a horse, declared that she could not have survived the ordeal without reading Montgomery’s early novels fortytwo times.31 In the same year, an Oshawa, Ontario, mother asked the author to select a verse that Anne would have liked in order to inscribe on her dead baby’s gravestone.32 Another reader from Washington state, who had lost her mother when she was a baby, just as Montgomery and Anne had, wrote that “your books are to me the mother I have never known.”33 The therapeutic value, the confirmation of self, and the understanding of nature derived from

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Montgomery assisted readers of all ages from many cultures. This universality of appeal, already evident in 1908, continues to attract readers from many cultures in the postmodern age.34 Combined with other aspects of Anne of Green Gables, such as a modern understanding of childhood, this intensity renders the novel timeless and carries it far beyond the simplicity of a regional idyll. “There’s such a lot of different Annes in me, I sometimes think that is why I’m such a troublesome person,” Anne tells her bosom friend, Diana. “If I was just the one Anne it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn’t be half so interesting.”35 Reflecting a wide spectrum of a child’s progression into adolescence, these multiple aspects of Anne’s personality and experience as she grows from eleven to sixteen accurately reflect the twentieth-century world. By the second half of the nineteenth century, Western societies had convincingly designated childhood as a distinct phase of life, and by the end of the century, adolescence had emerged as a transition period between childhood and adulthood.36 An important part of these phenomena was the production of literature specifically designed for children and adolescents. While many of the early works were highly moralistic and presented from an adult’s perspective, the tone became increasingly less religious and the outlook more child-centred. Montgomery was part of the first generation of writers who made this transition successfully.37 By the last decades of the nineteenth century, the alternative perception of a more independent and self-assertive childhood that emerged, states Karin Calvert, “resulted in a growing recognition of childish high spirits and … of children’s need for stimulus.”38 This new awareness included an acceptance of mischief as natural, normal, and healthy. Montgomery’s Anne Shirley is a quintessential example of such perception. A journalist, A.V. Brown noted that Montgomery was widely appreciated for her understanding of a young girl’s psyche, and that she also pleaded “for the rights of childhood, that sterling worth that is disguised by an ungracious exterior.”39 Foremost among those rights was the need to belong. As an orphan, Anne Shirley is one of many such pitied and scorned characters in literature and society in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Just before Anne’s arrival, Rachel Lynde tells Marilla Cuthbert stories of atrocities committed by orphans in adopted homes. Although that first night, as they prepare for bed, Marilla keeps the candle out of Anne’s hands in case another orphan accidently or purposely burns down a house, Anne soon senses that she belongs to the Cuthberts. This is a safe, comfortable spot in which one can develop character, have scope for the imagination, and search for one’s position in the social fabric of life and com-

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munity. Anne of Green Gables is, states Swedish critic Gabriella Åhmansson, “a story of love, security, and recognition.”40 A central theme of the novel is Anne’s acceptance in the Cuthbert home and in the community. With Connor, Stead, and McClung, Montgomery shared the celebration of the importance of building and maintaining communities in modern, twentieth-century society. She understood all too well “the soul-destroying power of the trivial and the incurable scars small stabs can leave.”41 These adult injustices against children included harsh, personal judgments spoken or inferred, often as if the children were not present. When Rachel Lynde, upon first meeting Anne, says, “Well, they didn’t pick you for your looks, that’s sure and certain,” Marilla recalls a similar incident in her own childhood, when she overheard one aunt say to another, “What a pity she is such a dark, homely, little thing.” Later, at school, the teacher, Mr Phillips, holds up Anne’s slate for all the class to see her multiple spelling errors, Montgomery subtly condemns such humilation of children. It is noteworthy that in three instances when Anne seems to stumble badly – Diana’s becoming drunk on currant wine, the missing amethyst brooch, and the anodyne liniment in the cake – Marilla rightly accepts the blame. When Anne receives the first compliment of her life – albeit, a fourth-hand statement that her nose is pretty – it greatly increases her self-confidence on the road to adulthood. Friendship was another right. Before arriving at Green Gables, Anne never has a true friend, but already on the journey home from the railway station with Matthew, she correctly senses in him a kindred spirit. During the course of the novel, she adds Mrs Allan, the minister’s wife, Miss Stacy, the teacher, and, from her peer group, Diana Barry as important friends who make her life more complete and assist her on the road to adulthood. Readers of all ages also sense in Anne an interesting and exciting true friend who is “so natural and possible, and as like an old schoolmate of mine as she could be.”42 In entitling her study of Anne of Green Gables, Kindling Spirit, Elizabeth Waterston highlights the centrality of friendship for both Anne and her audience. She is a joyous chum, a loyal friend, and fun to be with; the anticipation of her next insane adventure provides enormous excitement. Perhaps the most fundamental right of childhood in the modern era is individuality – the characteristic that Anne embraces most fully. In carefully crafting her characters as unique individuals, Montgomery championed and celebrated this important feature of modern society. Knowing that she is unusual and different, Anne provides a “positive role model for children who needed to believe in a better world and

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desire for greater freedom, mobility, and independence.”43 For critic Temma Berg and thousands of other readers, Anne confirmed their sense of difference and apartness as children and told them that “it was okay to be different,”44 that individuality was something to be celebrated. When Diana Barry says, “You’re a queer girl, Anne … But I believe I’m going to like you real well,” she acknowledges that, in spite of Anne’s difference, bosom friendship and socialization are possible. A red-haired girl from Poland who had tearfully suffered the epithet “Carrot-top,” just as Anne had from Gilbert Blythe, wrote that “thanks to Anne I have not become a hermit.”45 Closely allied with this growing interest in and need for individuality is self-awareness. “One of the things that makes the modern world ‘modern,› states Warren Susman, “is the development of consciousness of self.”46 There is a natural progression from this awareness to a recognition of one’s individuality and to a state of selfconfidence. In Anne of Green Gables, Montgomery not only traces this progression but also rejoices as Anne achieves each new level. One of the important influences on Anne is her teacher, Miss Stacy, who encourages individuality and self-expression in her students as a means of developing self-consciousness. Another aspect of individuality is the right to be noticed and heard by adults. Rejecting the admonition that children should be seen and not heard, and in spite of repeated chastisements from Marilla to “hold your tongue and behave as a good girl should,” Anne can not be silenced. And as hard as Marilla may try to instill a traditional humility in her to save her from the sin of vanity, Anne is never to be humble.47 Even in her apology to Rachel Lynde for calling her a “rude, impolite, unfeeling woman,” she stands her ground and maintains her individuality and dignity. Unlike Marilla, Matthew, sensing that values have changed, provides Anne with a dress with puffed sleeves for the Christmas concert, and later an organdy dress and pearl beads for an elocution performance at the White Sands Hotel. To have denied her the right to be fashionable and proud of her appearance would only have invited bitterness and jealousy, and crushed a blossoming free spirit. Children were naturally curious, spontaneous, disarmingly honest, and questioning, and while the socialization of growing up might modify these behaviourial traits, for Montgomery, they were natural and valuable, and had a place in the adult world. Other characteristics and rights of children are daydreaming and imagination. For both Nellie McClung and Montgomery, imagination was a treasured aspect of childhood which should be fostered and carried through adulthood. That she maintained an ability to dream

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and wonder as a adult gave Montgomery the talent necessary to conceptualize children successfully in her fiction. Unfortunately, defining maturity as the abandonment of imagination, adults and the school system generally did everything possible to eradicate it. On their way to Green Gables from the railway station, when the bubbling, irrepressible Anne asks Matthew, who is becoming a little dizzy from the incessant chatter, if he can imagine, he answers, “Well now, I’m afraid I can’t.” But with Anne’s help, he will learn. Warren Susman notes that modernity embraced a new interest in fairies and fairy tales and a fascination with magic and dreams.48 An important dimension of this interest was a special genre of literature, popular with both adults and children, in which imagination is a primary feature. Contemporary with Anne of Green Gables are Frank Baum’s Wizard of Oz (1907), Frances H. Burnett’s Secret Garden (1911), and J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan (1914). Each of these books, along with Montgomery’s, remains popular at the end of the twentieth century, as do the movies that they have inspired, because of the prominence of imagination in their concepts and characters. Contained within this dream world of children are the optimism and the power necessary to shape their lives. “Our expectations,” Mary Rubio states, “can create our future”49 – a sentiment shared by all the authors in this study. Only through imagining what they might be can children reach beyond the practicality of everyday life as defined by adults. Writing at the darkest point of the First World War, a young reader found the “present too real to let us indulge in dreams, so all we can do is to look back on precious memories [such as reading Anne of Green Gables] and look forward to wonderful hopes.”50 Even in this darkest hour, imagination carried hope for the future. For Anne and others, dream worlds also render a colourless life bearable. Montgomery’s books show, writes Carol Gay, that “a life lived without imagination is not worth living.”51 The most problematic facet of the imagination in Anne of Green Gables is the romantic. Anne’s dream world includes a passionate identification with Sir Walter Scott’s Lady of the Lake and Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “Lady of Shalott” and “Elaine.” Montgomery does use Anne’s romantic flights and high-flown diction, as Mary Rubio suggests, for comic effect, as well as a gentle satire of the romantic genre itself.52 In addition, the ability to distinguish between impossible romanticism and reality is an important part of maturing. It would be wrong, however, to conclude that romance has no part to play in adult life. For Montgomery, as for McClung, some romance and dreaming was necessary in order to render life tolerable and interesting. When Anne proclaims to Marilla and Matthew, after nearly

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drowning while acting out “The Lady of Shalott,” that she has decided that “it is no use trying to be romantic in Avonlea,” Matthew admonishes her “to keep a little of it.” Some balance, however, is necessary. When an adoring fan filled twenty pages with glowing, romantic praise, Montgomery, wishing to remind her of practical realities, sent her a photograph of herself in housecleaning attire.53 One of the practical realities of life is the necessity of determining a career. Although Montgomery has adults provide support and encouragement, she permits her heroines to plan their own destiny. Contained within this framework is the right to education, which is a strong and too often neglected aspect of Montgomery’s fiction.54 Anne’s determination to “spell Gilbert down” in competition, her trust in her teacher, Miss Stacy, as a role model, her success in tying with Gilbert for first in the entrance exams, her completion of teacher training, and her winning of the Avery prize, providing four years of university, all signify the importance of education. While there is a subtext, including the voices of Montgomery’s Grandfather Macneill and Rachel Lynde, that advises against women teachers and higher education for women, Montgomery sends a clear, positive message. Gabriella Åhmansson states that Anne influenced both her mother in the 1920s and herself in the 1970s in their decisions to pursue postsecondary education.55 For Montgomery, college training was not just to demonstrate capability or advance a career but also to cultivate the powers of observation, understand the bewildering perplexities of being, and prepare for life in the infinite. “I am anxious to spend a year at a real college,” she wrote in her diary in 1895, “as I think it would help me along in my ambition to be a writer.”56 She later regretted not being able to complete her bachelor of arts degree because of a lack of finances, but reflecting on the question in 1919, she felt that she “would not have done any better … if I had got the B.A. degree I hungered for.”57 Initially, Anne Shirley is also obliged to forgo a college education. Forced to decline the Avery scholarship because of Matthew’s sudden death from a heart attack and Marilla’s ill health, only later can she accomplish this goal. Like her readers, Montgomery came to regret Matthew’s death at the end of Anne of Green Gables. “When I wrote it I thought he must die,” she states, “that there might be a necessity for self-sacrifice on Anne’s part.”58 Gilbert Blythe also makes a sacrifice by giving up the local Avonlea school so that Anne can live with Marilla while continuing to teach. In spite of the lingering Victorian value system, which placed a premium on the character-building quality of suffering and sacrifice and prompted the inclusion of these sacrifices in Anne of Green Gables, in a sequel, Anne does earn her

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bachelor of arts degree, an accomplishment achieved by only a minority of contemporary women.59 “Article after article in the 1880s and 1890s presented evidence of women’s intellectual inferiority,” notes George Cotkin in Reluctant Modernism, “and demonstrated the dangers of female education.”60 In his popular study, Adolescence (1903), G. Stanley Hall stresses how young women might endanger their reproductive and emotional powers if they insisted on higher education. The young women of Montgomery’s fiction reject the premise that girls and women are intellectually inferior, and they ignore the dire warnings from Hall and others, as they seize the opportunities for education and careers that are available for them. Although modern critics generally regard Montgomery’s Emily of a later series as more autobiographical than her Anne,61 this aspect applies only to the psychological restrictions of childhood and the evolution of a writer. Contemporary observers assumed that her stories rang true to the reader because she had lived them.62 In its rich setting, incidents, and details of life, Anne of Green Gables conforms more closely to lived experience than any of Montgomery’s other novels. Like Anne, she was a talkative, impulsive child with a vivid imagination, a passion for reading, and a love for cats, spruce gum, and russet apples.63 They were both “dunces in geometry,” had freckled noses, loved flowers, personalized nature with names, delighted in public elocution performances, and were full of enthusiasms. Anne’s tribulations over puffed sleeves and bangs were real issues when Montgomery was ten years old. She and Maggie Abbot swore the same oath of friendship as Anne and Diana. On the Cuthbert and Macneill farms, French boys served as hired hands. As an adult, Maud continued to make the red currant and raspberry wine that had been in the house during her childhood. The Anne sequels suffer in comparison with the first book because much of the rich texture of life was more invented than lived. While Montgomery’s claim that the people were fictional is true, Anne and her other characters represented real people that a observer could find in any North American community in the first decade of the twentieth century. Montgomery allows the reader to breathe the atmosphere of their lives and to identify strongly with them. Ephraim Weber tells of a ninety-four-yearold woman who, in the 1940s, was still “sport enough to fancy she’s Marilla.”64 As a writer, Montgomery listened and observed, wrote and rewrote, until the picturesque landscape glowed, the conversations sparkled, and the piquant humour evoked chuckles. Writing in the tradition of oral storytelling, she produced books which have a strong

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power over the reader “because she creates a tone of intimacy which admits the reader into the inner circles of her kindred spirits.”65 Like Matthew and Marilla, the reader is “caught in a trap of looking forward to what happens next, because whatever Anne does is bound to unexpected.”66 This deceptively simple, natural style hides a superior craftsmanship, which, over all, is the most refined of any of the authors in this study. Even the “upward trend and idealization of life is so naturally veiled as entertainment, that our girls [the readers] are off guard against being made better and so are made better.”67 Like McClung’s Pearlie Watson, but with much more subtlety, Anne cheerfully makes the world a better place. In Anne of Green Gables, Montgomery focuses on character and incident rather than on plot. While many of her other books, especially the Emily series, are more synchronized with the modern literary standards of plot, character, and depth, for many readers they did not provide the intimacy or depth of emotional interaction that are important qualities of bestsellers. That the first novel became a world-renowned classic, even with a weak plot structure, affirms the remarkable quality of its other strengths. For those who might read from a perspective of greater knowledge and insight, Montgomery infused her fiction with allusions to and quotations from a wide range of literature which reflected her own eclectic reading.68 In an age in which reading was popular and it was normal to memorize passages for school, Sunday school, or just for the fun of it, more readers in her contemporary period would have recognized her unidentified quotations than is the case today. Ranging from Shakespeare and the Bible through the Romantic and Victorian poets to popular fiction, these references provided a comfortable, shared community of interest for readers.69 At the same time, multiple readings of Montgomery’s own works permitted many readers to add her to their collective memory. In spite of the image of a comforting, idyllic region presented at the beginning of this chapter, by the conclusion of Anne of Green Gables, it is evident that the grip of modern urbanism on Avonlea is substantial and increasing. The railway has now reached Carmody; electric lights dazzle at the White Sands Hotel; store-bought dresses define prevalent fashion; and the talented Reverend Allan, with his modern message of love and hope, has departed for a more sophisticated, urban parish in Charlottetown. At a concert at the White Sands, where Anne is to perform as an elocutionist along with the Charlottetown Symphony and a professional elocutionist, she initially feels “suddenly shy and frightened, and countrified.” From the audience come whispers of “country bumpkins” and “rustic belles.” But the smartly

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dressed Anne, who stands her ground in competition with the urban professionals, wins honest applause as well as glowing congratulations from the professional elocutionist and the wife of an American millionaire. Even her hair is now “titian” rather than red. By this time, fashionable titian-coloured tresses “symbolized the new sensuality of the turn-of-the-century era.”70 Anne would grow to become the best-known Canadian fictional character. Although Montgomery later introduced Sara, Emily, Anne’s youngest daughter, Rilla, and other heroines to her readers, none of these could replace or even rival the original, never-to-beforgotten Anne in their hearts, nor could Anne the teacher, wife, and mother be as intriguing as Anne the child.71 Montgomery experienced great difficulty in writing about romance involving a mature Anne and her other characters. While in Anne of Green Gables there is a mere hint of romance between Anne and Gilbert Blythe, in the sequels she had to confront this aspect of adolescent and adult life more fully. Unable to deal honestly with the sexual awakenings and love affairs of adolescents because of the restrictions and conventions of literature, she continued to render them sweet and innocent. Besides, she told Ephraim Weber, “I can’t write a young-girl-romantic-love story. My impish sense of humour always spoils everything.”72 Montgomery continued to write sequels to Anne of Green Gables until the late 1930s. While the strength of Anne’s character and the love of her audience would carry respectable sales for these volumes, only the original Anne would become a true classic. Montgomery’s fictional characters assisted countless thousands of young readers on their journeys into adulthood. They learned that it was important to imagine and dream, to be happy and optimistic, and also about the significance of respect, friendships, individuality, and selfhood, the right to speak and to be heard, and the importance of education and careers. These messages are as relevant nearly a century after their initial appearance in her fiction as they were when she first wrote them. At the same time, for some readers, her stories evoke comforting images of another era.

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9 Arthur Stringer, the Debonair Businessman

In Arthur Stringer’s first novel, The Silver Poppy (1903), struggling writer John Hartley thinks, “After all, even the artist must have his modern ideas of the business side of life. It was the law of the land.”1 Soon after this, Hartley would do what Stringer himself had done – resign from the world of New York journalism to pursue a career as a professional writer. Fellow author and close friend Victor Lauriston later told Stringer that he was “the only businessman of our bunch.”2 To a Saturday Night journalist, he looked “more like a wholesale grocer than a poet.”3 With his impeccable, stylish attire, imposing presence, and dignified air, Stringer had the appearance and the demeanour of a gracious plutocrat. Although he wished above all to be a poet, only by writing popular novels, short stories for magazines, and movie scripts and selling his stories to movie producers could he attain sufficient income to live stylishly. Like Montgomery, Stringer saw himself as a professional writer who wrote to entertain his readers with his crime, adventure, and romance stories. Using both familiar and exotic settings as backdrops, he offered interesting characters and exciting drama in novels and stories, in which he probed deeply into human consciousness. Because of the variety of his settings, which include New York City, the Ontario countryside, the Canadian prairies, and the northern wilderness, and the variety of genres, he is more difficult to typecast than the other four authors. His popularity was also connected to a more varied audience, partly because of the range of his writing and partly because of the variety of formats, including magazines, through which readers became familiar with his fiction.

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Although Stringer was only fourteen years younger than Charles Gordon, he possessed a very different consciousness. No religious faith infused his work; nor was reform his mission. Like Montgomery he sought to entertain, but unlike her, there was no apparent suggestion that reading his books should improve the reader. In all his works, there is a lightness of touch appreciated by both reviewers and readers. Even when confronting serious problems of modern civilization, Stringer refused to burden his readers with earnestness or preaching. He also possessed a profound understanding of the metropolis and an ability to construct novels out of that understanding – something rare for a Canadian writer of fiction in the early twentieth century. In contrast to all the other authors in this study, Stringer began, not with the frontier or a small town, but with New York, the most exciting and modern city in the world. In this “emblem of American modernity,” writes Jackson Lears, “urchins cropping fruit, pianists sweating ragtime, advertisements flashing slogans and brand names – all worked together to immerse the artist or writer in a sea of urban sensations.”4 Engrossed in this milieu, Arthur Stringer was part of the first generation to create literature from the “carnival atmosphere that flourished in the margins” of this exciting city.5 “He not only makes a story distinctly modern and exciting enough to thrill even a blasé latter-day reader,” wrote a reviewer in Saturday Night magazine, “but adds to it fascination by introducing psychology.”6 It was only in the last two decades of the nineteenth century that modern psychology had begun to enter the popular consciousness.7 Focusing on motivation, usually explored through a character’s self-analysis, Stringer sought to understand modern human consciousness, particularly women’s consciousness and motivation. This was another feature noted and appreciated by reviewers and readers. Known for the diversity of his product, Stringer was no mere formula writer of commercial fiction. Refusing to be typecast, he varied his genres and the settings, and at times, pushed the frontiers of literature beyond the point of easy acceptance for publishers and editors. He also abandoned the happy ending in his early novels. As with the other four authors in this study, his best work grew out of his own experiences. Under persistent pressure to produce sufficient saleable products to earn a living, his work too often fell just short of artistic completeness. It is, perhaps, too easy to blame the formulaic demands of genre and magazines for this failing,8 for Stringer appears to have lacked the desire even more than the talent to produce morefinished work, because he wanted his enduring fame to rest on his poetry rather than on his fiction. Like Owen Storrow in The Wine of

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Life (1921), he found reworking a novel “almost as gloomy a bit of business as re-opening a coffin.”9 Unlike the other authors in this study, he experienced no spectacular success with any single work, but his prominence and sales gradually rose during the first quartercentury of his career. Upon moving to New York in 1898, Stringer increased his output of poetry, short stories, articles, and letters to newspapers. While the primary goal was income, he was also seeking recognition in a crowded literary milieu. From his studio on East 23rd Street, “where the panhandlers used to drift past to the flop-joints, and the pool-roomers used to call me by my first name,”10 he experienced and observed New York life. The first book built on these observations, The Loom of Destiny (1899), stands in marked contrast to the writings of Maud Montgomery.11 Although it is a series of short stories about children, the book’s focus is on class division, dysfunctional families, street life, and poverty. “There is a humor and pathos in the stories,” wrote the critic in the Providence Journal, “and the writer shows a keen insight into and a knowledge of the human heart.”12 While these children smoke and gamble, forage for lumps of coal that fall from loaded carts, and endure the violence of drunken fathers, they also possess a personal pride and dignity, which is, however, continually threatened by personal feelings bordering on contempt, hated, and hopelessness. Nevertheless, they do love the city. One young, homeless “newsie,” rescued by an upper-class couple, finds his vacation life in the idyllic countryside so stultifying and boring that he flees back to the New York streets “to hear the music of a thousand hurrying wheels.”13 Stringer’s own reaction to the city, like that of his heroes and heroines, was more ambivalent. In his fiction, New York is a fascinating, exhilarating place experienced through the eyes of the newcomers, such as Englishman John Hartley in The Silver Poppy, and Canadians Jim Durkin in The Wire Tappers14 and Owen Storrow in The Wine of Life, each of whom frets about the negative influences in which it encapsulates him. For Hartley and Storrow, it is the wild, fraudulent, and often stultifying bohemian life of the cultural community; for Durkin, it is the criminal underworld. There are also glimpses of the persistent, high-society New York of the lingering “Gilded Age,” as well as the ethnic city of the thousands of recently arrived immigrants. Stringer’s treatment of New York belongs as much to localcolour fiction as Montgomery’s Prince Edward Island or Nellie McClung’s prairies. The “Empire City” was noisy, dirty, progressive, and proud of its new skyscrapers, fashionable Fifth Avenue hotels and shops, and recently completed Madison Square Gardens.15 For the creative artists

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John Hartley, fresh from study at Oxford, and Owen Storrow, recently arrived from the Canadian wilderness, for aspiring actress Torrie Throssel in The Wine of Life, for Arthur Stringer and thousands of others, New York promised a life in the fast lane which would bring fame and fortune. Freed from the conventions of society and removed from the prying eyes of family and small-town gossips, here they could begin new, more exciting lives in America’s most modern city. Flashy, brash, and displaying a “chaotic turbulence through which pulsed the ceaseless cry of Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!”16 the city was not slow to weave its magic over the newcomer. Whether it was the “Milky Way of Broadway,” the noisy corner saloon, the “resplendent canyon of Fifth Avenue” with its fashionable hotels and expensive shops, the quiet, eloquent café with its gold, glass, and muffling carpets, or the jazz pulsating in “The Village,” New York offered a never-ending variety of experiences for Stringer and his fictional characters. Full of style and pretence, it also housed in its slums, tenements, and third-rate hotels – a teeming mass of humanity. In Stringer’s fiction, even the smells, sounds, and sights distinguished social class and community. Odours of asphalt, dust, and cooling masonry mingle with the fragrance of Havana cigars, sweet Turkish cigarettes, and garlic. The nauseating, mouldy stench of cheap saloon and housing and the betraying odours of illicit cooking in third-rate hotels reveal struggling poverty, while the exhaust gases from numerous motor cars are a testimonial to the rich, modern city. Voices of Italian children playing in the street mingle with the sounds of organ music from the hurdy-gurdy. Cries of the “newsies” hawking their papers ring through the air. Lingerie floating in the breeze from short clothes lines, Hogarthian glimpses of nudity, and the prominence of alcohol all suggest a modern, freer life than that offered in rural or small-town North America. Yet this “turbid and preoccupied” city could also be frightening, confining, and debilitating. For Owen Storrow, it first appears an urban “wilderness of stone, steel, and brick,” in which he discovers himself alone in “a multitudinous and ever-elbowing army whose mere magnitude left him a little dizzy.”17 This image of being lonely in a crowd mirrors sociologist’s David Riesman’s research in the 1950s.18 Both John Hartley and Owen Storrow find the “opiate rush of activity,” the pretence and shallowness, and the ceaseless round of parties harmful to their creativity. When Storrow compares modern jazz dancing, with frenzied bodies pressed closely together, to a Native sun or tea dance, he concludes that the Native dances have more dignity and ecstasy, and unlike their urban counterpart, they

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have spiritual purpose and meaning. The solution for both Hartley and Storrow, as for Stringer, is to leave New York and return to the land of their origins. The city, however, will continue to haunt their consciousness and serve as one of the primary influences on their lives. Even high-society New York could entomb its citizens. In The Silver Poppy, Lillian Spauling, wife of a millionaire who has made his fortune in Lake Superior iron ore, lives an empty and lonely life, partly as a result of her own lack of integration and partly because of her husband’s obsession with his career. In The Wine of Life, Storrow’s cousin Charlotte finds her life of “restraint and ponderous respectability, facaded with liveried servants … of decorous church interests, of sedately restrained shopping-tours, and heavily engineered receptions, of a jealously meticulous cultivation of the Old Order and a closed door against the new,”19 too confining. “I want to be bigly and keenly alive, even if it’s going to make me suffer,” she tells Storrow. Immediately after her mother’s death, she embarks on such a journey. Another New York sector that appeals to some is the criminal underworld, which also entraps its victims. As one of the North American pioneers of crime fiction, Stringer introduces this world in his third novel, The Wire Tappers, in 1906, with Jim Durkin and Frances (Frank) Candler as hero and heroine. It is a world that he moves to a wider stage in the sequel, Phantom Wires (1907),20 and a series of novels which followed during the next quarter-century. For his entry into the genre, Stringer selected the subject of modern criminal wiretapping as a focus. Having been fired as telegraph operator at the Grand Trunk Railway station in Komoka, Ontario, for causing the collision of two trains, Jim Durkin, moves to New York, where he immediately involves himself in the poolroom underworld of tapping race results to manipulate betting. When we meet him in The Wire Tappers, just released from jail for this activity, he immediately becomes entangled in wiretapping and other criminal activity again, but this time higher stakes are involved. For someone who earned $42.00 a month at Komoka, the visions of hundred of thousands of dollars is enticing. Durkin and the young, English-born woman Frank Candler work for and against the leading underworld bosses in the city. They reappear in the sequel, Phantom Wires, set primarily in Italy and in Monte Carlo, that playground of the rich and famous, where they continued their conspiracies against their former New York associates.21 Stringer experienced great difficulty in securing a publisher for these two novels. While this was due, in part, to the unevenness of the first volume, it was also a consequence of the leading North American publishers’ lack of familiarity with the genre and their

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uneasiness with Stringer’s treatment of his subject. In rejecting The Wire Tappers, Harper and Brothers wondered “if a book dealing with criminals was the right kind of book for them to publish,”22 while Frank Dodd of Dodd, Mead “thought that the wiretappers were bad people.”23 Both novels portray an exciting, modern life of 32-calibre revolvers, safecracking, wiretapping, stalking, and being pursued, in which the two sexes are equal partners. Candler is as cool and expert as Durkin in tapping and decoding and in handling a revolver. The underworld depends on cunning, cynicism, and intense competition bordering on the irrational. In a frontispiece poem in Phantom Wires, Stringer characterizes it in this way: It’s the muddle of hope and madness, It’s the tangle of good and badness, It’s the lunacy linked with sanity, Makes up and mocks Humanity!

Throughout these novels, Stringer’s focus is on the dialectic within his hero and heroine between the evil and the good, which was impossible to untangle. “We are both of us ill-fitted for the things and the deeds we have drifted into,” Frank tells Jim. “They make us suffer too much. It is work that should fall to souls dwarfed and stunted and benumbed. We are not morbid and depraved and blind; we have intelligence and feeling. We have only been unhappy and unlucky.”24 Although possessing a “craving for honesty and clean living and well-being,” neither Candler nor Durkin can escape from such an exciting and alluring life. They do marry, but neither the ceremony nor the partnership is conventional. These novels cannot be considered typical romances. While expressing no great love for the criminal in fiction, Stringer found the underworld fascinating and realized that it offered some of the most potently dramatic situations for modern writing.25 Preoccupied with portraying the criminal mind and how innocent victims such as Frank and Jim become criminals, he refused to soften that world and make it less sordid. Although their future at the end of The Wire Tappers remains unresolved, there is at least a glimmer of hope for a more conventional life. But when the sequel ended with them trapped in a life of crime, Stringer’s agent and the publisher, Little, Brown, demanded a greater focus on romance and a happier ending. Reynolds reminded his client that even Greek tragedy never ended in despair, and that he did not “think the human mind can rest on tragedy and nothing but tragedy.”26 At first, an angry Stringer, finding the idea of the “moral redemption of Durkin and

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the woman ridiculous,”27 refused to emasculate his novel and bow “to that minority of more conventional readers and reviewers.”28 In the end, however, he capitulated and added an epilogue in which Durkin’s obsession switches to perfecting his invention of wireless photography and Frances has tender thoughts of motherhood.29 For the first time in his career, Stringer wrote a happy ending – a practice he would continue for the rest of his life. It was a necessary compromise in order to secure a publisher for his novel. Married and in desperate need of money, he had little room for choice, but he would continue to create heroines who were a special type of modern woman. The most persistent claim for Stringer’s uniqueness made by critics and readers was his ability not only to write successfully, on occasion, with a woman’s voice but also to probe women’s consciousness so deeply and convincingly that many refused to believe that he was a man. “Are you an honest to gosh he man, and, if so, whose heart and mind have you so intimately peeped into that you know the thoughts and feelings of the Prairie Wife and Mother?” asked a woman reader from Dallas, Texas.30 “It is difficult,” stated the reviewer in the Family Herald and Weekly Star, “to divest oneself of the notion that it is a woman who writes so knowingly and sympathetically of the intimate circumstances of a woman’s life.”31 Even the Canadian critics J.D. Logan and Donald French found Stringer’s Prairie Trilogy “remarkable as a study in feminine psychology and the reactions of problems of prairie life upon a feminine mind in its domestic and personal associations.”32 For readers in the first two decades of the twentieth century, Stringer’s fictional women were very aggressive and very modern. Both critics and the author himself occasionally used the now-dated word “termagant” to depict them. Referring to a domineering, turbulent, shrewish type of woman, the term, by late-twentieth-century standards, is too harsh a rendering. In The Silver Poppy, Cordelia Vaughn, the tragic heroine, smokes cigarettes, drinks alcohol, and thinks motherhood “such an awful thing.” At first, John Hartley, who is used to the reserve of a traditional countrywoman, finds himself embarrassed by her conduct. A fraud as a writer, Cordelia steals her first best-seller and tricks Hartley into rewriting her second one. Driven by a desire for fame and fortune, even though she possesses some conscience, she finds herself trapped in her deception. In The Wire Tappers and Phantom Wires, Jim Durkin worries frequently about Frances Candler’s consumption of alcohol, but he admires her wavy chestnut hair and the fullness of her breasts and hips. “Never before, had he known a woman like this one,”33 equally at home in a fashion-

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able Fifth Avenue hotel or the squalor of a poolroom basement tapping the wires. The image of a woman with such foolhardy courage and technical competence was unusual in the early twentieth century. With his portrayal of the aspiring actress Torrie Throssel in The Wine of Life, Stringer reached the zenith of his frankness in depicting modern women. It was too racy for his usual publisher, Bobbs-Merrill, to handle.34 The critical reception was mixed. One Canadian reviewer, in noting that Stringer wrote unhesitatingly “of things which, as a rule, are not discussed openly in the best society,” concluded that “some may find fault with Mr. Stringer for his frankness but sometimes such a stroke means success.”35 But for V.M. Kipp of Winnipeg, Stringer, in abandoning “the field of romance for the maze of the sex drama, where he walks less sympathetically,” had produced an unpleasant and unnecessary book with “no hint of inspiration, no suggestion of a impelling motive.”36 Obviously based loosely on his own first wife, the actress Jobyna Howland, the character of Torrie, whose real, non-stage name was Millie Roder, has many of the same characteristics as Cordelia and Frances, but she is more distinctly modern in a negative connotation. To the smoking and heavy drinking, she adds the practice of shaving her armpits, sensual French undergarments, and more fashionable clothes. “You will find me a very expensive luxury,” she tells Owen Storrow, and she declares that “style, my dear, is the biggest word in the American language, greater than religion, honor, and love.”37 It is, however, in her attitude towards sex and marriage that she is the most radical. Offering herself, body and soul, to Storrow without the complications of marriage, she later consents to a secret wedding in New Jersey in order to avoid injury to her stage career. In a relationship in which Torrie never relinquishes control, she does not share her soul with her husband. Even though she leaves the theatre for a period and moves with Storrow to his Ontario farm, her centre of reference remains New York. Declaring that she is a bit of a barbarian, she soon divorces him and returns to life in the fast lane. For Torrie, it is the wild social life, the round of parties and drinking, rather than the theatre itself, which she cannot not abandon. With Chaddie McKail in the trilogy The Prairie Wife (1915), The Prairie Mother (1920), and The Prairie Child (1921), Stringer penned his most sustained and most controversial portrait of a woman. She is a flamboyant, New England socialite who abandons a round of parties and international travel at the beginning of the first novel to settle down as a rancher’s wife in Alberta. Though she retains much of the same “termagant” quality as the other Stringer heroines, she no longer smokes or drinks and is no slave to fashion. But Chaddie is the

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dominant partner in her marriage to Duncan McKail, whom she divorces at the end of the final volume of the trilogy. What rendered her more controversial with critics and readers is her greater normality. In focusing on fictional worlds as remote and illicit as the criminal and bohemian sectors of New York, Stringer had presented characters from whom most readers retained an emotional detachment. But in presenting Chaddie and Duncan McKail as the couple who might well have lived next door to the average North American, he touched the hearts and minds of his audience deeply. The narration of the story through Chaddie’s diary adds an intimate, confessional flavour which brings the reader inside her mind and circumstances.38 The Married Ladies Book Club of Estill, North Carolina, gave the trilogy more than the usual attention and “picked [it] to pieces from cover to cover.”39 For one Canadian reviewer, the McKails were characters “which are to be found any where between Medicine Hat and the Peace River,”40 while a Vermont reader, pointing to both Duncan and her own Scottish-born father, declared, “I know him!”41 Another young woman, from Wheeling, West Virginia, who had lived in Edmonton for a short period, in thanking Stringer, claimed that she spoke for thousands of other women who were “both reading and living through the story.”42 In this account of romantic love, painfully and slowly disintegrating into separation and divorce, Stringer introduces many issues. Is it possible for a woman to retain some independence and sense of selffulfillment within marriage? Who exercises power within a marriage and to what ends? Who controls the raising of the children? Is marriage until death do us part, or is divorce a socially acceptable option? Is a home primarily a centre of love and retreat or a place for the husband to conduct his business dealings? Should a husband engage in risky financial speculation which might endanger the welfare of his family? Which is more attractive – risky, high-living cosmopolitanism or comfortable, safe, cultured provincialism? Can married women have innocent friendships with men? These are intensely emotional and personal issues for Chaddie, for many readers, and for Stringer himself. In her private and public debates, Chaddie McKail’s emotions catapult from exuberant selfconfidence to painful self-doubt and self-blame – a feature that intensified the sympathy of readers. Having tasted the high life of New York and been married to a woman who chose career over children, Stringer had opted, as his heroine does, for a cultured provincialism. In the same year that he began writing the first volume of the trilogy, the recently divorced Stringer married his cousin, anticipated the arrival of children, and became entangled in a web of speculative disas-

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ters in Alberta. At one point, he even had to postpone his writing in order to attend to family problems in the west.43 The ideas that romantic love preceded marriage and that the greatest blessing of marriage was mutual romantic happiness were pervasive in the North American mindset. Magazine fiction, movies, poetry, and even postcards idealized love, the happy home, and happy endings, and assumed that it was the duty of women “to efface themselves for the sake of family and to cater to their husband’s whims.”44 At the beginning of their relationship, Chaddie is infatuated with Duncan and the idea of marriage. Proud of the first breakfast that she prepares for him, and showering him with affection, she calls him “My lord and master.” Finding pleasure in her ability to sweep Duncan off his feet with her beauty and charm, she worries about maintaining this quality in agrarian frontier conditions and as she grows older. With purchases of cosmetics and a brassiere from the catalogue, she attempts to maintain this source of her power within the marriage. In this period, the regional Grain Growers’ Guide featured a full-page advertisement for Palmolive soap showing Cleopatra, with a caption that read, “Still That School Girl Complexion.”45 For Chaddie, however, playing the role of a submissive, beauty-conscious, modern housewife is not enough. As a strong-willed, occasionally rebellious, and intellectual person, she needs more. Motherhood fills a part of that vacuum. Indeed, love between mother and child is a dominant theme of the final two volumes of the trilogy, but the children also provoke tension between husband and wife. While Chaddie focuses on maternal love and a supportive home atmosphere as the best mechanisms to shape a child’s character, Duncan prefers to dispatch his eldest to a boarding school in order to have inculcated in him a proper balance between strength of character, muscularity, and manliness. This was an issue that divided not only the McKail home but also a few reviewers and readers, who joined Duncan in condemning Chaddie for smothering her children.46 The McKails’ philosophy diverges in other ways as well. In spite of his affairs with other women, it is their different visions of the west that place their marriage in jeopardy. For Duncan, it represents a place of adventure and reckless speculation in which he can express his manliness and zest for living through the pursuit of wealth and power by living on the edge of moral and financial security and respectability. For Chaddie, the west becomes home, a place to raise a family in secure, orderly surroundings filled with love. That Duncan ruins his family’s stability and security with his behaviour is of little consequence to him.47 In his study of the neighbouring community of Vulcan, Paul Voisey reveals a similar frenzy of speculation in real

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estate, stocks, and sports.48 This was also a popular arena for defining and proving oneself as an “active, goal-oriented masculine achiever.”49 When the collapse of investments leads to the loss of their farm, Chaddie leaves her husband and moves to a much less grand neighbouring property secured in her name in the event of such a catastrophe. She masters all aspects of farming and revels in a new sense of self-worth. “I’m making my power felt and producing results,” she exclaims. “And self-expression, I find, is the breath of life to my sort.”50 Such revelling in mastering the male world of decisionmaking was relatively rare in the first quarter of the twentieth century. Generally, those women who found themselves in charge of a farm persevered but did not necessarily enjoy the experience.51 Duncan remains unconcerned and uninterested until he suffers a public humiliation of his masculinity when a film of Chaddie winning a ploughing match airs in the local cinema. One of the features of Stringer’s fictional women is their lack of a network of support. “If only she had, or could have, the friendship of women, … the companionship of one warm nature quick to understand the gropings and aspirations of another,” Frances Candler laments in The Wire Tappers. “With such friends, she vaguely feels, things might not be so ill with her.”52 Without emotional and intellectual support from such a friend or from her husband, Chaddie has two compensations. One is the comfort and instruction that she receives from her vast cultural knowledge, which encompasses Robert Browning, Richard Wagner, Victor Hugo, Madame de Staël, George Meredith, and many others.53 She derives her remaining support from her well-read and sympathetic hired man, Peter Ketley. While this relationship is initially platonic and intellectual, it also reminds her than she is feminine still. At the conclusion of the third novel, she embarks on a new life betrothed to Peter. According to L.M. Smith of Boston, who blamed Chaddie for turning her husband into “a drinking, carousing, adulterous wastrel,”54 no marriage could withstand a wife’s friendship with another man. With the marriage in tatters, Chaddie wrestles with the prospect of both divorce and remarriage. Duncan retreats into a moody, uncommunicative, explosive temperament, and she concludes that he will always insist on mastery over her. “I intend to be cool-headed and rational about it all,” she tells herself. “I’m going to keep Reason on her throne.”55 Yet she still experiences agonizing self-doubt and selfblame. Is she too flighty, too critical, too brittle? Does she expect too much? Finally, concluding that Duncan is no longer noble or respectable, she decides upon divorce. Writing at a time when Stringer

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worked for the same paper, Madge Merton of the Montreal Herald had advised discontented homemakers, “Happiness is a habit. It comes from adapting yourself to circumstances.”56 At this time many North Americans believed that marriage was an indissoluble union. “It was a woman’s special responsibility to sustain her marriage,” concludes James Snell in his study of Canadian divorce. “Her charge was the marital home, and she alone had the obligation to make it … happy and comfortable.”57 Yet it was also an era when many prairie farm women would admit that only the lack of financial independence prevented them from doing what Chaddie had done.58 Chaddie’s decision to marry Peter is even more tortuous. Is she worthy of such potential happiness? Is remarriage proper? For a small minority of readers and reviewers, the answer was no. Those who responded negatively to the dissolution of the McKails’ marriage were the ones who had cheered each time Chaddie sublimated her spirit of independence and became a submissive wife. She not only disillusioned them; she angered and humiliated them. Typical of such reviews is the one in the Family Herald, Canada’s most popular family paper. Having found Chaddie “true blue” for rejecting Peter’s love in The Prairie Mother, and describing the novel as “healthy, bracing, and undoubtedly true to type,” the same paper deemed The Prairie Child a “heart-breaking kind of book” and wished that Stringer had left his heroine at the close of the previous novel, where “she had won back her husband by sheer good-humoured faithfulness.”59 While this reviewer conceded that such men as Duncan did exist in real life, reading about them in fiction left “a nasty taste in one’s mouth.” In writing a series of novels focusing on the disintegration of marriage which ends in divorce, Stringer displayed a courage shared by few other authors of his generation. Between 1901 and 1925, only twenty North American novels were published with divorce as a major theme.60 The subject was then – and for some, remains – controversial. As well, these novels were first published in the Saturday Evening Post and the Delineator, two of the most popular magazines in North America.61 That he was successful in this venture was because of the style in which he handled the subject and because, in creating Chaddie and Duncan, he portrayed a couple with whom his readers could easily and emotionally identify. Comparing his treatment of the final separation with what Ibsen and Balzac might have done with the subject, the New York Times said it was “an unusual pleasure to find one who can tell a serious story with a twinkle in his eye, and tell a little more than a story without shouting in your ear that he’s going to make you think.”62

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Of the forty-nine letters from readers referring to the Prairie Trilogy which Stringer received from twenty American states, representing all regions, four Canadian provinces, and England, only four were negative.63 While readers of both sexes liked Chaddie’s vivaciousness, cultured intellectuality, courage, and feminism as a model for modern women, it was the female correspondents who linked this model most zealously to their own situations. A forty-year-old from Shreveport, Louisiana, declared that Chaddie was “the wholesomest, sweetest and most invigorating mind and spirit tonic one would ever need,” and that her copy of The Prairie Wife would be placed next to her Bible on the shelf.64 People who read this novel, she claimed, would have no need for Mary Baker Eddy or any other modern apostles. Writing from small-town Saskatchewan on behalf of his wife, a journalist told Stringer that she “would not have put up with half the indignities thrust upon your poor Chaddie.”65 For a recent Swedish immigrant now married and living on the Canadian prairie, Chaddie provided a model and the courage for her to persevere.66 There were a few readers for whom the messages were more personal. One mother of three trapped in a similar marriage emphatically proclaimed that women like this “seldom get rescued – they go on and on thinking of the wherewithal for kiddies education and their right to their protected name – and there are millions of us.”67 Another reader demanded that Duncan be dragged into court or he would continue to make women victims and ruin them,68 while a Pennsylvania reader said that she was going to give the Prairie Trilogy to her seven-year-old daughter when she reached the age of discretion “in hope that they [the stories] will impress on her sufficiently and help her to come down easy when her ‘Prince Charming’ ceases to be a tin Jesus and becomes a real man.“69 Stringer would continue to offer readers his insights into human consciousness. Returning to a prairie settling only once more with The Mud Lark (1932), increasingly from the mid-1920s he focused on the northern wilderness. For some characters, such as the hero of A Lady Quite Lost (1931), this wilderness provided sustenance and restoration. For others, as in the battle of sexes in Marriage by Capture (1933), it was a setting for victory and vanquishing. These were thrilling, action-packed adventures with vivid, realistic characters and setting. Writing in a clear, forceful, poetic style, Stringer held the attention of his readers, and although he never attained startling bestseller status or literary greatness, he earned a comfortable, middleclass living while providing joy and inspiration for his readers. In his private communications, he sometimes referred to himself as a thirdrate author, but modern observers should not accept this judgment at

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face value. Third-rate writers did not publish consistently in the top magazines, find publishers willing to accept their manuscripts, or have thousands of devoted readers. Stringer’s judgment of himself was partly in jest; it was also measured against the precepts of a previous era which revered the ancient classics and Shakespeare. Although he lived half his life in the Victorian and Edwardian ages, Stringer lacked both the earnestness of the former and the frivolity of the latter. With his lack of tolerance for hypocrisy, pretention, and artificiality, he also rejected much of the “Gilded Age.” His approach to his profession was that of a modern businessman, and in his writing, whether with wireless telegraphy or divorce, he tackled modern themes and modern technology.70 While possessing an urban consciousness, he preferred, like many others, to reside in an exclusive suburb from which he could see the towers of Manhattan. In this setting, he could escape from some of the vaudeville-like frenzy of modern life. It was primarily with respect to the issues of gender that Stringer hovered between these worlds. He worried in 1898 that Rudyard Kipling’s aggressive masculinity was leading to strident misogyny in men and an image of women as “the essence of their ennui and woman-weariness.”71 For Stringer, the qualities of nobility, respectability, and chivalry were still to be cherished in males. It was Duncan McKail’s loss of these virtues which ruined his marriage and his manhood. Often using his male heroes to illustrate a tainted masculinity in a modern world, Stringer continued to champion a model of manhood that maintained the finer virtues of previous generations, which many still considered relevant.72 Believing that women still appreciated chivalry from men, and that their most valuable qualities were “motherliness … tenderness, and care, watchfulness and understanding, generosity and tolerance and forbearance with the blundering male who seems to go through life without really growing up,”73 he nevertheless accepted their ambitions after so many centuries of suppression. Yet he also continued to believe that “gallantry in surrender and happiness in giving … makes motherhood the noblest function of a woman.” At the same time he could state that “the modern male has to accept the career woman. In fact, we ought to welcome her.” He also worried that the newly acquired freedom of women was enslaving them as much as men were being enslaved in some aspects of modern masculinity. Had they not become slaves to fashion and the pretence of appearance? For Stringer, the qualities of masculinity and femininity and gender relationships were the most important questions of the modern era. Having personally experienced and observed many variants, he used his fiction to bring these issues to his readers.

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10 Readers and Reading

Dear Author of the Sky Pilot, … I must write, although I have read heaps of books, and have never done this before, as I am just a girl not long past twenty, & couldn’t have dared do such a thing … Our folks at home, don’t understand me, if they saw or knew of this letter they would laugh. My sister reads a book, enjoys it, lays it down, and forgets about it, but I never forget, and especially my books folks that I love, they live with me, just the same and sometimes in closer bond, than those friends whom I really know … I wonder if you are too busy and great a personage to be bothered with this letter, if you are, I will be sorry, for I will live in the hope that you will answer it, and thus oblige a reader who has found both pleasure and blessing through reading your books.1

These excerpts from a three-page letter written to Ralph Connor by a young woman from Aberdeen, Scotland, provide some answers for, but also leave questions unanswered about, the relationship between readers and the texts of popular literature. In the rest of the letter, Mary Farquharson reveals that a friend had given her the book, that she was a Christian, albeit a “very poor specimen,” and that the reading of the book had drawn her closer to “my Master [Jesus] for it’s very easy to get cold and indifferent & out of touch with him.” She loved The Pilot and had shed tears again and again as she read and reread Davie Bruce’s deathbed scene. The crux of her concern, and the main reason for writing the letter, was a compulsion to know whether or not these characters really existed, for she hoped to meet them in heaven some day. Because Connor had made the scenes so

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real to her, she presumed that he must have participated in the events. Like Mary Farquharson, many readers took journeys deep into the heart of novels which resulted in life-affirming experiences. For other readers, the immersion ended with altered consciousnesses on their journeys into modernity. For some in both groups, there was also the new experience of sharing by letter with the author their reading and life stories. The typical image of the reader of popular novels is not Mary, but her sister, who read, cast aside, and then quickly forgot. From this perspective, reading provides entertainment, but the interaction with the text is superficial and fleeting. Although such readers did exist and interacted not only with popular fiction but also with everything that they read in the same manner, there were many, who like Mary, read everything from the Bible to Ralph Connor seriously and deeply. Unlike her sister, Mary wove the novel’s text into the fabric of her own life, where it left a permanent mark. It would be easy for us in our postmodern, secular world to dismiss Mary Farquharson as a religious young woman – a relic of the Victorian age who had nothing better in life to do than become emotionally involved in trivial pastimes. There is, however, too much evidence from many readers of both sexes and of all ages to dismiss her so flippantly. Charles Gordon received hundreds of letters from readers all over the world who told him that “from my books they have caught a gleam, a cheer, an uplift – and what more or better can a man ask.”2 After reading Black Rock, one woman from Peterborough, Ontario, wrote that she “knelt down, asked for forgiveness, went to the attic, took my Bible out of the trunk and have read steadily every since.”3 A male reader thanked Arthur Stringer, after reading The Prairie Wife, for the orchestra of the spheres whispering its million things and singing his soul to rest and for “making me genuinely happy.”4 The questions, however, remain. Why do some read like Mary and some like her sister? Except for the differences of temperament, there appears to be no current answer to this question. What is the nature of the interaction between the text and the reader? To what degree does the reader suspend belief in reality and become immersed in the fictional experience? What is the relationship between author and reader? To what degree do gender, social class, age, nationality, and ethnicity influence reading? Are there really reading audiences or merely individual readers? Who writes letters to authors, and should we treat these correspondents as typical readers? Although a variety of methodological approaches and theoretical constructs in the field of reading and audience reception provide helpful guideposts in assessing readers and reading, the actual

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experience of the readers themselves remains the best evidence. The pronouncements of critics should also be used guardedly in assessing the reasons for the popularity of fiction. For too long, for instance, researchers have accepted a standard critical explanation that links Ralph Connor’s popularity to confirmation of the traditional values of religion, temperance, and a virile masculinity.5 We must also discard such popular myths as the categorization of magazine readers as lighter than the readers of books, and that readers of popular fiction are less serious than readers of “literature”.6 In fact, legitimate assessment can begin only when we dispense with all pejorative value judgments about the purchasers and readers of popular fiction. “That the elite versus popular polarity has persisted in academic discourse,” says Cathy Davidson, “may well be a factor of the academic’s own desire to identify with elite values rather than any objective assessment of cultural production or consumption.”7 Fortunately, there is sufficient readers’ mail in existence for these five authors to provide for an in-depth study of readers, reading practices, and reading experiences. Fan mail is an important, often overlooked, primary source for the history of reading. Whereas the evidence found in diaries and letters is fragmentary, collections of letters from readers provide a concentrated mass of responses to a corpus of works. Both the reading of those works and the writing of the letters were intense, emotional experiences which reveal an honesty of emotional interaction rarely found in printed documents. Although only those readers who interacted most profoundly with the texts wrote such letters, they still constitute an important cross-section of audience reception. Because the fiction of the five authors in this study appealed to women and men of all ages and from many backgrounds, it received attention from broadly based audiences. The 376 correspondents used in this chapter wrote from nine countries on five continents and ranged in age from eleven to seventy-eight. They provide a good balance of region and gender, with a near-equal division between male and female writers, and representation from thirty-seven American and four Australian states and seven Canadian provinces. It is wrong to assume, as many critics have, that authors such as Ralph Connor attracted only readers from small towns and rural backwaters.8 Although people sent letters from such towns and villages as Alhambra, California; Cannon Falls, Minnesota; Russell, Kansas; and Issacs Harbour, Nova Scotia, there were also many correspondents from large urban centres, including London, New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Toronto. This golden age of book buying and reading encompassed all regions. Although all five authors in this study

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received letters from readers, only Connor and Stringer preserved these responses. While using material from the other three authors, this chapter inevitably focuses on the responses written to these two male authors. The majority of the correspondents came from the broad range of the middle class, including bankers, merchants, lawyers, clergymen, and teachers, but the working class and the poor also wrote. After spending his money saved for medicine, a young lad from Nova Scotia asked Connor to send him three novels, while a young woman from Chicago apologized that her letter was written “only by a common working girl and besides a foreigner.”9 A bridgeworker, “or bridge animal, as we say, of ordinary intelligence and a random sort of reader,” wrote to Arthur Stringer saying that he, along with the cowboys and ranchmen he knew, loved Stringer’s books because they “fit so into my own life.”10 “I am nothing but a poor working woman,” wrote a lady from St Paul, Nebraska, to Connor, “but I know the mind and heart that writes like that would place no estimate on position or station.”11 That foreigners and poor workers felt comfortable writing to these authors is an important factor. Lowerclass readers, especially, were sensitive to any suggestion of class prejudice in what they read or of being “talked down to.” In their novels and the correspondence, Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer show respect for their readers, regardless of their position in life.12 The rank or class of the reader, however, does not appear to have been a significant factor in determining the response of the reader to the text of the novels. The two elements of nationality and politics also played no role in the reader responses to these five writers. Jonathan Rose reminds us in his study of working-class readers that it is a fallacy to assume that reading popular literature influences political consciousness.13 Nowhere in any of the letters is there an allusion to politics or political ideology. Although individual readers occasionally compared or contrasted their own landscape with the setting of a novel, the comparisons did not extend into societies or nations.14 Ethnicity is also notable by its general absence from the consciousness of the readers. The one exception is the Scottish flavour in several of Connor’s novels, but even here the few readers who mentioned it were almost evenly divided between positive and negative responses. For some Scots, reading The Man from Glengarry stirred the Highland blood running in their veins, but for a reader from Denver who had married into the Robertson clan, the novel reminded her too much of the drunken boastfulness of her husband’s family.15 One very nonScottish correspondent from Kansas pleaded with Connor for a

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handbook of Scottish terms and pronunciation, so that he and his friends could absorb the novel more easily and read it aloud.16 With the general absence of national, ethnic, and political consciousness in their reading, these readers constitute more universal audience groups than otherwise would have been the case. Even religion provided shared experience responses for Connor’s readers in spite of his, at times obvious, Presbyterianism. Attempts, therefore, to create reading groups on the basis of religion, nationality, social class, community, or profession would fail with this large group of readers.17 It was the shared experiences, shared concerns, shared values, and shared hopes which linked them in their reading experiences. For many of them, reading provided significant assistance in their understanding of and integration into an ever-changing modern society. P.P. Schweickart defines reading as “a mediation between author and readers, between the contexts of writings and the contexts of reading.”18 Although the 376 readers used for this chapter represent a minuscule portion of the millions who read the works of the five authors, they do constitute a legitimate cross-section of the more-serious readers. Those who cared enough or were sufficiently moved by a novel to take the time to write to the author often experienced a compulsion to share their reading experience with someone, and what better or more personal candidate than the author? These were intimate responses in which readers shared experiences from both their reading and their own lives, sometimes including thoughts and details so private that no one else would ever know them. In acknowledging that she could share her thoughts with Connor but not with her own family, Mary Farquharson was a typical correspondent. Because many of the letters were immediate responses, composed during reading or upon finishing a novel, they provide glimpses of private reading experiences. Often the intensity of their physical and psychological interactions with the novels developed into strong feelings of personal attachment to the authors and sparked the need to write the letters.19 “If the conception of an immediate, deeply personal reality fostered a certain interchangeability of people, characters, voices, and narratives,” states James Allen in his study of French readers, “it also helped to create the correspondents’ deification of the author.”20 Indeed, of the 376 letters studied here, only a dozen are wholly negative. Readers did place authors on pedestals, but they also bridged the distance with personal warmth and friendship in a relationship even more intimate than confessor to priest. “Dear Mr. Stringer,” wrote a lady from Ephrata, Pennsylvania. “Of course, I know that is not the ’correct’ way to address a letter to an apparent stranger. But you really are not that to me.”21 “Will you pardon a stranger writing

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to you?” asked another woman.22 “Though I have never seen you,” wrote a Baptist minister from Fort Worth, Texas, to Connor, “I know you and love you very much.”23 One young woman even expressed shyness in addressing Ralph Connor as “Rev. Charles W. Gordon” because it was Connor, not Gordon, whom she had come to know through her reading.24 Readers apologized profusely for taking up the valuable time of such busy and great personages, but this consideration did not negate their compulsion to write. “I’ve always just hated the idea of writing to authors … It seems so silly and sentimental like asking actors for their autographs from a fan,” confessed one woman. “But, after all, the best of us and the most self satisfied of us are not immune when it comes to real heart-felt appreciation.”25 The letters and even the salutations of greeting and signatures, especially for women, reveal a significant level of friendship and intimacy. After receiving a reply and photograph from him, a thirteen-year-old girl confessed to Charles Gordon that “if you will pardon me for saying it, I think you are good looking.”26 Sympathy is a key word of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries which helps to place these relationships in context. “It reflects,” says William Buckingham, “a deep sense of bonding, of inner sharing, and of spiritual knowing, and a kindredness discovered with nature, between persons, and as between friends, between author and reader.”27 Sympathy, then, was a basic human emotion of the era which helped to forge the relationships between readers, texts, and authors. It also defines the nature of the kindred-spirit friendship sought by Anne Shirley and Lucy Maud Montgomery. While these relationships with the authors were bound closely to the text, as were reading practices, it is apparent that not all texts warranted the same treatment. It required a specific combination of lovable characters, incidents, and settings, capable of being merged into the private existing or emerging world views of readers, to create an intense reading experience. This was usually enhanced by pathos, sympathy, suspense, and drama. Because they incorporated many of these elements, the first three of Connor’s novels, Montgomery’s Anne, and Stringer’s Prairie Trilogy provoked the greatest reader response. As Victor Nell notes, readers appropriately employ food metaphors to describe their experience.28 They drink every word, savour the text, taste the book, and devour whole volumes in one extended binge. These volumes also lent themselves to both oral and multiple readings. It is customary in the history of reading to divide audiences into a pre-industrial world which read orally and intensely and an industrial one which read privately and more superficially.29 For many of

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the 376 readers in this chapter, however, such a sharp dichotomy is not apparent. More than three per cent of them related the direct experience of oral reading, while over four per cent had read a novel more than once. Implied references suggest that the percentages were actually much higher. In the family living room, in front of the fireplace, in rural Indiana, George Craig read The Prairie Wife to his family, while in Witchita, Kansas, a couple “with an injunction from their son” read his present of The Sky Pilot to each other on Christmas Day.30 In Philadelphia, C.G. Trumbull, managing editor of the Sunday School Times, spent a September afternoon reading The Sky Pilot to his wife and father, stopping many times to fulfill requests to reread special passages.31 Elizabeth Waterston’s first encounter with Anne of Green Gables was in a Presbyterian Sunday school classroom where her teenage teacher rushed through the Bible lessons to allow more time for the real pleasure of the day.32 In homes, classrooms, and Sunday schools, such experiences were a common phenomenon in the early twentieth century. Often people read a book themselves before sharing it with others. One Ontario girl first read Anne privately in her own room and then took the book to school, where the teacher made it a regular feature of the Friday afternoon fun time.33 Multiple readings, often so intense as to result in the memorization of whole passages, were also a regular feature for such volumes as Black Rock, The Sky Pilot, and Anne of Green Gables. During a fivemonth recuperation after being thrown from a horse, a thirteen-yearold girl survived by reading Anne forty-two times, while in Rochester, New York, young John Merchant read Black Rock twenty times and, with each reading, discovered “some new treasure of wealth that lay concealed in the previous readings.”34 Both genders of all ages reread their favourite novels in the same way that one regularly invited special friends for frequent visits or savoured a favourite food again and again. In an Ottawa speech entitled “Books and Friendship” in 1922, the English novelist Hugh Walpole noted that books were more important friends to him than most of the people he knew, and he remarked that the books which merited this relationship appeared to be the older-style ones which expressed a deep faith in human nature.35 This comment certainly applies to the volumes in this study, which readers embraced as friends and read many times. Another common fallacy of the golden age of fiction is that, because books were now so readily available and inexpensive, they decreased in personal value and became just another commodity in a disposable consumer culture. The evidence from the readers’ letters; however, suggests that books were treasured and no more dispensable that a human friend. Young readers, especially, spoke proudly of

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the libraries that they were building.36 “I am fond of reading and when I get a book like that one of yours,” a thirteen-year-old New Zealand boy wrote to Connor, “the only time I put it down is at meal time.”37 Another young reader related how she “betook myself to my own room, and for a whole afternoon became lost in the delights of Anne’s House of Dreams.”38 This phenomenon of becoming lost in a book is sometimes interpreted as losing touch with the real world as well as with one’s critical faculties. Yet in his study, Victor Nell defines and analyzes this reading for pleasure as a complex experience involving attention, comprehension, and absorption, in which the readers acquire peace, while at the same time, they become more powerful and feel braver and wiser in the ways of the world.39 Even when the sensation deepens into a trance, in which all acknowledgment of the world outside the book vanishes, readers maintain a critical awareness of what they are reading. Often, immediately upon completing the book, the readers in this study wrote letters to the author verifying their comprehension and their critical minds. Three young Australian girls related to Connor how they had tasted his book, laughed heartily, and became totally absorbed, but they also “have not been insensible to the deeper notes which runs through it, so I think we have read it, not alone with pleasure, but with profit.”40 Escapism is another problematic concept frequently used to characterize the experience of popular reading. It is, says Nell, the most pejorative of descriptions and worthless as an analytical tool.41 Although many read to escape boredom, homesickness, loneliness, stress, depression, and problems, it is incorrect to use the idea of escaping from the world. If the term must be employed, escaping into or journeying to another world in a book is a more appropriate concept. Although readers may temporarily suspend their consciousness of the real world and its problems, they are never far removed from reality. Far more important is the life-affirmation and life-transformation experienced by readers, who conquer their loneliness, relieve their stress, cure their depression, and find new direction in life from their reading.42 “The cure effected by the text,” states James Allen, “was more effective than medicine.”43 Maud Montgomery was moved by a letter from a “poor little cripple” in Ohio, who wrote to thank her “for writing Anne, because she said it had taught her how to endure her long lonely days of imprisonment.”44 “I am passing through a very critical period in my life,” wrote a woman in New York City to Stringer. “Seeing things through your eyes – as clearly as you do – has given me new courage to go on.”45 A young, male Irish immigrant to Canada wrote to Ralph

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Connor from Montreal thanking him for relieving his loneliness and homesickness through his novels, while a missionary stationed in Seoul, Korea, thanked him for “lifting my soul out of this dark city into a life of love and purity and holiness.”46 These are only a few of the testimonials received by these authors which confirm the power of the text. Theories of audience reception in recent years have focused on the text, and as Robert Darnton suggests, the observations have usually been-time bound, the audiences fictitious, and the readers implicit.47 Like some readers’ surveys, these theories emanate from an academic consciousness and artificial classroom settings and standards.48 When Janice Radway discovered, in assessing modern readers of romance fiction, that she had to give up her obsession with the text, it was the rigorous academic, textual literary criticism not the text itself which she abandoned.49 When Elizabeth Flynn states that “production interaction … necessitates the stance of a detached observer who is empathetic but who does not identify with the characters or the situation depicted in the literary work,” she defines a reading experience inapplicable to and inappropriate for most readers of popular fiction.50 Readers who identify with the characters and situations and merge with the text do not automatically experience anxiety or lose their critical awareness. As uncomfortable as academics may be with transferring power from themselves as critics to the readers as critics, no legitimate understanding of reading or history of reading can appear without such a transfer, for as Jonathan Rose states, “we may not treat any text as representative of any reader without that reader’s authorization”; nor should we “underestimate the common reader’s level of comprehension.”51 One young woman, a junior high school student from southwestern Ontario, whose reading encompassed Arthur Stringer, L.M. Montgomery, Nellie McClung, Ralph Connor, H.A. Cody, R.L. Stevenson, and G.S. Porter, confessed in the early 1920s, “I have fallen into a bad habit, I am afraid, of criticizing the books I have read, finding the weak spots and pondering over the characters. Sometimes I sympathize [with] and love the villain and detest the smug, virtuous hero, which, of course, is the opposite to what the author intended.”52 In the rest of the letter, this reader demonstrates that recently acquired critical power. Texts do influence readers. Some scenes invite the reader to shed tears; some characters require loving; some incidents demand outrage; and some settings become so real that the readers actually experience a feeling of being there. Each new work, as Hans Jauss suggests, is received in a horizon of expectations and a context that “awakens memories of that which was already read – expectations

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can be altered, re-oriented, or even fulfilled in the course of reading.”53 But even more significant is the context of the lives, experiences, disappointments, hopes, and dreams of the readers. For the researcher, the primary difficulty is organizing these reading experiences in some comprehensible manner. Although Stanley Fish’s concept of interpretative communities is currently the most popular organizing principle, it leaves such communities undefined.54 We have already suggested that nationality, location, social class, ethnicity, age, and even gender form no automatic base for reading communities, with genres being read internationally by both sexes.55 From the evidence of the 376 readers in this study, experience, values, and personality provide a more appropriate segmentation for reading communities. In other words, people selected books and interacted with them as potential friends, and they made their judgments accordingly, as they would with real people. In the same way that most acquaintances do not develop into close friendships, most books suffered the same fate. There is, however, more than one reading community for any popular novel. Ralph Connor’s Black Rock appealed to temperance advocates throughout the world, but it also attracted readers for whom Christianity was significant without the temperance rhetoric, especially those who appreciated his modern approach to faith. Other readers loved, above all else, the action and the frontier setting, while still others, both men and women, identified strongly with the heroine, Mrs Mavor. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables won favour with adolescent girls, who identified strongly with the impetuous heroine, but it also attracted male readers, who liked the book for other reasons, and adults, who experienced renewal through a vicarious reliving of their own childhoods. Individual readers usually interacted with a novel on multiple levels. For example, a solicitor for the Canadian Pacific Railway in Winnipeg, who read little fiction because most of it belonged in the rubbish heap, approached Connor’s works with high expectations because of the author’s reputation, and he was not disappointed. Using both complicated technological and religious metaphors, he told Gordon how much he had enjoyed his reading and that “there were profitable movements of the moral senses and the thrills did run & the tears rise and better thoughts awaken as I read your Man from Glengarry.”56 This reader enjoyed the novel as a sermon, thrilled to the adventure of the story, identified emotionally with the characters, improved his moral senses, and tied it all to concepts of modern electricity. The stories themselves, with their components of plot, dialogue, action, and character, generate the largest reading community. As a central attribute of human experience, the narrative is universal. It

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provides the basic expectation of readers as they approach a book, the greatest delight in reading, and the primary criteria by which they later judge their experiences. Finding a good story is an essential prerequisite for pleasurable reading. When readers spoke, as they frequently did, of being cast under the spell of a work, they manifested the strength, energy, and power of the narrative. This hypnotic experience applied to readers of both sexes and all ages. A twenty-eightyear-old male reader from Randolph, New York, who addressed Connor as “Man of the Noble Soul and Splendid Spirit,” wrote that, while his mother’s friend lamented never getting over her reading of Black Rock, he did not intend “to recover from the beautiful, beneficial spell which the reading of that splendidly powerful book cast over me.”57 He continued to reread the book at regular intervals and gave it as a gift for birthdays and Christmas. While this reader was a struggling poet at the time he wrote the letter in 1908, four years before, when he first read Connor, he had been a missionary writing for the Life Boat, an inner-city mission publication. At times, the absorption into the story could cause the reader to enter a dream-like consciousness. While reading The Sky Pilot, Ruth Harrell of Sheffield, England, forgot that she was reading a book “and felt that I was having a beautiful but sad dream.”58 Adult readers who experienced the thrill of a good story sometimes placed their sensations in the exuberant, uninhibited world of childhood. When Professor J.D. Robertson of Knox Theological College in Toronto read Connor’s Corporal Cameron, he “read with a real relish – bordering at times on a boyish delight.”59 It was the narrative, with its absorbing, gripping immediacy, which attracted these and other readers to an author’s work and then provided them with the basic reading experience. When readers move beyond this basic level, the universality of the reading community begins to separate into smaller subunits. One of the factors in this process is identification with the individuals in the novels, who become friends, confidants, role models, or, conversely, archetypes of undesirable personalities and behaviour. For a New Zealand man, Ralph Connor’s characters stood “in bold relief from the cold black print and their companionship can be enjoyed, their lives are laid open and can be entered into, and they become comrades of many a quiet hour.”60 By far the most universally admired character in the fiction considered in this study was Mrs Murray in Connor’s Glengarry novels. Both men and women considered her a model of a perfect woman whether as a wife, mother, friend, or community worker. As a model and an inspiration, she had no equal. Writing from Nova Scotia, a

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woman teacher said, “Mrs Murray has taught me many things, and I hope will continue to teach me until I gain something of her courage, patience, fortitude, and grace of which I find myself sorely in need”61 And a woman from Bradford, England, found this heroine her “ideal of a true woman, loving, helpful, gentle, and brave too. I trust I may grow like her and understand others as she did.”62 Another English reader, sixteen-year-old Beatrice Brome, who found her emotions stirred by the noble traits of Connor’s characters, admired them and hoped to copy their “devotion to any cause which they take up.”63 We would not consider the gracious, gentle, unassuming Mrs Murray a model of femininity today, but other readers a mere decade later responded with equal fervour to Stringer’s Chaddie McKail, a much more modern and controversial feminine model. For one woman, who echoed the sentiments of many others, reading The Prairie Wife was “like seeing all my most intimate feelings, thoughts, ideas, pet names, struggles, and most deep down appreciations written there in black and white.”64 Chaddie was “just like I knew a girl could be,” she wrote, “– i.e. the combination of pluck, humor, feminism, having a liking for all things beautiful, and, what is rare, to see beauty in the commonplace possessed of a soul for music and harmony and, yet with all these, a girl who is not afraid to use her hands for work or her brain to try to discover romance in the impossible.” For Margie Bryan, Chaddie was “the most absolutely alive person I have met in the book world.”65 Because of Chaddie’s marriage breakdown and divorce in the two sequels, divisions within the reading community deepened. A few correspondents blamed her for this tragedy and demanded another volume which would tell the story from her husband’s viewpoint and reconcile a chastened Chaddie to her duties as a wife. For Mrs Swain of rural Rhode Island, Chaddie was “indecent” and “too mushy” because of her many kisses for her children and her association with other men; this reader could easily understand why Chaddie’s husband became angry and disgusted.66 Another group condemned Chaddie’s husband, Duncan, for his philandering and reckless financial speculation, and demanded another novel in which Chaddie lived happily with her new husband, Peter. Representative of this group is a seventy-year-old woman who did not want die without knowing “if Peter and Chaddie have won happiness or not.”67 “Surely in this day of gunmen and racketeers,” she wrote, “Duncan Argyle McKail has been taken for a ride and I should not mind if Alsina [his girlfriend] was made to accompany him.” Before the third volume, which ended with the divorce, appeared, another reader wanted Duncan killed, and a sequel called “The Prairie

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Widow” written. “Having been a widow myself,” she wrote, “I can assure you the possibilities are great.”68 Such a personal, passionate desire for vengeance as these letters reveal demonstrates the depth of feelings and identifications provoked by these novels. From another perspective, even more surprising are the letters from male readers who loved Stringer’s heroine. A Los Angeles correspondent found his “extremely alive American woman … quite human and quite loveable.”69 From Des Moines, New Mexico, Steele Dean wrote to say that Stringer’s Prairie Wife “is a sweet-heart story … Chaddie is the darlingest ever.”70 In spite of such infatuation with individual characters, most readers appear to have stopped short of incorporating their heroism into their own lives. While they might model their lives on a favourite hero, they realized that fiction was fiction and in real life, hero worship was dangerous. A young, happily married mother with two children from Niagara Falls, Ontario, liked the Prairie Trilogy but was glad that her husband had “neither the time nor the inclination for hero-worship.”71 In responding to another Stringer story, Mrs S.B. Grossman of New York City thanked the author for the “new courage to go on” provided by a model in the story, but declared, “I am not a hero-worshipper myself, having been cured of that pastime in a most disastrous way.”72 Yet an unmarried woman lamented that because she was a timid soul, “a lack of aggression is the rock on which the ship of my life floundered.”73 While identification with characters in novels could point to the options available, readers, through a comparison with their own limitations, generally stopped short of the possibility of becoming a hero or heroine. “It would be more nearly possible,” wrote a Pennsylvania reader to Gordon, “to live victoriously if there were more such persons in real life as in books.”74 Journeys are another common bond that unite reading experiences. For some readers, unfamiliar with the setting of a novel, reading involves being transported into a new dimension. In this way, thousands experienced not only familiarity with the landscape but also the tastes and sensations of rural Prince Edward Island with Montgomery, the foothills of Alberta with Connor and Stead, and Manhattan with Stringer. “You have made me feel the clean air on my face, see the sunrise with her eyes, and enjoy to the utmost the prairie going to sleep,” a reader told Stringer of her experience with Chaddie McKail and the Canadian prairie, “and the feelings unutterable which such loneliness suggests.”75 Invariably, these experiences entailed absorption into and a greater understanding of the wider communities involved. With novels such as Stead’s Grain or McClung’s Danny, where the wheat-land setting is less spectacular, the primary focus is on the

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community rather than the setting. As a result of their reading, people often later travelled to these places using the texts as guidebooks. There are, as well, more personal journeys which are tied to experience and connected to the inner recesses of individual minds. For some, the connecting link to a work and to other readers is a personal familiarity with the setting. Although often labelled nostalgia, these encounters involve more than reliving the past. They also define the experience and create a deeper level of appreciation and understanding; they assist in the process of defining self. Those prairie residents who praised Robert Stead for the mirror-like accuracy of his depiction of their region achieved a more profound attachment to the land. Other readers, such as Mabel Quigley, found themselves somehow younger because Nellie McClung had renewed their youth by allowing them to relive it through reading her writings.76 Several of the readers of Stringer’s novels set in the Canadian west experienced them on a deeper level because of their own former residency in the region. One Georgia resident, who had worked near Brandon when the Canadian Pacific Railway was under construction, was able to breathe that air again and spoke of The Prairie Wife so frequently that “his wife wonders what’s wrong with me.”77 The largest reading group of this type consisted of former residents of the Glengarry region in eastern Ontario who read Connor’s Glengarry novels. Writing from Tacoma, Washington, D.M. Liddell, who had left the region in 1865, while always having tried to live “as becomes a Glengarry man,” confessed to becoming “a better man for reading his books.”78 He and other readers were able to conceptualize past experiences more lucidly through their reading, interact with the text on a deeper level, and to undergo personal transformations as well. Although it is possible to define reading communities, in the final analysis there is one facet of the reading experience which remains individual and private. Because of the reader’s multi-dimensional interaction with fiction and the commonality of human experience, this personal aspect does not lead to the state of anarchy so feared by Stanley Fish if each reader is allowed to create his or her own text.79 This private realm is what Elizabeth Waterston refers to as a “psychological therapy in the reading of a book that helps externalize hidden parts and conflicting parts of self.”80 With many readers this journey into the inner self concluded with greater knowledge of themselves and an increased ability to cope in the world. With others it was a lifechanging experience. For the reader, say Hans Jauss, “the social function of literature manifests itself in its genuine possibility only where the literary experience of his lived praxis reforms his understanding of the world and thereby also has an effect on his social behaviour.”81

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In a classroom survey using feminist fiction, Judith Fetterley found that female students spoke “movingly about the ratification and legitimization of self, indeed the sense of power, they derived from reading those texts.”82 Readers of both sexes, however, can have the same experience through reading texts by authors of either sex. In their letters many readers simply stated that the novels, as they illuminated their inner selves, had made them better people. For Pastor George Henry of Tongo, North Dakota, who defined himself as a Canadian by birth, Scottish and Irish by blood, American by training, and a cosmopolitan by nature, Black Rock and The Sky Pilot “brought quickened love and the illumination of hope made brighter. I read them both with pounding pulse and tear-filled eyes relieved then by smiles and laughter … I cried, laughed, rejoiced and was stimulated to more endeavour and bounding hope.”83 Caroline Bowditch, a sixteen-yearold from Bridgewater, Massachusetts, who was “just beginning to realize the meaning of life – its pleasures, trials, struggles, and possibilities,” read and reread Black Rock, “committed portions of it to memory, devoured it.”84 Having also read the next three Connor novels, as she sat “in the quietude of my room, visions of Craig, Mrs Mavor, The Pilot, Shook, Barney, and Margaret come before one.” It was in this mood of reverie, self-analysis, and speculation that Caroline penned her letter to Charles Gordon. “I forgot the small and common things in life and rejoice that so great a work emanated under tremendous difficulties is worth a man’s life.” Because reading had made her “broader, stronger, and nobler” than she otherwise would have been, she now eagerly anticipated a career as a medical missionary. Although this reader may have articulated the impact of her reading more expertly than even most adults could have, her experience was not unique. Novels did enter the recesses of the inner selves, helped to define those selves, and assisted individuals who were plotting their futures. For a few readers, the results were dramatic and prompted immediate life-changing decisions. In his study of British working-class readers, Jonathan Rose states that only canonical literature produces these life-changing epiphanies.85 From the evidence of readers of the five authors in this study, current best-selling fiction, which emotionally engages the readers, also incites epiphanies. In Providence, Rhode Island, a Norwegian Lutheran pastor broke from his church because of its narrow doctrine after reading Ralph Connor, and embarked on a new ministry, not “along the barren, beaten road of dogmatic theology, but rather along the toiling, blood-stained road of Christian love and fearlessness on the background of such a noble life as Craig’s.”86 In England a young lay Methodist preacher read the

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same books and decided to emigrate to Canada.87 In New York a man with a lifelong alcoholic addiction read Black Rock, gave up the liquor, and was reunited with his family.88 These dramatic transformations are, however, rare. More typical are the slow, philosophic adjustments in which the inner self interacts with the text and prompts less spectacular changes. Sales records tell us that the books in this study were an international medium. For Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer, the audience spread throughout the English-speaking world to continental Europe and beyond. Whatever their location, readers responded to the novels of these authors in similar ways. Correspondents from New Zealand, Scotland, the United States, and Canada shared an intellectual space with Charles Gordon because of their admiration for the Scottish writer and theologian Henry Drummond, who had become well known through his writings.89 Shared marital experiences and attitudes to divorce linked segmented groups in their responses to Stringer’s Prairie Trilogy. Mutual conceptions of childhood generated similar responses to Anne of Green Gables throughout the world. There was far more that united these readers than divided them. Even social class, age, and gender present no rigid differentiation. Families read novels together, discussed the stories and their characters, and shared responses. One eleven-year-old correspondent from Carleton Place, Ontario, who was the eldest of seven children, told Connor which books each member of the family liked best and why.90 She was sorry that the two youngest, at five and four, were, as yet, too young for such a critical assessment. Her brother George wanted a hundred sequels featuring Ranald and Kate from The Man from Glengarry. Young teenagers wrote some of the most articulate, perceptive letters to the authors. Presidents and prime ministers and working-class readers shared similar responses to Ralph Connor’s early novels. Both men and women read and reread intensely and became lost in the books. Men identified as strongly with individual characters as the women, and shed tears at appropriate places in the texts as frequently. Women demonstrated as much capacity for critical awareness, social analysis, and judgment as the men. For neither sex was the fiction an opiate obliterating their connection with themselves and the world.91 An Ontario farm boy in the senior iii class at school read primarily the typical boy’s fiction, but he found Montgomery’s Rilla of Ingleside (1921) “very nice.”92 From Baltimore, Joe Hawly began his letter, “My wife and I,” and he went on to thank Stringer for the pleasure of The Prairie Wife, a “story that is so full of Soul and

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Heart-interest” that it was a “Privilege to read.”93 Although his eyes had “filled to dimness” in reading other books, a man from Amherstburg, Ontario, confessed to Gordon that “seldom has the sight cleared again from tears trickling down my cheek as they did today” as he read Black Rock.94 Several male readers commented on the appropriateness of love relationships. For one such reader, Ranald in The Man from Glengarry was “well rid of his first love [because] she was not worthy of him.”95 Three young high school girls from Sarnia, Ontario, loved the bear hunt and sports competition in the same novel, but even more “those stirring pioneer women whose spirits still live through your pages.”96 For men, a novel could simultaneously be “pulse stirring, man-making, and soul awakening,”97 while women could follow Ranald’s “progress as a man and as a lover.”98 This is not to suggest that men and women, old and young, always interacted with novels in exactly the same way or read the same authors in equal numbers. Women, for instance, identified more strongly with Chaddie McKail’s frustrations in scenes such as her outrage at a pile of greasy plates and reacted more personally to her separation and divorce.99 The available evidence suggests that more women than men read McClung and Montgomery. But in an era when contemporaries as well as later assessors sensed that gender boundaries were becoming more rigid, readers of these five authors found more common ground than the modern literature dealing with gender in institutions, clubs, and society would suggest allow. Posturing and rhetoric on gender stereotypes did not command the thoughts of these readers in their interactions with the fiction. Their intimate letters reveal a private world removed from public observation in which their true feelings on gender and other matters express themselves. In this intimate, private world, men really did cry and empathize, women analyzed, and children were thoughtful, perceptive critics. There were also rational males, tearful females, and children who delighted in spontaneity.100 These readers lived in a transitional age and were participants in the definition and the coalescing of the modern world. For many of them, the noble, elevated sentiments of the neo-classical age continued to inform their minds, their emotions, and their spirits. They cherished the values of sacrifice, devotion, order, truth, and beauty. Their intense feelings reflected that nobility. In his study of French readers, James Allen found such sentiments lingering into the 1940s, but gradually the readers replaced an aestheticism focused on refinement, taste, and sensibility with one based on energy, strength, power, and individuality.101 The readers of the five authors in this

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study, however, often spoke of nobleness and power in the same letter, thus combining the new with the old. For them, aesthetic values provided part of the shared world in which they received texts. Books are also instruments of change and synthesis, and as such, they assisted the readers in their encounters with modernity. In this world in which the public and the private merged, romance and empathy coexisted with critical minds and self-realization, gender boundaries were often blurred, and the English, Scots, Australians, Americans, Canadians, and others shared similar reading experiences.

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11 Books and Movies

During a luncheon in 1922, motion picture impresario Ernest Shipman promised Robert Stead an annual return of $10,000 if he would invest in Shipman’s latest movie company. Later, in the quiet of the evening, Stead wrote in his diary, “We shall see.”1 His skepticism was well founded, for he had tried unsuccessfully many times during the past decade to sell movie rights to his novels.2 Yet the lure of the silver screen was still sufficiently attractive for him to yield to Shipman’s vision of riches by investing in Ottawa Film Productions, a company formed to create movies from Ralph Connor’s Glengarry novels. For authors of popular fiction in this golden age, this new cinematic industry provided wealth and fame as well as frustration and disappointment. For Stead, there was to be no fortune from this venture. Even before the coming of moving pictures, authors had dreamt of the fame, respect, and, increasingly, fortune attached to success as dramatists.3 Arthur Stringer cherished such an ambition throughout his career. Early reports of the amazing profits derived from movies intensified and redirected the old fable in which rivers of water turn into gold. The fame and fortune which eluded Stringer as a dramatist did come with his writing of movie scripts and his selling of his stories to movie producers. For Stringer and others, including Maud Montgomery and Charles Gordon, seeing their novels adapted for the screen was both an exhilarating and a frustrating experience – a journey into unfamiliar territory in which their integrity as writers was inevitably compromised.

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Both publishing and motion pictures emerged in the early twentieth century as global, capitalist industries dependent on mass audiences. In their study of cinema and the invention of modern life, Leo Charney and Vanessa Schwartz claim that movies epitomized and transcended modernity better than any other emblem in the period of their initial emergence. “It was a technology,” they state, “designed to arouse visual, sensual, and cognitive responses from viewers beginning to be accustomed to the onslaught of stimulation.”4 “Perhaps no other industry fascinates so many people as the motion picture business,” an editorial in the trade journal Canadian Moving Picture Digest declared in the summer of 1920.5 By then, movies had become a part of the modern consciousness and the lifestyle of Canadians, who flocked to 840 movie theatres to experience being spellbound in the darkness.6 Increasingly, in the larger centres, the venues were newly constructed baroque palaces adorned with luxurious carpets, seats, and fixtures in which patrons expected to experience “action, movement, change, crisis, suspense, and thrills.”7 In order to deliver the seven hundred films required annually to fill these desires, everyone involved in the industry had to adjust to the demands of this new form of dramatic art.8 Unlike the stage or fiction, silent movies focused on the “physical reactions of movement, gesture, and facial expression.”9 For actors, this involved a new method of acting; for the camera operators, the challenge of depicting character, intensity, and suspense; and for scenario and title writers, the abandoning of careful, paced plot, atmosphere, character, and setting.10 The silent screen was ill-suited to complex character analysis and the discussion of ideas. Not all novels transferred easily to the screen. Even for those which did, the film rarely captured their subtlety or essence. Nevertheless, with the great popularity and mass marketing of fiction, both the classics and the contemporary, this modern massmarket industry was forced to embrace fiction as the major source of its stories, and with it, the major genres. For authors, then, film opportunities were in direct proportion to their literary popularity as well as to the suitability of their work for adaptation. Perennial favourites such as Jack London, Charles Kingsley, Charles Dickens, and Victor Hugo shared the screen with a new generation, including Joseph Conrad, Thomas Hardy, Zane Grey, Booth Tarkington, and Mary Roberts Rinehart. For Nellie McClung and Robert Stead, there would be no great screen moments, but for Montgomery, Stringer, and Connor, there were.11 One of the difficulties for authors was contracts. Until the 1920s, many publishers failed to incorporate movies as a specific subsidiary

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right in agreements with them. When asked by T. Fisher Unwin what terms he expected in negotiations for movie rights for a book already published, Robert Stead offered little advice except not to “hold out for terms which will not be granted.”12 Like many authors, he lacked any knowledge of movie contracts and could only fall back on his experience with books. For others in this early period, dramatic rights for the stage provided a cumbersome, almost unworkable model in which the author received a small flat fee followed by a percentage of the weekly box-office receipts.13 This was the case with Charles Gordon’s 1913 contract with George H. Brennan, president and general manager of the Southern Amusements Company of New York, and Selwyn and Company, play brokers of Manhattan.14 After a $250 advance on royalties for signing, Gordon was to receive, on the first Friday following performances, 2½ per cent of the first $4,000 of box-office receipts; his share would rise to 3¾ per cent for the next $2,000 and then to 5 per cent. The agent, Selwyn, kept 10 per cent of this royalty as his fee, and presumably Gordon shared 50 per cent of the remainder with Fleming Revell, the publisher of The Sky Pilot.15 “I did my utmost to separate the moving picture rights,” George Doran told Gordon, “but obviously no dramatist reasonably could be expected to agree to this.”16 For later movie contracts, Gordon received 75 per cent of initial boxoffice receipts and then 25 per cent, but apparently no advance. He shared 10 per cent of these amounts with the agent effecting the sale, 17½ per cent with William Robertson, his original Toronto publisher, and 7½ per cent with Doran, his current American publisher.17 These movies were not great financial successes, but Gordon found it almost impossible to know whether or not he was being cheated out of profits because he had no means of monitoring weekly box-office receipts. “I understand that these film producers are liars and thieves,” a frustrated Gordon told Doran in late 1922. “I cannot understand how it is that with four pictures going now, no returns, or only very insignificant returns should be coming in.”18 Unfortunately for Gordon, by the time that he and his publishers realized the flaws in their contracts with movie producers, it was too late. His later contracts with publishers specified an 80/20 per cent split between author and publisher, and subsequent movie contracts would have been for the industry standard of a cash payment, but there were to be no more sales. Geographical rights also posed problems. While most motion picture contracts were for world rights, contracts for books were restricted to specific territories. From England, Stead’s agent, A.P. Watt and Son, could only negotiate movie contracts for the British Empire, excluding both Canada and the prime American market and produc-

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tion facilities.19 For Charles Gordon, who lacked an agent and any central repository of contractual history, there were collective lapses of memory over which rights had been previously sold, as well as complex negotiations involving interested parties in Winnipeg, Toronto, Chicago, and New York. The biggest problem facing authors in this strange world of the movies was their lack of control over the finished product.20 Even clauses written into Gordon’s contracts for The Sky Pilot giving him editorial control over the script could not prevent significant changes in the story. He was unable to prevent the insertion of a romance between Gwen and Hendricks and Gwen’s remarkable cure in both the stage and the movie versions. Given the fact that he was proud of the novel’s total lack of romance, and that the essence of the story was coping with long-term pain and suffering, Gordon was not happy with the movie, which concluded with a healthy bride and a wedding. Without these compromises, however, there would have been no movie.21 Other authors suffered similar indignities. For the movie version of The Prairie Wife (1925), Stringer’s Swedish character became a crazed individual who hanged himself in the barn. Maud Montgomery could do nothing about the transfer of the setting of the silent version of Anne of Green Gables (1919) to New England from her beloved Prince Edward Island, or about the exaggerated romance between Anne and Gilbert. The flying of the American flag at Anne’s graduation and a scene in which she held a mob from the community at bay with a shotgun infuriated the author.22 As an ardent patron of movies, Montgomery took a particular interest in the filming of her early novels, but she shared neither the profits nor the editorial control. When her publisher, L.C. Page, purchased the titles to her first books, he immediately sold the film rights to the four Anne volumes for $40,000.23 “He would never sell them as long as we were in partnership,” lamented Montgomery, “because he would have had to share up with me.”24 Although titled Anne of Green Gables, the 1919 Realart Pictures production included material from all four volumes and carried Anne into adulthood. The screen play by Francis Marion, a noted scenario writer, sensationalized the story and captured a “too-sugary sweet Anne, not a scrap gingery like my Anne,” an angry Montgomery complained.25 In spite of the mixed reviews, the film played to capacity audiences until a scandal involving the director and the star disgraced the production, cut short its run, and prevented its export to Britain and Australia. Nightgowns and love letters belonging to Mary Miles Minter, a promising teenage star who played Anne, were discovered with the

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body of the murdered director, William Desmond Taylor, who, it was revealed, was formerly, a respectable businessman with another name who had escaped to a life of movies and drugs.26 For a film which some had defined as “sweet as a Salvation Army solo,” the scandal was devastating. Page’s Mary Miles Minter edition of Anne of Green Gables suffered a similar embarrassment. In the early 1930s, rko Radio Pictures treated both Montgomery and Anne with more respect in its 1934 sound version of Anne of Green Gables. This time the author read the script before the filming but without any editorial power.27 She also enjoyed a private, prerelease screening in Toronto of a film which, she admitted, “tricked her into believing it was really Anne.”28 Anne’s power over her audience was once more evident when the young star changed her name permanently from Dawn O’Day to Anne Shirley. With the assistance of a New York agent, Montgomery finally received financial reward from a movie later in the decade with the 1939 sale of Anne of Windy Poplars to rko Radio Pictures.29 Although she had hoped for $10,000, she was pleased with the $7,500 she received, $550 of which she shared with her agent and $1,750 with Stokes, her publisher. The money paid for the family car and established her son Chester in a law practice. Using the same actress as in its previous Anne film, rko produced a less-than-successful movie in 1940, which, according to the New York Times, was “so laced with bromide beatitudes and with so much nonsensical gush that one observer at least came away feeling as though he had eaten a box of marshmallows.”30 “To see one’s own story on the screen certainly provides plenty of ‘thrills,› Montgomery wrote, “but one always wonders.”31 With her skilfully defined characters, exciting incidents, and natural dialogue, which transferred directly to film, her books were easily adapted, but not until the 1980s, with Kevin Sullivan’s popular television miniseries, did her Anne Shirley receive a well-deserved, critically acclaimed treatment. Even then, some feminists criticized the excessive attention paid to the romance between Anne and Gilbert.32 Producers and directors, however, believed that audiences demanded romance above all else. Arthur Stringer also often wondered about the movie business, which was rapidly becoming one of the great industries of the world. Although he would become highly critical of producers, directors, actors, and even script writers, he experienced “a human craving to get aboard the band-wagon.”33 Intrigued by a new art form that seemed to incorporate aspects of the sculptor, painter, dramatist, poet, and musician, Stringer also coveted the large potential revenue.34 Begin-

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ning in 1913, just as the industry was moving to longer, more dramatic films, he began to experiment with story, scenario, and title writing for the movies. At the same time, he sold the rights to The Cleverest Woman in the World and began to receive inquiries about other titles. In 1914 he wrote eleven scenarios which Eclair Films of New York rejected.35 Although it appears that his first script sale was for six reels of Canadian, non-fiction films about the north in 1914,36 Stringer launched his career in films as story and title writer for the serial The Iron Claw, for the Pathé Exchange the following year. For the fourteen episodes produced, he received $14,000.37 In spite of many published reports, which Stringer did nothing to suppress, he did not write the other famous Pearl White serial, The Perils of Pauline. Because much of his writing for the movies was anonymous, it is difficult to ascertain the full extent of his work. Some of it was as a script doctor, repairing scripts for movies and even Broadway productions.38 As early as 1916, his agent, Paul Reynolds, told Stringer that he could “write this kind of material to better advantage than any of the authors who are doing this at the present time,” and he complimented him on his “strong, original plots, griping action, readily visualized.”39 Stringer’s movie-writing career peaked in the early 1920s with a string of successes for Hearst’s Cosmopolitan Films. After the success of Snow-Blind and other scripts for Witwer and Curwood stories, the Hearst offices offered him a staff-writing position in 1923.40 Although the fear of compromising his integrity prompted him to turn down this offer, he continued to write for the movies, including Man-Handled for Famous Players–Lasky in 1924.41 Stringer’s decision to remain independent was a wise one, for no serious writer of fiction made a successful, permanent transition to staff writer for a movie studio. Having spent the winter of 1917–18 in Hollywood and dealt with many studios during the next few years, he realized that writers stood well below producers, directors, and actors in the movie power grid. “The picture world, of late, seems of the opinion,” Stringer wrote in 1924, “that it is wisest to capture the author young, to treat him rough, and to cage him up in the studio until his jungle wildness of invention is house broken to the technic of camera possibilities.”42 In 1919 Jesse Lasky had brought a number of famous, popular authors, including Rex Beach, Rupert Hughes, Gertrude Atherton, and Mary Roberts Rinehart, to Hollywood in a disastrous experiment.43 Zane Grey attempted to retain control and maximize profits with the creation the same year of his own company in partnership with Eltinge F. Warner, owner of Field and Stream.44 For Stringer, the volatility of the industry provided an ever-changing

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array of companies for which he could write or to which he could attempt to sell his fiction. By the end of the 1920s, however, increasing dependence on staff writers under contract to the studios limited the writing opportunities available. Also, with the introduction of “talkies,” imported talent was more likely to come from dramatists. Stringer’s experience with Man-Handled (1924) illustrates the difficulties in becoming too closely attached to a studio. Both the idea for the story and the storyline itself originated with Sidney Kent, a Famous Players–Lasky director, who consequently controlled the dramatic and picture rights.45 Julian Johnson, manager of the script department at the studio, oversaw the contract with Stringer to expand the story for a movie for a fee of $1,000. With his main focus still on writing fiction, Stringer also obtained the rights to expand the idea into a short story of 26,000 words, which appeared in the Saturday Evening Post before the film’s release.46 This agreement, however, did not include possible book rights. “What I am struggling for now,” Stringer told Johnson, “is a marketable and magazinable story of a sex situation which will prove acceptable to the editors. And I think I’m getting it. It must be toned down for print, but it can be toned up in the film treatment.”47 Later, Stringer found the film version “so raw that I told their head office they should be known hereafter as Famous Players Nasty Corporation.”48 After criticizing the initial draft for lacking vitality and the great descriptive power for which Stringer was famous, and for being more like a serial than a single movie, Johnson directed Stringer through the revisions. For Stringer, the demands of the industry, which transformed this idea into a released film in ten months, were almost intolerable. Even after learning just what Johnson wanted, he told him frankly that he preferred Johnson to get somebody else to do the film development. Stringer, however, persevered and completed the film treatment in a month. At this point his publisher, Bobbs-Merrill in Indianapolis, requested a photoplay book from the same story. Having no time to complete the task, Stringer agreed to permit Russell Holman of Famous Players–Lasky to complete the book and illustrate it with film stills. “With the wonderful crowds and reviews the picture has been getting,” Holman told Stringer, “the novel ought to sell fast and furiously.”49 He was right. The novel would become one of Stringer’s all-time best-sellers. The final player in this drama was the star of the movie, Gloria Swanson, who, Stringer alleged, “insisted on being transformed from a mousey little mid-western American girl into a resplendent but impoverished Russian immigrant with royal blood in her veins.”50

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When Swanson began to call Man-Handled “her baby,” Stringer reminded her that he was “the father of her child.”51 Swanson, however, would deserve and receive more credit for the film’s success than Stringer. The movie was, Johnson told him, a “sensational success … the biggest hit since The Covered Wagon.”52 In his review, Toronto critic Hector Charlesworth admired “the taste and imagination with which he [Stringer] has revamped the girl in humble life pursued by unscrupulous lovers, and given it not merely fresh picturesque interest, but humour, feeling, and plausibility.”53 For Stringer, however, the experience confirmed his worst impressions of the film industry. In addition to having his independence and integrity jeopardized, he found serving so many masters in such short time frames both stressful and distasteful. It was during this period that his doctor advised a rest to relieve the stress. Stringer deplored the sensational and inartistic standards of the motion picture world, and he feared that they provided young people with a “rather Smart-Aleck attitude towards both language and life.”54 Unfortunately, the industry, in Stringer’s opinion, valued profits more than quality and had become a business before becoming an art form. Maximizing profits, standardization, and catering to mass audiences, however, had become important features of modernity, which influenced every industry, not just those involved with the production of movies and books. Yet Stringer, like many others, found himself trapped by the excitement, the magic, and the potential profits. His stories of adventure and intrigue were ideally suited to the screen. He sold the rights to at least twenty-eight stories, which led to twenty-one movies produced by seventeen studios.55 Beginning with small, independent firms, his career progressed with sales to the major studios as the industry coalesced into a few vertically integrated, monopolistic companies. In the five years from 1924 to 1928, Stringer was involved directly with a dozen films and indirectly with many more. Included among the directors of his works or scripts were Maurice Tourneur, Victor Fleming, Hugo Ballin, and William Wellman, while among the stars were leading ladies May Allison, Norma Shearer, Gloria Swanson, Louise Dresser, and Barbara Stanwyck and the male actors Lionel Barrymore, Boris Karloff, Tyrone Power, Gary Cooper, and Jack Benny. In Canada especially, Stringer was promoted and known as a movie script writer as well as a novelist and poet. His publishers invariably celebrated his Hollywood fame while promoting his fiction. With the appointment of Cora Wilkening of New York as his movie agent in 1924, he hoped to maximize his opportunities in the industry. Often both he and the studios lacked the time necessary to take

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advantage of every offer. As early as 1914, the Vitagraph Company expressed interest in several of his books, including The Wire Tappers, but its people did not have time to review long novels, and Stringer found it impossible, with his hectic schedule, to provided them with scenarios.56 At this point, he developed visions of grandeur and the gold-filled river as he suggested that “his rock bottom price” for a serial was $25,000.57 In 1925 he turned down a $10,000 offer from Fox for the rights to Power.58 Stringer did, however, receive $17,500 from Famous Players–Lasky for Empty Hands.59 Although he welcomed the advent of sound, he was unable to continue his successes of the 1920s into the next decade. The Fox Film Corporation did, however, employ his talents as a script doctor.60 As late as 1944, Stringer was still attempting to sell stories to producers. For Charles Gordon, who also continued to attempt to sell stories to producers until the time of his death, there was another dimension beyond profit to consider. Raised in a Protestant tradition which feared and even condemned the theatre, he struggled with requests for the adaptation of his books to the stage and film. Realizing that both he and the church had changed in the first decade of the twentieth century, he decided that “we must accept the stage as an institution in a civilized country … The stage may become a most powerful agency for the moral and spiritual instruction and inspiration … the church ought to frankly take hold of the stage and seek to improve it.”61 For too long, the church had neglected this opportunity and allowed the world to get control in this, as in many other departments. Although Gordon realized that he could reach an even larger audience through the stage and movies, the one stage play and the six movies based on his novels left him frustrated and disappointed. Even with clauses written into the contracts guaranteeing him editorial censorship, there were too many players involved for anyone but the producers and directors to exercise rigid control. Gordon also lacked any power to regulate the circumstances under which theatres showed his films. A sabbatarian committed to Sundays free of commercial entertainment, he could do nothing to prevent the screening of these films on Sundays in markets outside Canada.62 Several individuals noted the embarrassing irony when the new Allen Theatre in Toronto included a news short of a scene with a girl bathing, which had been rejected by the New York Censor Board, at the screening of The Sky Pilot in 1921.63 Gordon’s experience with the industry began innocently with the Fox Film Corporation’s The Heart of the Lion (1917), starring William Farnum and based on The Doctor (1906). The movie failed to excite either the critics or the public, but it appears to have been faithful to the

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novel.64 Except for contract details, which remain unknown, Gordon had no direct contact with the Fox Corporation. Such was not to be the case with the next five films, involving Ernest Shipman, who claimed the film rights to all Ralph Connor novels in the early 1920s. At one point Shipman listed eight separate companies, all under the direction of “Ernest Shipman Production – Exploitation” based in New York. It is difficult to track this restless impresario. His companies included the Dominion Film Company, which controlled the rights, production, and fundraising companies in Calgary, Winnipeg, Ottawa, Sault Ste Marie, and Saint John. He also had ties to the National Film Corporation, James Oliver Curwood Productions, the Legend Film Productions, and the Catherine Curtis Corporation of Los Angeles. Only five of these companies, those based in Calgary, Winnipeg, Ottawa, New York, and Los Angeles, became involved in producing Connor pictures.65 Starting in the entertainment business as a manager of elocutionists and other touring performers, the Canadian-born Shipman had moved into movie selling in 1913. In the 1920s he attempted to become a big-time New York movie producer.66 He was a man who dreamed big dreams; he was also a huckster, braggart, habitual liar, alcoholic, and renowned ladies’ man, four times divorced. He made a rather unusual business associate for the Reverend Charles Gordon. Shipman was part of a movement of independent producers who attempted to break the increasing stranglehold of the large studios on production by using location as opposed to studio settings. With the appearance of Famous Players–Lasky and the growth of Fox Film Corporation and Metro Studios – each increasingly involved in production, distribution, and theatre ownership – a group of independent exhibitors met in April 1917 to create the Associated First National Exhibitors Circuit to serve as the independents’ distributor. This group also had access to sufficient financing to produce its own films with big-name stars.67 Unlike King Vidor and others, Shipman, as he often claimed, never had guaranteed pre-production contracts with First National. It was, nevertheless, the logical choice as the distributor of his films.68 The first of these Connor movies to appear was The Sky Pilot, released by Associated First National in May 1921. On his letterhead and in the media, Shipman claimed this film as his own. Press releases stated that he had contracted for a herd of 3,000 buffalo from Archie McLean for the stampede scene, and that Shipman himself and then, in a later release, King Vidor would direct the film on location in the Lethbridge area of Alberta.69 He had, however, sold the rights to Catherine Curtis, “a tall, handsome, and dynamic”70

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woman, who raised most of the money and produced the film, which King Vidor directed as his third movie under contract with First National. The only contact with Shipman was through writer Faith Green, who adapted the novel for filming. It was John McDermott, however, who received credit for the scenario.71 Green also wrote the scenarios for the four other Connor movies. Although The Sky Pilot would disappoint Charles Gordon in later years, King Vidor’s film was better than any that Shipman could have made. Even though he sensationalized the plot, added a romance between a miraculously cured Gwen and Billy Kendricks, and ended the film with their wedding and with only a hint of The Pilot’s death to come in the future, it remained as close to the essence of the book as the screen was capable of showing, while at the same time attracting enough viewers to satisfy First National.72 It was probably Vidor’s strong Christian Science faith, his belief in struggle and sacrifice, and his commitment to making pictures dedicated to principles of right which helped humanity to free itself from suffering that had first attracted him to the novel.73 Using mountainous northern California as a much more appropriate location than the treeless prairie around Lethbridge and cattle rather than Wild West buffalo, Vidor nevertheless gave credit to Canada as the real setting of the story. With an excellent cast starring John Bowers as The Pilot, David Butler as Bill Kendricks, and Colleen Moore as Gwen, Vidor carefully blended drama and comedy in what the New York Times labelled “a corking melodrama,” albeit one with an overdone, miraculous ending.74 The reviewer noted that Vidor’s chief talent was “magically lighted, atmospheric moving pictures which convey meanings to spectators, though he seems to take special pride himself in his moral earnestness.” Unfortunately for Gordon, soaring production costs during the filming wiped out any chance that The Sky Pilot might have had of earning a big profit. One of the hazards of location shooting is the weather. Arriving at Truckee, California, in late fall, Vidor was unable to film the summer scenes because of too much snow. After building the set opposite the town’s railway station, cast and crew waited and waited for the snow to melt. Finally, in desperation, Vidor hired locals to remove the snow from an expansive area. Then, when it was time to shoot the winter scenes, there was no snow. After another long delay, he had train-car loads of salt dispatched from Sacramento, which the locals placed over the same territory that they had cleared a few weeks before. With the production money gone, the cast and crew finished the film without salary.75

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Publicity for the film featured, in order of importance, the stampede of 4,000 cattle, scenic grandeur, bucking broncos, cattle rustlers, a two-fisted parson, and Gwen, the mountain elf. Promising the audience that it would “thrill with the emotions of fear and suspense,” the Canadian advertisements claimed that New York critics had deemed it “one of the motion picture gems of the year.”76 After a private screening in Winnipeg, Charles Gordon wired Vidor that the movie “was a triumph of the highest film art, and, in spite of the changes due to exigencies of the film, has caught and has preserved the spirit of the book in a real and remarkable manner.”77 In the Manitoba Free Press, the reviewer lamented that the movie limited itself to action, whereas the book combined psychology with action and also had skilful characterization and slow development of both the plot and The Pilot’s influence; but the paper later noted that the film “carried its message of nobility direct to the hearts of the audience.”78 As a different medium, movies required a different focus. The Sky Pilot played for an unusual two-week run in Winnipeg, the first week at two theatres simultaneously, and returned for two more weeks, one in August and the other in September. No other film was seen by so many Manitobans in the 1920s.79 On their release, Shipman’s Connor films received much less attention, even in the Canadian centres where they were created. In the summer of 1920, the Canadian Moving Picture Digest warned Canadians about con artists who swept into town promoting a movie production and then disappeared with money invested by local citizens.80 While Ernest Shipman may not deserve the label “con artist,” he did employ the same techniques to persuade the leading citizens of Calgary, Winnipeg, Ottawa, and other Canadian centres to finance his movies. Arriving in Calgary in 1919, directly from the production of his first released movie, he persuaded the local business community to finance Back to God’s Country, based on a J.O. Curwood book.81 He then moved on to Winnipeg to immortalize the Ralph Connor novels. Shipman’s methodology was to descend on a community, persuade leading citizens to finance movies based on books by Canadian authors who were a connected with the region, and then repeat the strategy in successive cities across the country. As Canada’s most famous and widely read author, Connor was a natural choice for Winnipeg and then Ottawa. With the headline news of Shipman’s divorce from his famous wife, Nell, and Back to God’s Country, featuring a nude scene with Nell, playing in Winnipeg at a crucial point in the local negotiations, it is surprising that the Reverend Charles Gordon

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continued to support Shipman’s projects. Although Gordon flew into a tirade over the divorce, Shipman managed to placate him.82 At this point, Gordon, who had lost his fortune in the previous decade, needed money so desperately that he may have been willing to overlook his incompatibility with Shipman. Whatever the case, his support and association and the respect with which he was held in the business community were prerequisites for Shipman’s successful fundraising. Unlike Calgary, where Shipman had previous personal contacts, Winnipeg was virgin territory. He used the press as the prime vehicle of manipulation, reinforced with charming personal contact at crucial points. From early May, with the first announcement of the project, to early October, when the cut film left the city for New York, the Manitoba Free Press printed thirty-one stories on the filming of The Foreigner from interviews or copy mailed or wired by Shipman. Many of these releases also appeared in leading trade journals, including the Toronto-based Bookseller and Stationer and Canadian Moving Picture Digest and the American Moving Picture World.83 More propaganda and hyperbole than fact, these releases were designed to attract and maintain a broadly based community support as well as investment. The campaign was a public-relations masterpiece. Although appeals to community pride and promises of international connections and fame in yet another Hollywood North played a role in this indoctrination, the principal allure was money. Having suffered a devastating pre-war real estate catastrophe in which many, including Gordon, had lost their fortunes, the Winnipeg community, in this era of post-war Canadian optimism and pride, was eager to try again by investing $5,000 a share in a local film company. The initial priority was to validate its credentials. In his first interview with the Free Press, Shipman emphasized that he had had much experience in the industry, had visited Winnipeg before with touring companies, was Canadian-born, and was “one of the best known of the motion picture magnates” with a string of successes, whereas in actual fact, his first really successful film had not yet reached Winnipeg.84 In later releases, he stressed his wide knowledge of every angle of the business – production, exploitation, sales, and exhibiting. This focus on expertise would continue with every new phase of the production. It was to be no amateur adventure; only cosmopolitan standards would apply. Shipman stressed the New York and Hollywood connections at every opportunity. The scenario writer, Faith Green of New York, had “a wide and favourable reputation in this class of art.”85 The director, Henry MacRae, a native of Connor’s own Glengarry, a former Mountie, and “one of the finest men in the

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business,” was the former director-general for Universal Studios with a long string of successful credits.86 The cast members, who were assembling from all over the continent, included the leading man, Gaston Glass, star of the current hit Humoresque, Wilton Lackeye, “one of the greatest actors on the continent,” most recently seen in Trilby, and Bigelow Cooper, who had played opposite Mary Pickford, Ethel Barrymore, and the Talmage sisters. Finally, there was to be an American technical crew of three expert cameramen and a master electrician with equipment “almost strong enough to light up the whole of Winnipeg after dark.”87 This was heady stuff for a provincial prairie city of just under 222,000, recovering from a violent general strike only the year before. Here was an opportunity for ordinary people to rub shoulders with famous stars, a famous director, and a famous scenario writer, as the lure of Hollywood and the movie world moved to their doorstep. After he promised to use locals for small parts and extras, Shipman was flooded with applications from excited fans, who could now become players, even before the Winnipeg Photoplays had been created. Among the locals appearing in the film were Edgar Matheson as the defendant’s attorney, Hugh McRae of the Canadian Pacific Railway telegraph office as court reporter, Governor Downie of Stony Mountain Jail as the governor of the North-West Territories, and Miss Price, daughter of the manager of the Royal Alexandra, the fashionable Canadian Pacific hotel where Shipman and the cast stayed. Given the decadent reputation of Hollywood, which Shipman’s divorce from Nell confirmed yet again, he emphasized at every opportunity the respectable nature of the enterprise. Gordon was collaborating with Faith Green and would supervise the entire project.88 Green was the daughter and granddaughter of clergymen and a child of the prairie herself. A local committee of three would screen the extras “to ensure only those of good standing and respectable connections will be identified with the enterprise,” and no one under sixteen could participate without written parental consent.89 The movie itself would be a wholesome “drama of heart interest, beautiful situations, and subtle propaganda and exploitation for Winnipeg.”90 In Calgary the local company’s name was Canadian Photoplays Limited, because no one would recognize the name of the city. In Winnipeg, however, Shipman predicted that the name Winnipeg Productions Limited would been seen in one hundred languages before The Foreigner ran its course, and that the city’s name would be “remembered forever as a classic.”91 Filming locations would include the ballroom of the hotel, the jail, Elm Park, the Portage plains, and the old courthouse. By September he was prophesying that Winnipeg

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could become “one of the greatest motion picture producing centres in the world.”92 The movie would also show the diversity of production and the progress of the province, which would attract thousands of immigrants of the right sort; they would see the movie and flock to western Canada. Shipman used appropriate language and values to appeal to each constituency. For the shareholders, he portrayed director MacRae as “a man of initiative, vision, and great determination in selecting types, and in getting value from every situation.”93 The real focus of Shipman’s propaganda campaign centred, from the first announcement of the possibility of the project, on glowing reports of expected profits for investors. In the first interview in May, he announced that Back to God’s Country, which had cost $100,000 to make, had already earned $400,000, a figure expected to rise to $750,000, later stretched to $1 million. Half that amount would go to the Calgary investors. Shipman, who would leave for Calgary later in the week, had with him a fifth cheque for $5,000, which would bring the total returned to the community to $170,000. In mid-May he announced that Australia had offered $9,000 for The Foreigner, and that the anticipated revenue from Britain was $100,000. In late May he estimated a bottom-line return, supposedly guaranteed by First National, of $400,000 for each Connor movie. By August, Shipman predicted that “net receipts will be so large that I am not going to estimate them at present.”94 Given a promise of only four months between the start of filming and the return of the investment and a claim that First National had agreed to the purchase, the Winnipeg elite lined up to purchase the $5,000 shares.95 Also among the purchasers were Gordon, Shipman, MacRae, and a number of directors of the Calgary company that had backed the Curwood movie. In spite of the supposed large return on their investment, the Calgary shareholders of Canadian Photoplays rejected the advice of their directors and severed ties with Shipman. As a result, the Winnipeg group would finance both The Foreigner and Cameron of the Royal Mounted.96 It is possible that Shipman, carried away with enthusiasm, believed his own rhetoric. Nevertheless, he not only miscalculated and exaggerated; he also lied to his Winnipeg investors. His claim that the movie would run for 125 days in New York was ludicrous. There was no pre-production sale to Australia. In spite of numerous statements from Shipman, First National never signed to purchase the film.97 When the Manitoba Free Press reported in early December that First National had not yet accepted the film, the shareholders must have begun to realize that all was not well. For months they waited without further word. Finally, two directors of Winnipeg Productions

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travelled to New York to investigate and complete the sales of The Foreigner, retitled God’s Crucible for distribution, and Cameron of the Royal Mounted.98 First National did purchase Cameron but rejected The Foreigner, which, ironically, W.P. Hodkinson, the distributor for Famous Players bought. Not until mid-February of the next year, 1922, did The Foreigner play in Winnipeg. Unlike The Sky Pilot, this movie received little local fanfare. Shipman had left the city for Ottawa, where he filmed The Man from Glengarry and Glengarry School Days, and then on to Saint John, Italy, and Florida, never to return. Much has been made of Ernest Shipman’s brief success in establishing a Canadian feature-film industry99 – a legend initiated by Shipman himself. He had a dream of a national Canadian film drama; he would teach authors to understand Canada and how to write for the movies; he would establish a high-class Canadian picture school; he had made Canadian film history.100 Of The Foreigner, director MacRae boasted that “it was written by a Canadian, made entirely in Canada, and was directed by myself, and I am Canadian, a native of Glengarry, Ontario.”101 Shipman and MacRae were more skilled at rhetoric than at making movies or establishing a Canadian film industry. With a company based in New York City holding the rights and overseeing every stage of development for these films, American stars and crews, and a dependency on American distributors, Shipman could hardly claim to be a Canadian entrepreneur or to be inventing a Canadian industry. His story is all too similar to the Hollywood North syndrome of the late twentieth century, in which American companies venture north to Canada with their stars to shoot movies on location, where they employ Canadian crews and extras. They then return to the United States and edit the film, which one of the Hollywood companies distributes. What made Shipman’s venture different was his dependence on local Canadian financing of the movies. His approach of descending on a community, extracting the funds, and moving on to the next one could never have created a stable feature-film industry even if he had been less bombastic and more respectable, and conditions had been more favourable. As it was, he left behind a trail of mistrust, frustration, and even anger. It would appear that some of the investors did recoup their contributions, but they did not receive the fortunes that Shipman had promised. We cannot credit the monopolistic, vertically integrated Hollywood industry for Shipman’s failure. He managed to secure distribution with the giants for the Connor films, with the exception of Glengarry School Days, which he distributed himself. It was, however, a hard sell, not because the films were created by an independent in Canada, but because of their quality. With the possible exception of Cameron of the

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Royal Mounted, the movies were flawed. Faith Green and Henry MacRae had tried to pack so much into The Foreigner (God’s Crucible) that, even after repeated editings, the result was a disjointed story. With its subject matter of assimilating immigrants in an era of intense xenophobia, it was a strange choice as the first of Shipman’s Connor movies. As a novel packed with thrilling action and Mounties, Cameron more closely approximated the typical Hollywood frontier adventure story that was so popular in the 1920s.102 By that time, Shipman had relocated to Ottawa and was far enough removed from Gordon’s scrutiny that he could abandon any pretence of being faithful to his novels. A British critic found The Man from Glengarry “undeveloped and colourless with practically no dramatic value or thrill.”103 With Glengarry School Days, released in the United States as The Critical Age, the plot digressed so far from the essence of the novel that it was virtually unrecognizable. Rather than a warm story of Hughie Murray growing up, it became a romance in which puppy love grew into mature courtship, and a melodrama of political intrigue. Ralph Connor had not been well served by Shipman, MacRae, or Green. The magic of this or any other author’s name was insufficient to entice millions of patrons into the movie theatre. These patrons also expected what Shipman had failed to provide – a good movie that was faithful to the book. He tried, unsuccessfully, to continue his career in Florida. MacRae spiralled downwards as a B-serial producer for Universal. But even if the team had created memorable classics true to the spirit of the novels, they would probably have been a decade or more too late to attract a mass audience. How could the Reverend and Mrs Murray and little Hughie compete with Marion Davies in The Restless Sex or Dorothy Gish in Little Miss Rebellion, both popular 1921 hits? With the help of an agent, Gordon tried unsuccessfully from the mid-1930s on to sell stories once again to producers. His friend and now retired former publisher, George Doran, was more realistic than Gordon when he suggested that they both had “gone into the inevitable eclipse occasioned by the shifting planes of public opinion.”104 One of the prominent features of modernity is incessant change, including adjustments in consumer tastes. By the 1930s, Ralph Connor was no longer popular. “Canadian analysts have been all too quick to finger the United States as an unrelenting cultural behemoth,” states Ted Magder in his study of the Canadian film industry.105 Although Famous Players– Paramount did monopolize the Canadian distribution system by the late 1920s, it was not responsible for killing a Canadian feature-film industry. There was no industry to assassinate – nothing the government could have rescued. Even if there had been such an industry, it

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would have been incapable of holding off the Hollywood bulldozer. “By 1925, American films had captured 95 per cent of the British market and 70 per cent of the French.”106 These were both producing countries in which government intervention was ineffective in redressing the situation. All the righteous indignation of the Pierre Bertons of Canada at any time was powerless in the face of this reality.107 Managing editor Ray Lewis of the Canadian Moving Picture Digest discovered just how powerful the major studios were, when her increasingly strident editorial policy against the movie combine in the 1920s prompted the studios to withdraw all advertising. Although she sued them for damages, in the end, reason prevailed. She withdrew the suit; they reinstated the advertisements and saved the magazine from a certain death.108 While continuing to advocate British movies from an elitist stance, Lewis no longer openly criticized the Hollywood giants. In the early decades of the twentieth century, the Canadian cultural and intellectual establishment viewed the movie world with the same elitism as the world of magazines and books. If we must have movies, then let them at least be made in Mother England. Even the Canadian Moving Picture Digest displayed this elitism, while at the same time being enamoured of American stars and studio bosses whose lives, work, and play it followed with intense fascination. When films based on books by Canadian authors did appear, the press almost inevitably gave them less hype than those based on the work of the more popular and current American or British authors. “There is a majesty, a dignity, a tenderness, a simplicity and Godliness about England,” Ray Lewis editorialized in April 1920, “which cannot be imitated by any other country.”109 Most Canadians did not agree. They preferred American films, with their better sets and costumes and a more expensive, professional look. In a 1930s survey, Nova Scotia students voted overwhelmingly in favour of American over British pictures because of their familiarity with the stars, better acting, more vivid settings, and plots of deeper interest about people who were more like them than the British, whose accents they found difficult to understand.110 American publishers and producers did not set the agenda for Canadian popular culture in this era. Canadians were North Americans with tastes and preoccupations similar to the Americans. Each had a fascination with the call of the wild in northern frontier settings, complete with lumberjacks, trappers, prospectors, and Mounties. In Hollywood’s hands, Canada’s northland would suffer less mythologizing than the American western frontier. With their focus on action, thrills, and romance, silent movies frustrated American

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and Canadian authors in their failure either to be true to their fiction or to capture its essence. The regret for Canadians is that, with the passing of interest in our northern frontier and the introduction of sound in the late 1920s, a much better medium with which to immortalize the five authors in this study on film, American producers lost their interest in Canada and Canadian authors. And there was no vibrant indigenous feature-film industry to bring Canadian stories to the screen. It was natural, and perhaps inevitable, that the United States should come to dominate one of modernity’s most prominent new cultural industries. In this era of mass culture, global marketing, and factory production, which manufactured standardized commodities for consumers, New York and later Hollywood “set the pace for frenzy and stimulation,”111 as they became the cultural centres of the modern world. In addition to the movies, the Americans invented the modern circus, the Wild West show, and the amusement park – all spectacles of a visual modernity which provided entertainment, adventure, excitement, and stimulation. Like the cities from which it emerged, this new culture subjected consumers “to a barrage of impressions, shocks, and jolts,” and “instilled life with a nervous edge, a palpable feeling of exposure to danger.”112 Movies exported this experience to the small towns and rural population of Canada and much of the rest of the world. It was in movie theatres that many of these people experienced their most forceful and most meaningful encounters with modernity.

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12 Being Canadian

“So much has been written … concerning Canadian literature that there are many who are beginning to doubt the existence of such a thing,” wrote twenty-year-old Arthur Stringer in 1893.1 Finding the prevalent cultural “booming” distasteful, he reminded his readers that, like all “booms,” this one was “unsatisfactory, unprofitable, fatuous, and illusory,” and “we are beginning to realize that to scream at one another, that we have a literature is not going to give us one.” In fact, such a state of self-consciousness was hampering and confining the very literary freedom that was necessary for creativity to flourish. Thirty years later, Robert Stead regretted the Canadian inclination to confine literature within narrow national bounds and condemned the academic nonsense which harshly criticized current works and spoke incessantly about the yet-to-be-born great Canadian novel. Recognizing that Shakespeare, Walter Scott, and others had no counterparts in modern Britain, Stead wondered who the great writers were in that nation and in the United States, and how they compared with the products of Canada. “We cannot all be limousines on the trail of literature,” he surmised, “but the little Ford must not be despised.”2 These critical polarities enunciated by Stringer and Stead have been enduring themes in the debates about Canadian culture during the past century. On one side were those ever ready to ignore international standards and trumpet what Stringer in the 1890s judged meagre accomplishments; on the other side were the elitists, for whom Canadian literature never attained the standards of the great literature of Western culture.3 In their encounters with modernity,

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the five authors in this study often found themselves trapped in an uncomfortable position somewhere between these two extremes. In spite of the adversities, they continued to write about the Canada they knew and marketed their works successfully in the international marketplace. They were part of the first generation of Canadian-born fiction writers who wrote naturally and unpretentiously about the regions of the country with which they were familiar. In their writing, they were not consciously making a statement about being Canadian. They composed for a variety of reasons: to entertain, to inform, to uplift, and even to reform society. They also wrote to earn money. Unlike many critics in the Canadian cultural elite in the early twentieth century, they focused on Canada rather than on Britain as their frame of reference, and they saw themselves being of the people rather than above them. Thus their writings were part of the legitimate modern, democratic voice of early-twentieth-century Canada which found avid readers throughout the Western world. In the first flush of enthusiasm over this phenomenon, Canadian reviewers, with some exceptions, joined their counterparts in other countries in praise of the works of these five authors. Writing in Maclean’s Magazine in 1913, Harold Adams stated that “in Ralph Connor, we have the promise and potency of a great literary work.”4 “What a really lovely story!” gushed the Herald (Montreal) in reviewing Stead’s Neighbours. “That is the verdict that comes at once to the reader’s mind as he puts down this latest novel by one of Canada’s rising and most promising authors.”5 A New York Times review praised McClung’s Danny for its humour and sentiment exhibited in homely lives.6 Typical of the reviews of Montgomery’s Anne were comments in the Portland, Oregon, paper, which announced joyously in 1915 that “she’s back – Anne – our Anne. And in this volume [Anne of the Island] she is more delightful than ever before.”7 In reviewing Stringer’s The Man Who Couldn’t Sleep, Saturday Night magazine stated that “he writes such things as these with just the lightness of touch, the requisite realism, and yet the sense of romance which makes literature of them.”8 With the possible exception of McClung, there appears to have been widespread acceptance of these novels as literature and a suggestion of their eventual incorporation into the canon. After the First World War, however, the tone gradually shifted as reviewers and critics, increasingly influenced by new standards of academic literary criticism, became aficionados of “highbrow” culture. The dichotomy between elite and popular culture, which had been emerging since the late nineteenth century, finally engulfed informed, critical opinion. “Fragmentation, angst, and disillusionment” were

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the vogue, state Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, and “the men who dominated the book review pages of newspapers … were calling for a new kind of writing: tough and hard-edged, exploring the seamy side of modern life.”9 In passing judgment on the five authors in this study, these critics and reviewers used this modern perspective to condemn the novels which some of them had praised in an earlier era. It was the popularity of the novels and their connection with popular fiction which most disturbed the critics. In 1923 T.M. Vesey condemned authors who had fallen into this trap and lost their bearings. “After setting out honestly and bravely in quest of a literary expression of the Canadian spirit and consciousness,” he lamented, “they have diverged to go on the trail of the Best Seller.”10 Twenty years later, popular novelist Hugh MacLennan condemned critics for being against whatever happened to be popular. “They automatically assume,” he lamented, “that if a novel sells more than 10,000 copies, it is ipso facto bad.”11 In the mid-1920s the Canadian Bookman, noting that Canada’s literary advances had not been “commensurate with her progress in other directions,” blamed the reader. “If he is content to accept any sort of fare – on his own head be it! If he were to demand a higher literary standard, his desire would probably be satisfied.”12 It was, after all, the readers who ultimately created best-sellers. Novelist Frederick Philip Grove, who, ironically, wished for sales closer to the best-seller status for his own novels, advised aspiring writers to pay less attention to fashionable, popular novelists such as E. Philips Oppenheim, Zane Grey, and Arthur Stringer, and more to Lamb, Hardy, Meredith, Hazlitt, Milton, and Shakespeare. Like Philip Marchand at the end of the twentieth century, Grove could find no current, modern novelists for Canadians to emulate.13 Many reviewers and critics were savage in their attacks. “By standards of discriminating literary criticism,” declared Arthur Phelps in 1951, “none of these writers is important. No critic would think of any one of them as having made a serious contribution to literature.”14 In noting that there were no prairie writers selected for the projected Makers of Canadian Literature series in 1922, J.D. Logan rejected Robert Stead’s work as “futilities, pure and simple,” but told Lorne Pierce of Ryerson Press that it might be possible to include “that horrible example of the evangelical novelist, ‘Ralph Connor,’ whose work, both in substance and in artistry, is a concoction so vile that it ranks with literature in the same way that bootlegger booze ranks with real Scotch whiskey.”15 Logan then admitted that, although he had tasted the latter quite recently, he had not read Connor for many years. Modern critic W.J. Keith criticizes Connor

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for writing “cliché-ridden, predictable stuff, demonstrating all too clearly that the author’s devotees (in Britain and the United States, as well as Canada) were ill-equipped to respond to the challenges of complex, probing fiction.”16 From the late 1920s, critics generally ignored Nellie McClung, and if they recognized Arthur Stringer at all, it was with acid comments about the stock characters of his detective fiction. W.A. Deacon, one of the most generous professional critic in the country, could understand why a writer might contemplate suicide if someone found a similarity with the work of Robert Stead. “Bob is a decent fellow,” he declared, “but he can’t write.”17 For Desmond Pacey, Montgomery’s fiction represented “the kind of escape literature which a materialistic and vulgar generation craved … sweetlysad, innocent, and pathetic.”18 Arthur Phelps declared in the early 1950s that “modern young girls brought up upon the funnies, the movies, the slick magazine stories, cannot tolerate the soft, wellmeaning goodness of Miss Montgomery’s portrayal.”19 Obviously, he had failed to consult the many girls who continued to purchase her books and read her fiction. Condemning such popular writers of romance fiction, this same critic lamented that they carried Canada’s name throughout the world. “Some Canadians hang their heads in shame,” he wrote, “and say we export only sentimentality and mediocrity.”20 These critics also rebuked these five authors for other reasons. Their novels were romances, the lowest genre of fiction, and had parochial regional settings. Connor and McClung were doubly damned for writing sermons in disguise and insisting on the relevance of religion in a secular age. As women authors, Montgomery and McClung stood even less chance of being accepted into an official Canadian literary canon determined by male critics. Perhaps Arthur Stringer committed the worst sins of all. He not only wrote for American mass-circulation magazines for the bulk of his income; he also emigrated to the United States in the 1920s to become an expatriate. Many critics refused to consider his novels with primarily American settings as Canadian fiction, in spite of the fact that Stringer wrote them in Ontario. Even Montgomery believed that Stringer and others who moved south “lose something they can never regain [and] become somewhat Americanized.”21 There is some comfort for Canadians in realizing that the Americans treated their authors in a similar, if at times less-vindictive, fashion. For well over a century after creating their nation, they recognized only high-class British authors as literature and preferred recently published imported novels to their own. “Properly speak-

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ing,” a reviewer wrote in the mid-1890s, “there is no such thing [as American literature] unless the pictorial scratchings of aborigines on stones and birch bark are to be classed as literary production.”22 Only after the Second World War, in a time frame similar to that in Canada, notes Lawrence Levine, did American universities seriously embrace their own indigenous fiction. Even then, they continued to ignore such fundamental popular authors as James Fenimore Cooper.23 “The writing of English-Canadian literary criticism,” says Graham Carr, “has always been a political act.”24 From at least the 1890s, a central principle for the cultural elite in Canada was that a national literature was the expression of the national soul and a prerequisite for national self-definition and greatness. Borrowing aesthetic and elitist critical standards, as well as the necessity of a national context, from Europe, critics predetermined the parameters of Canadian literary culture prior to much actual writing and publishing.25 The lack a real literature was a recurring lament constantly echoing through the first half of the twentieth century. For many of these individuals, who revered poetry as the highest form of culture, the novel was an unfortunate “necessity of the times in which we live, especially suited to women distracted with household cares.”26 “No one reads a Canadian novel unless by accident,” proclaimed Douglas Bush in 1922. “Canadian fiction never comes to grip with life, but remains weak and timid; it has nothing to say.”27 In the second half of the century, Northrop Frye placed novels at the bottom of his scale, which began with essays and critical articles, moved down to poetry, and further down to fiction.28 For others, who did accept the legitimacy of the novel as the front-runner of modern literature, the touchstone of credibility became raw realism incorporating tragedy, explicit sex, and even violence. On this scale, the fiction of the five authors in this study was too timid, too wholesome, too clean.29 “I think we have a few bilious critics,” McClung told Dorothy Dumbrille, “who dislike decency in a book, and if a book is clean to them, it must be dull.”30 In rejecting the culture produced by each generation as inferior, many of these critics came to doubt not only the existence of a Canadian culture but also, of necessity, given their high expectations for that culture, of a Canadian identity itself. As a result, each generation believed “that it must create Canadian culture from the ground up.”31 Given the small fraternity of men who taught literature in the universities and reviewed in the major papers and journals, it was easy to disseminate these ideas throughout the nation.32 Many of these critics intensely disliked commercialized mass culture of any sort. The tragedy for Canada as a nation was that, in spite of prevalent fears of being swamped in a tidal wave of American popular culture, the

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Canadian elite was generally unwilling to support and encourage a native equivalent as a counterpoint. The persistent strength of the nationalist search for identity through literature was sufficiently strong to embrace even the five authors in this study. For Robert Stead, who believed that there could be no distinctive national idealism without a national literature, the buying of a Canadian book represented “not merely a convenient way of patronizing Canadian letters; it was fundamental nation-building.”33 Such purchases, however, represented only the first step; books were only material objects. For a truly national literature to emerge, citizens had to absorb the essences or souls of the books into their consciousnesses. Gradually, through this process, literature would become a homogenizing force, assisting class to understand class, creed to comprehend creed, and region to appreciate region.34 Only through literature could a nation define and articulate its soul. In other spheres as well, Stead consistently promoted a strong, independent Canada. Citizens should buy Canadian; the navy should be Canadian, not British; and the government should protect culture as well as industry under its National Policy.35 The other four authors were less vocal on the subject of Canadian culture. As a westerner, Nellie McClung believed that her region had a special unifying, mellowing, and harmonizing spirit that called on men everywhere to be brothers, but she never claimed that literature was a prime agent in disseminating this spirit.36 She did worry about the impact of cultural imperialists from Britain and eastern Canada on the west, and she strove in the 1930s to make the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation a truly national radio network.37 Like Stead, L.M. Montgomery hoped that someday Canada would have a literature which would be a reflection of national life as a whole, but she felt that the country was too young, as yet, for this to occur. Taking a cue from nationalist theory applicable to other nations, she believed that a major cathartic crisis was a prerequisite for a real national literature to be born; something to “purge away all our petty superficialities and lay bare the primal passions of humanity.”38 Even after realizing that the First World War might be such a crisis, she still believed that the process might take another generation. “Literature is not a sporadic gift from a capricious God,” she told an audience in Guelph, Ontario, after the war. “It is a slow growth, and cannot spring from a sordid, petty, and materialistic people. To establish a national literature, our ideas must be noble and enduring, because genius is the ability to grasp and give expression to all that is exalted in the inarticulate soul of a people.”39

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Arthur Stringer also spoke of national life and national soul, and the need for a great nation to have a great literary voice in poetry, drama, and fiction. Using the ninth ode of Horace, he emphasized to a Toronto audience in the 1930s the consequences of the absence of such a voice: “They had no poet, And they died.›40 In the same speech, he noted that Canadians were “mere suburbanites on the milk routes of international amusements,” but he did see promise in the Little Theatre movement and other developments. Only through culture could a nation reveal its soul, he stated on another occasion, “and in showing them you have a soul, you shall create not only an art and a literature of your own, but an audience to breathe back into that art and that literature the breath of a national life.”41 As early as 1916, Stringer had pleaded for an official Canadian national anthem, “endemic and indigenous, for human passion is still colored and predetermined by locality.”42 In spite of these sentiments, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer did not write consciously as nationalists, and they reveal no evidence of a nationalist propaganda or even sentiment in their fiction. It was rather through noble sentiments, values, characters, and even humour that they hoped to reveal the worthiness of a society and its soul. They wrote spontaneously and virtually unconsciously as Canadians about the Canada they knew, used Canadian settings and characters, and did not feel that it necessary either to validate this approach or to boast about it. Charles Gordon wrote in a similar manner, but critics keep insisting that he was an important, perhaps the most important, spokesman of a national vision of his generation, and that he had a profound effect on shaping modern Canada.43 There is no doubt that Gordon was a Canadian nationalist who first wrote to generate support for the development of a national Presbyterian Church in Canada. But to isolate such features in that writing as his celebration of the British respect for fair play, the assimilation of immigrants to an Anglo-Canadian norm, his search for stability and respect for law and order, the necessity of institutional support structures, and his celebration of a northern race in the process of being born as unique in any way is a mistake. The popularity of his novels throughout the Western world suggests that these features were understood and embraced by readers in many countries in which preoccupation with law and order, race, and institutional growth was a prominent feature of their societies. Every industrial or industrializing society in the world at this time possessed some variety of a progressive vision. On the few occasions in his fiction when he did directly address specific Canadian national questions, as in the last

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third of The Man from Glengarry, critics, readers, and theatre patrons were not impressed.44 Gordon’s Canadian nationalism was, in fact, more modern and more broadly based. In a pre-war sermon entitled “Unfinished Towers,” he enunciated his most comprehensive statement of his vision of modern Canada.45 Realizing that the nation had an abundance of natural resources, both human and physical, he worried about the impediments which might prevent national evolution and greatness. Among these obstacles were government patronage and corruption, crime, inequality, lack of autonomy, and the absence of national unity. Gordon’s vision for the future embraced an autonomous Canadian nation, in which “the word of command will be spoken by a Canadian voice, and to that voice alone Canada will listen.” This nation would be truly democratic; “the free expression and the untrammelled will of the people in government” would prevail. Corrupt politicians would be imprisoned, and patronage in public works eliminated. There would be a move towards economic equality, the assumption of social responsibility for all citizens, and an end to crime and trade in alcohol. It would take hard work and sacrifice to achieve these goals, but with a “sturdy, strong, steadfast, noble, and independent people” who honoured God and glorified him, they were possible. Most of Gordon’s vision would constitute a credible, progressive election platform in the late twentieth century. One must be careful, however, in ascribing to this or any other political consciousness a significant role in literature. Although Canadian criticism might almost always be a political act, reading Canadian literature was not. Had they known this, those who feared the image and the impact of the Canadian export of fiction could have breathed more easily. After a comprehensive study of British working-class readers, Jonathan Rose could emphatically state that reading fiction and the world of politics are not connected. Reading imperialistic fiction, no matter how jingoistic it might be, does not create imperialists.46 In all the readers’ letters to the five authors, there only a few, isolated comments from Canadians on Canadian nationalism. There were those who appreciated experiencing their own region in fiction, but there were even more from far away who came to love the same settings; for them, the fact that these settings were Canadian was of no consequence. A reviewer in Scotland placed Montgomery’s Anne in a New England community and treated it as part of modern American fiction.47 In South Africa the Natal Advertiser reviewed Stead’s Bail Jumper as a story of the American west.48 Although these are isolated examples, they do represent a more fundamental reality. In his oral

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interviews with Australian readers, Martyn Lyon discovered that they did not usually distinguish between Canadian and American authors.49 In a Swedish survey in the 1980s, Gabriella Åhmansson found that most readers failed to identify L.M. Montgomery as a Canadian author.50 Although many modern Japanese teenagers do identify so strongly with Anne’s Prince Edward Island that they make pilgrimages to it, this action is tied to Anne and her favourite places; it has nothing to do with politics or nationality. Within Canada, readers also identified with specific locations rather than with the country itself. In their constant struggle against the banal, the colonial, and the parochial, those who visualized a homogenized Canadian nation welded together with a common history and culture were particularly concerned with the regional nature of the fiction. For them, regions represented the provincial and the parochial in culture and a destructive force gnawing away at national unity. This sentiment was widely shared across the academic spectrum. The history of this era, Brian McKillop states, “tended to treat regionalism … as mere provincialism rooted equally in resentment and envy – as if the quest for social and economic justice was instead a failure of national vision.”51 When it was finally written, the great Canadian novel would somehow incorporate the essence of the entire nation. Yet there were a few, like Malcolm Ross of Queen’s University in Kingston and publisher Lorne Pierce, who realized that this was an impossible dream. For Pierce, it was a natural thing for a young country as diverse as Canada in geography and people to generate regional fiction.52 He did, however, hope for a more unified future. Malcolm Ross was much more adamant when he wrote that “the prospect of a simple monolithic ‘national’ culture or ‘nationalist’ culture does not exist.”53 It is only recently that others have begun to agree with him. “Identity, the truest sense of self and tribe, the deepest loyalty to place and way of life is inescapably local,” writes American essayist and novelist Wallace Stegner. “Much of the felt life and the observed characters and place that give a novel authenticity … come ultimately from the shared experience of a community.”54 This is why Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer were able to write fiction; it also explains much of their success and their popularity. What the Canadian critics failed to appreciate was that within the regional and local is also found the universal. The spectre of being swamped in a tidal wave of American popular culture and the loss of Canadian authors to American soil haunted many Canadians, including Montgomery, Stead, and even Stringer, after he became a permanent resident of the United States. This trek

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southward was a popular journey in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.55 Writers moved to the United States to be closer to their agents, editors, and publishers in what was quickly becoming the literary centre of the English-speaking world in New York. Some were also escaping from a lonely and sterile literary existence. It was this same search for something more that led Ford Madox Ford, Henry James, Edith Wharton, and others to move from the United States to England for part of their careers.56 Although Robert Stead insisted that “it was impossible for anyone living in New York to write without being influenced by New York,”57 Arthur Stringer became less parochial and a more sensitized Canadian after residence in England and the United States and generally saw issues more clearly than many who had stayed at home. “It at least shook the dust of the parochial out of the system, tended to internationalize his outlook, widen his perspective,” he told the delegates to the founding convention of the Canadian Authors Association, “and indubitably humbled that proud and haughty spirit peculiar to localized celebrity.”58 Nevertheless, Stringer often hoped for a time when Canadian authors would not find it necessary to emigrate. He became an enthusiastic promoter of Canadian culture in both countries. In the United States his primary venue was the Canadian Club of New York, which hosted visiting Canadian writers, gave a send-off to Ernest Shipman and the cast of The Foreigner before their journey to Winnipeg, and hosted the premiere of the edited film upon its completion. Stringer tried unsuccessfully to have this Canadian Club organize a guild for expatriate writers in the late 1920s.59 In his frequent visits to Canada, Stringer maintained contacts and an awareness of developments. He also subscribed to Canadian magazines and worked hard to further the careers of many authors, including Madge MacBeth and Kathleen Strange. It had always been his intention to return to Canada eventually, but the depression of the 1930s, the reality of advancing years, and his failure to repurchase his farm, Shadow Lawn on Lake Erie, slowly caused the dream to fade. With it disappeared a desire to found a Canadian literary magazine. When W.A. Deacon pleaded with him in the early 1930s to return, focus on poetry, and provide leadership for Canadian writers, Stringer said that “there’s the call to cover our children with flannel before we cover ourselves with glory.”60 No longer able to return, he became an American citizen in early January 1937. Nonetheless, there lingered within Stringer a recurring sense of exile. He spoke of the “abysmal rootlessness of the expatriate” and said that life in the United States was not all “beer and skiddles.”61 Even after Stringer had been a U.S. resident for years, an editor could

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inform him in the midst of the 1930s depression that he was only buying American. Stringer’s last trip to Canada, just months before his death in 1950, was to open Canadian Book Week and address the Rotary Club. Toward the end of his life, his poetry reflected his sense of exile. In “Home Thoughts,” he wrote: I am tired of the dust And the fever and noise And the meaningless faces of men; And I want to go home. For day after day I get thinking of home Where the black firs fringe the sky-line, And the birds wheel down in silence, And the hemlocks whisper peace, And the hill winds cool the blood, And the dusk is crowned with glory, And the lone horizon softens, And the world’s at rest with time. Oh, I want to go there I want to go home.62

When the five authors in this study began writing, they all suffered from isolation and the absence of a supportive literary community. This situation changed dramatically in 1921 with the launching of the Canadian Authors Association, in which Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer played prominent roles. Stead and McClung were founding vice-presidents; Connor, Montgomery, and Stringer were on the first council; and Stringer and Stead were leading members of a committee to petition the government to alter pending copyright legislation.63 Stringer also toured the west from Winnipeg to Vancouver on an organizing tour for the association with John Murray Gibbon, the president, and Captain J. Vernon Mackenzie, editor of Maclean’s Magazine. Stead was the second national president, while Connor served in this capacity for two terms in the mid-1930s. Each of the five was also active in the regional units. For years, the Winnipeg branch met in Connor’s home; Stead played an active role in Ottawa, and McClung in Calgary and Edmonton; and Montgomery frequently attended meetings and special events of the Toronto branch. The promotion and celebration of Canadian talent was an important part of these special events. In late 1921 the newly formed Toronto branch of the association honoured McClung at a dinner. Later, Toronto Maritimers saluted Charles G.D.Roberts, Marshall Saunders,

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and Montgomery in an evening of readings, speeches, and Atlantic folk songs. The biggest event of the first decade was the launching of the eighth Canadian Book Week at Convocation Hall, University of Toronto, in 1928, at which Stringer and Montgomery read to a capacity audience. Hundreds had to be turned away from the door. Never had Canadian literature been so popular and so celebrated. It has been fashionable until recently for critics such as Frank Scott, from an arrogant, modernist perspective, to condemn the Canadian Authors Association as a group of self-congratulatory amateurs who eschewed standards and cared only about the commercial aspects of literary existence. Such criticism displays contemptible, condescending elitism and ignores the fundamental role which the association played in its early decades.64 The founding convention in Montreal was the first time that most of these people had met. Thereafter, there was a broadly based national literary community and a series of supportive local units. In holding its annual meeting in a different centre each year, the association emphasized its true national scope and introduced hundreds of members to cities from Halifax to Vancouver.65 By providing free travelling passes for delegates, the national railways made it possible for most to attend at a nominal cost. Only through this type of venue could such a diverse and scattered group as Alan Sullivan, novelist from London, England, Sir Ernest Macmillan, musician, Marshall Saunders, one of Canada’s first popular authors, W.D. Lighthall, anthologist, writer, and lawyer, Lorne Pierce, publisher, E.J. Pratt, professor and poet, Hector Charlesworth, magazine editor and critic, C.W. Jeffries, artist, Frank McDowell and Basil King, popular novelists, Lionel Stevenson, critic, and Colonel John Cooper, former editor and recently motion picture representative, meet with McClung, Montgomery, Stead, Stringer, and Connor. At the local level especially, the caa was one of the last truly significant organizations to merge amateurs and professionals in a common cause in which writers, journalists, and professors shared ideas and information. “It offered encouragement and help,” says Lynn Harrington, “to obscure struggling writers, and even to dabblers on the fringe.”66 At the Toronto branch, Montgomery associated with Professor Pelham Edgar, Dr George Locke, chief librarian of the Toronto Public Library system, and such writers as W.A. Fraser, Marshall Saunders, and Katherine Hale. In Vancouver such notables as Frances Dickie, Douglas Durkin, Judge F.W. Howay, the Reverend R.G. MacBeth, Frederick Niven, Bertrand Sinclair, and Captain Harwood Steele met regularly with amateur aspirants from the region. In Calgary, McClung and other members gathered to study humour, short stories, and fiction, read poetry, and keep abreast of the

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latest Canadian publications. In the Nova Scotia branch in early 1931, Professor Vernon Rhodenizer, folklorist Helen Creighton, Archdeacon Wilcox, and others met at the home of Clara Dennis to study sonnets, criticize each other’s poetry, and inform themselves of the latest publications. The evening concluded with the group gathered around the hearth singing favourite songs by the light of the fire.67 Unlike the reading and other organized cultural groups that were part of the Canadian landscape in this era, the caa consisted only of those interested in writing. In no other setting could aspiring and established authors share information, offer encouragement, and experience belonging to a group of like-minded people. The association was unashamedly preoccupied with commercial issues. “The authors of the earlier centuries may have been more or less vagabonds … But the twentieth-century man-of-letters is and must be primarily a business-man,” Stringer told the founding convention. “It is imposed upon him. He can reach his audience, nowadays, only through the complicated machinery of the press.”68 A concern with impending federal copyright legislation had served as a catalyst for the launching of the organization in 1921. At the second annual meeting, Stead, on behalf of the Calgary branch, moved a motion requesting that Canadian magazines pay authors on the acceptance, rather than on publication, of a story or article. Within the organization, committees studied the standardization of contracts, legal services for authors, and the collection of overdue payments. Canadian Book Week, which involved co-operation among publishers, authors, bookstores, and editors, was designed to increase sales. Of particular concern to many members of the caa was their dependence on American publishers, magazines, and readers and the precarious state of Canadian magazines. During his national tour as president in 1922, Robert Stead highlighted the enormous circulation of American magazines in Canada and noted that, with the availability of cheap syndicated American fiction, Canadian magazines and newspapers printed very little Canadian fiction.69 In 1910, M.O. Hammond of the Toronto Globe had told Nellie McClung, when she asked for $350 for serial rights to The Second Chance, that he could buy good novels from New York or London for $50 and that “patriotism and local pride, valuable as they are, have a limit when it comes to hard cash.”70 By the 1920s the majority of Canadians had accepted the fact that Canada was North American rather than British. Even before the First World War, Frank Wise, president of the Macmillan Company of Canada, told the British public – hoping, no doubt, that his corporate bosses in London would also hear – that Canada was a poor market

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for British books because of the cost, subject matter, and lack of commercialization. The border between Canada and the United States was almost an imaginary line, he said, and the two peoples shared commerce, fashions, literature, Broadway stars, brand-name products, and books. “The American publisher knows his public,” he declared, “and gives it a novel in a cover embellished with as much colour and gold as the cost of manufacture and the royalty will stand.”71 In comparison, the British product was drab and colourless. Under these circumstances, it was difficult for Canada to withstand the force of a nation with twelve times its population. In spite of the general acceptance of Canada as a North American nation, there were still many who cared about Canadian culture and lobbied on its behalf. Some individuals suggested a boycott of American fiction, while others called for the imposition of a tariff wall. There were appeals throughout the 1920s for protection from foreign magazines and periodicals, but the government took no action until 1930, when the Conservative administration of R.B. Bennett imposed a sliding scale of tariffs based on the percentage of advertising.72 This action was, however, too late to affect the fortune of Canadian fiction. Magazines were already replacing fiction with non-fiction as the staple of their product. The golden age was ebbing. In the post-war period a few Canadian magazines attempted, with some success, to compete with the American product by becoming champions of Canadian culture. There were still those, however, who insisted that to be Canadian was to avoid sordid commercialism and remain wedded to high ideals. The abortive Women’s Century of Toronto is a good example of this outdated mentality. The editor condemned the Hearst chain of publications and wanted to stop the flow of Canadian culture across the border, but she was unable to pay a credible amount for submissions.73 Far more successful was Maclean’s Magazine under the editorship of T.B. Costain from 1916. Believing that Canadians in the midst of a nationalist war euphoria were no longer content “with the literary by-products of neighbouring countries,” he sought to provide them with reading that reflected “the Canadian point of view and to be redolent of the Canadian atmosphere.”74 Vowing to be informative and entertaining, but also clean and decent, Costain sought to counter the “un-Canadian, vicious, and unwholesome” American magazine product. McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer were among the first authors he featured. Ironically, Costain resigned four years later to accept a position with the American Curtis empire, first as an assistant with the Ladies’ Home Journal and then with the Saturday Evening Post.75 His successor, J. Vernon Mackenzie, continued Costain’s editorial policy and pub-

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lished novels by Stead, Stringer, and others. Maclean’s was also assisted by a 1920s Canadian law which made it easier for Canadian magazines to obtain first serial rights to fiction. Before this time, American editors were refusing to allow Canadian publications to serialize stories for which they held the rights. From the early 1920s, if a Canadian editor failed to secure such rights from the United States, he or she could take the story and pay whatever price the editor liked for it, the price being subject to revision by a board of review.76 By 1934, Maclean’s Magazine had a circulation of nearly 200,000, greater than that any of its American competitors.77 For both authors and publishers, however, the importance of the huge American market made being Canadian a constant series of compromises, in which they balanced patriotism with financial considerations. Most publishers would consider Canadian fiction only if there was also an American edition, and because the possibility of a profit was enhanced by using American printing plates, they routinely made that a part of the contract. In spite of his nationalism, Stead continued to sell second serial rights to American publications, and he also tried, without great success, to sell new material to American magazines. Although Connor and Stringer came to insist on separate Canadian publishing contracts by the 1930s, they continued to view the United States as their primary market. When, after the success of Anne of Green Gables, William Briggs asked Montgomery for the rights to her next book, she said that even if these rights were not already pledged to Page, “I wouldn’t give the ms to a Canadian firm. It is much better financially to have it published in the States.”78 Although each of the five authors realized the importance of the American market, the one area in which they never compromised was in consciously writing for the U.S. audience alone. At times, Connor included negative stereotypes of Americans in his fiction, especially in his first two novels and in Corporal Cameron. Later in his career, he attempted to present a version of the War of 1812 that would satisfy both Canadian and American readers. Both Montgomery and McClung remained faithful to Canadian locales and content, while Stead vehemently rejected suggestions from his American publisher and agent that he set his novels in an American setting and write for a U.S. audience. Even Stringer fought successfully against similar advice, particularly with Mud Lark, which retained its Canadian prairie setting rather than being located in Idaho. Both Connor and Stead had looked forward in the pre-war years to some type of British imperial unity as a part of a strong, independent Canadian identity. As this dream quickly evaporated in the post-war era, they embraced a wider world vision in which Canada was a

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partner of the United States. Even during the war, Connor had devoted several months in an official capacity to trying to persuade a neutral United States to give more support to the Allied cause. It was his fame as an author that attracted the large audiences to his speeches. “The people of the United States,” he said at this time, “constantly claim me as their fellow citizen.”79 In this same period, McClung had triumphant American tours as a suffrage speaker. In the post-war period, Stead became a much-sought-after-dinner speaker at gatherings calculated to promote goodwill between Canada and the United States. They all had become Canadians living comfortably in a North American, rather than a British, milieu, but as writers, they did not consciously sacrifice their patriotism for material gain by catering wholly to an American audience. In 1939, when the Canadian Pacific Railway produced a souvenir of welcome for the visit to Canada of King George vi and Queen Elizabeth, it turned to the poets and novelists to write the chapters on each province. To McClung went the honour of British Columbia; to Montgomery, Prince Edward Island; and to Stead, Alberta.80 This was a direct result of their stature as fiction writers who focused on Canadian regions. The five authors in this study were part of the first generation of Canadian writers who became internationally recognized creators of best-selling fiction. They accomplished this stature in spite of the critical disdain of the national literary elite and their distance from the English-language publishing centres of New York and London. Realizing that their primary market lay outside Canada, they worked hard to find publishers and readers in the United States and the British Empire, and they did so without compromising their nationality. Throughout their careers, they maintained a focus on Canada in their fiction. Unfortunately, with the ever-increasing gulf between high and popular culture, these best-selling authors, in their encounters with modernity, lost the respect and support of the Canadian literary elite.

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Conclusion: Journeys’ End

“I have had my day and must make way for new favourites,” Maud Montgomery wrote in her diary in the autumn of 1928. “For twenty years I have been in the van and that is considered a long time for the fickle public to be faithful.”1 Although she would continue to write fiction for another decade, Montgomery, like the other authors in this study, experienced a decline in sales in the latter stages of her career. Not everyone was as philosophical as Montgomery, but even she would have sympathized with Henry James when he wrote, “a new generation, that I know not, and mainly prize not, has taken over.”2 Although a slow ebbing of popularity is normal for successful authors, there is something almost tragic in their discovery that the changing world and changing tastes are rejecting them. The decline in sales, the shrinking of publishers’ advances, and the rejection of manuscripts often leave disappointment, bewilderment, and even bitterness in their path. “My books are good stuff – there is certainly nothing better in Canada,” Charles Gordon told John McClelland in 1935, “and they ought to go better than they are.”3 But George Doran noted in the previous year that both he and Ralph Connor had “gone into the inevitable eclipse occasioned by the shifting of the planes of public opinion,” and he doubted if he could “successfully publish for this generation.”4 Once modernity had reached a critical mass sufficiently powerful to envelop society from the 1890s on, rapid, pervasive, and unceasing change became one of the more conspicuous characteristics. “The speed with which the novel [i.e., the new] became familiar,” notes

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Keith Walden, “suggests why crowds craved intensity; the escalation of risk; why people looked increasingly to the realm of entertainment to find it vicariously.”5 As people became acclimatized to this atmosphere, they came to expect a never-ending variety of faddish experiences and products. Fiction was simply another commodity caught up in these expectations. Because of this constant state of flux and perpetual innovation, modernity in the 1930s was very different from that of the 1890s, the decade in which the five authors in this study began their careers. When Marie Corelli, a literary star in Britain and North America from 1886 to 1914, died in 1924, the London Times posed the question “Who was Marie Corelli?”6 The writer then noted the dramatic changes in culture since the time that this author, who had believed that an artist’s power could shape and sustain high ideals in modern life, had written best-selling, melodramatic romances. As early as 1921, Charles Gordon lamented the “madness for pleasure, that has seized our young people … and their passion for the vulgar spotlight,” but he believed that this phase would pass and that there would be a return to the refinement of the pre-war years.7 It was, however, an impossible wish. In the early 1930s, Canadian author Laura Goodman Salverson, a close friend of Nellie McClung, complained that “our smart young men and Free young women prefer to eat, drink, and be jazzy rather than risk a single foible for the betterment of life in general. I think what irks me the most is the silly phrase about our brave, young – fearless moderns! Lord bless us, where does the courage come in?”8 The world to which Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer had addressed their first fiction still focused on the ideal of a formal, genteel culture. Nellie McClung hosted weekly afternoon “at homes” in Manitou for which she issued calling cards, as did Nettie Stead in High River. Both Stead and Stringer wore the conventional stiff, Edwardian high collar with a tie. Educators selected only that prose and poetry which would inculcate reverence and a desire to be uplifted.9 This was a world that revered honour, duty, kindliness, grace, formal style, beauty, and rational amusement – a world that still valued self-denial and self-sacrifice. In 1932, Maud Montgomery noted that members of her grandmother’s generation had lived their lives “in a practically unchanged and changeless world … And my generation! what have we not seen? Everything we once thought immoveable wrenched from its pedestal and hurled into ruins … our whole world turned upside down and stirred up – before us nothing but a welter of doubt and confusion and uncertainty.”10 Montgomery most certainly exaggerates the stability of her grandmother’s era, but

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what is important in this comment is her perspective and consciousness. No doubt, many in the earlier generation were unaware of the numerous changes in ideas and thought. For Montgomery’s generation, however, there was no escaping an awareness of the full impact of modernity on its society. In spite of the sentiments in this passage, written when she was in her late fifties and in a depressed state, Montgomery, like the other four authors in this study, encountered modernity with general optimism, met its challenges, and took advantage of its opportunities. Although they reflected these virtues and goals, there were other aspects of the disappearing Victorian sensibility which they rejected in their encounters with modernity. They wrote in a simple, natural prose which reflected the lifestyle and speech of the people, and they avoided earnestness and insufferable didacticism. Their works contain no excessive pietism, fanaticism, or provincialism. Based on personal observation and experience, these stories tingle with vitality, wit, and humour. The authentic heroes and heroines are attractive, stimulating, vital, modern people who exhibit their creators’ optimism and faith in humanity. They also reflect the importance of the individual and of self-realization in modern society. Yet these novels were also almost universally considered wholesome and clean. “One thing that can be said about Canadian literature,” Montgomery said in 1924, “is that it is clean … There are very few stories published in Canada that mothers could not give to their daughters.”11 These were values with which middle-class readers throughout the world could identify. Like other spokespersons for this group, the five authors hoped for the assimilation into this milieu of the multitude of immigrants who were a feature of all New World societies. “In The Foreigner, Connor has given us the novel of evolving Canada, the Canada of the melting pot stage of today,” wrote a reviewer in the Canadian Magazine in 1910. “In the end the uncouth Galician becomes a Canadian of whom the country might be proud … That it may happen to others … is a consummation devoutly to be wished.”12 In Manitou the Women’s Society, in which McClung was an active participant, taught English to Chinese residents several nights a week.13 In Winnipeg the Presbyterian Church published a newspaper for immigrants and introduced a kindergarten for the children. In their perception of race, these five authors reflected attitudes typical of a Western society which expected assimilation to the standards of the majority. There was, however, a visible minority for whom assimilation was virtually unthinkable. In 1919 an Appeals Court upheld a decision by Lowe’s Theatre in Montreal to ban blacks from entering the movie theatre.14 Similar restrictions for all blacks

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and Asians barred them from theatres, municipal swimming pools, and other facilities, or provided special segregated seating at the back or in the balcony. In his early poetry, Robert Stead excluded blacks and Asians from his vision of the new Canada being born.15 Connor, McClung, and Stringer shared much of his racial anxiety. There was, however, another perception of Canada as a mosaic, rather than a melting pot slowly taking shape in the interwar period, with John Murray Gibbon, first president of the Canadian Authors Association, as the leading spokesperson. Through his position as general publicity agent for the Canadian Pacific Railway, Gibbon sponsored a series of ethnic festivals across Canada. While there is no doubt that these events were designed, in part, to fill the corporation’s hotels during the slack season, they also reflected a genuine appreciation of the culture of the ethnic minorities. In his Canadian Mosaic: The Making of a Northern Nation (1938), Gibbon was the first to articulate a vision of this new Canada.16 Perhaps more quickly than most other Canadians, the five authors in this study embraced this new vision. According to K.P. Stitch, Stead’s earlier reservations gave way “to an enthusiastic acceptance of a multi-ethnic Canadian West” – an acceptance than came rapidly and naturally.17 After attending a League of Nations session in the 1930s and listening to the Chinese delegate, Gordon found the experience “put the final touches to my complete emancipation from the Occidental sense of the intellectual and cultural superiority of my race over the peoples of the Orient.”18 In the same decade, concerned with the rising tide of nativism, McClung spoke out on behalf of the unemployed in the relief camps, the Jewish refugees who were denied entry into Canada, and the Japanese Canadians, soon to be interned in camps during the war. She had previously given a sympathetic portrait of a Finnish heroine in Painted Fires. Stringer had always refused to create the conventional French-Canadian or Native villains so often found in the literature of the era. After hearing an address by a Mr Luckovich at a meeting of the Canadian Authors Association in 1931, Montgomery noted that “there is hope for the ’melting pot’ yet when one generation can travel so far.”19 Although Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer remained optimistic and continued to strive for perfection and happiness, they found it increasingly difficult to adjust to changing times in which idealism was no longer in fashion. They did not, however, become cynical or bitter. Noting in 1922, with the appearance of radio, that “all these wonderful inventions and discoveries, treading on each other’s heels, give me a sense of weariness and a longing to go back to the slower years of old,” Montgomery admitted that “it keeps

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humanity on its tiptoe … [but] all these things don’t make the world or the people any happier.”20 Yet in 1931 she was anticipating television and hoped that it would allow her to see people talking instead of just hearing them.21 Part of this vision included a church of the future, centred only in large cities, with services broadcast to the homes of country people, where all they would have to do would be “to press a button and hear and see.”22 Both Gordon and McClung continued to regard the Bible as the world’s most important book and worried about the influence of comics and modern literature on the youth. “How can you expect a high code of morals in little boys today, if they draw their Saturday fun from the Katzenhammer Twins who lie so fearlessly,” McClung asked. “The fun of the comic supplement consists in the discomfiture, fright, and pain of someone else. Not very elevating, is it?”23 “We are now a literate people, but unless we can give our people ideals in reading, our literacy may be our undoing,” she told Lorne Pierce in 1927. “It fills me with deep apprehension for the future, when I see our boys and girls devouring the horrible mass of sordid stories, all about half-wit millionaires, easy wealth, sordid luxury, degeneracy, drunkenness, lawlessness, abnormal sex life – and thinking that this is life.”24 Because spiritual resources had not kept pace with the material ones, McClung believed that it was harder to dream good dreams and think great thoughts as people filled their days with trifles. As a result, they experienced ennui and discontent. The modern world with its hurry and agitation, notes Christoph Asendorf, “keeps the nervous system on the rack.”25 Urging parents not to gossip and to talk to their children about high things, Gordon advocated an appreciation of natural beauty. “You can’t be snappy and cross if you are talking about the stars or the sunset or the woods, or beautiful things,” he told his St Stephen’s congregation in 1920. “It prevents vulgarity, it rubs out coarseness, and it kills that deadly and disgusting cheap smartness, which poses for wit, that is becoming so much the adjunct of society.”26 The disappearing voice of the poet concerned Stringer. Worried that the “overingenious expounders of modern verse are digging poetry’s grave” because of their distance from potential readers, he urged poets to “get back to the grass-roots and link up with the common life and the common speech as Chaucer and Shakespeare, and Burns, and Wordsworth once did.”27 The world was changing and the golden age was ending; there was nothing that these five authors or anyone else could do about it. “Many do not now like Connor,” the chief librarian of Toronto told an audience in 1924, “but they are the ones who prefer sex-complexed

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modern society novels and the rattle of garbage cans on main street.”28 Even more depressing for poet Earle Birney was the discovery that at least eighty per cent of his first-year university students in the late 1940s “arrived in my class convinced that poetry was a mug’s game, reading-for-pleasure an occupation for aged invalids, and literature courses a waste of time for a man who has to make his way in the world.”29 In that new literature noted by the Toronto chief librarian, drinking becomes an adventure, not something to be scorned. Advocates of prohibition increasingly became objects of ridicule, labelled as provincial, self-righteous bigots of another era. The new masculine idols, the gangsters, thwarted respectability. The world of books and movies was now in the hands of public relations manipulators. “Twenty years ago all we had to do was say: Here is a new Ralph Connor book or a new Rex Beach or a new Mary Roberts Rinehart book, and the booksellers and the public accepted these new books without question,” George Doran told Connor in 1923. “Today, however, the very first question asked is, ’What sort of a book is it?›30 As a result, the launching of a new author or attempts to maintain the popularity of an established one increasingly involved a costly public relations campaign. What a difference from the time when a dozen pirated editions of Connor’s Black Rock made him famous in the United States! The market and the status of authors changed in other ways as well. Magazines began to publish less poetry and then less fiction until, by the 1950s, three-quarters of the content consisted of non-fiction articles.31 There was also a decline in circulation, the merger of some, such as the Pictorial Review and the Delineator in 1934, and the disappearance of others. In late 1929, Montgomery noted with sadness the passing of Youth’s Companion, once the leading children’s magazine and also the one of the first that had paid her for her submissions. “I suppose the taste of modern youth did not care for it,” she noted, “– although it seemed to keep up with the times surprisingly well. Its time had simply come.”32 By the late 1920s, movie marquees and advertisements no longer featured best-selling authors as prominently; nor were as many movies based on books by popular authors as once had been the case. In the 1930s the Canadian railways cancelled the free passes for authors for travel to Canadian Authors Association meetings. By the middle of that decade, the Manitoba Free Press and other newspapers no longer published serialized fiction. Even the degree of imperial unity declined, as Sydney-based Angus and Robertson replaced London-based Hodder and Stoughton as the primary publishers of fiction in Australia.

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There was also a change in the retailing and purchasing of Canadian fiction. At the height of the golden age, small outlets such as general stores and drugstores, sold fiction in large quantities. In the small city of Calgary, bookstores had ordered hundreds of copies of a Stead, McClung, or Connor novel in advance of publication. By the mid1920s the number of stores selling books had shrunk, and the remaining bookstores became more cautious. John McClelland told Stead that advance orders for a novel, which had previously been 13,000, were now about 2,000.33 It was now the fashion to order small and then reorder if necessary. Increasingly, retailers did not bother. Bookshelves in many Canadian homes reflected the trend. Increasingly faded volumes of Connor, McClung, Stead, Zane Grey, and other authors sat gathering dust beside the Bible and a few old classics by Dickens, Scott, and others. Seldom did the novels of Frederick Philip Grove, Morley Callaghan, or Hugh MacLennan, the next generation of Canadian authors, joined the older volumes on the shelves. There were still readers, but not in the numbers that had made Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer best-selling authors with record Canadian sales ranging as high as 60,000 hardcover copies. Although the American publisher Frank Dodd thanked Canadian publisher Jack McClelland in late 1930 “for turning an excellent author our way,”34 Ralph Connor was not quite the catch that the firm, Dodd, Mead, anticipated. Just three years later, it informed Connor that the manuscript of The Glengarry Girl was not up to his usual standard and should be revised or recast. When Connor refused to rework the novel, the situation required considerable pressure from McClelland in Toronto to persuade Dodd, Mead to proceed with publication.35 In 1937, Connor’s new British publisher refused to accept The Gay Crusader, a manuscript subsequently also rejected by George Harrap, Hutchinson, and Hodder and Stoughton. “We cannot feel that this book is likely to enhance the great reputation of Ralph Connor,” R. Percy Hodder-Williams told John McClelland, “or to obtain a sale which would be anything but disappointing.”36 He was correct in this assumption, for all Connor’s novels from 1932 onwards failed to generate sufficient sales in Britain and the colonies to cover even the decreasing advances paid to the author.37 When Connor’s sales began to decline in the 1920s, George Doran used the parable of Henry Ford and the Model T car in an attempt to explain the situation to him. This car had served millions of people as the standard popular automobile of the day, but although it remained a good car, the public said that “we want something different.”38 In failing to retool to meet this new demand in the late 1920s, “Ford lost a year of production and $100 million … and is now fighting for

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market share.” Gordon, however, blamed his publishers for his fall in popularity. He did not modernize his style as suggested by Doran or even try to improve his sloppy writing habits. Titles arrived too late for insertion into mail-order catalogues; completed manuscripts too late to maximize Christmas sales. There is a double tragedy in this story of Ralph Connor’s final years. One was his failure either to understand why he was no longer popular or to change in any way; the other was the desperate state of his financial situation. In the 1930s he turned to New York agents in an attempt to generate more revenue, but the experiment failed miserably. The stories he submitted were either dated or unsuited to the requirements. He was unable to create a serial with the properly formatted individual chapters. Even the Church School Publications of the American Methodist Episcopal Church found his work too long, too filled with profanity, poorly constructed, and out of touch with the times.39 As his advances fell to $500 and his royalty to 15 per cent, Gordon cried out for consideration and more money. “I am surprised at your proposal to cut the advance payment,” he told John McClelland. “I cannot live on that … You do not seem to appreciate the fact that I have no margin.”40 At the same time, he told Fleming H. Revell Jr that his whole estate had been “practically wiped out.”41 Realizing that he could not fulfill his wish of presenting his eldest daughter with a house at the time of her marriage in 1933, he told McClelland that “this, like other dreams, has faded.”42 Nevertheless, a Gordon wedding had a certain standard to meet, and he did not restrict other expenses. In the autumn of 1937, after being stricken at his Lake of the Woods cottage, where he had written most of his novels, Charles Gordon died in a Winnipeg hospital at 6:10 a.m. on Sunday, 13 October. Later, the city of Winnipeg seized his house because of arrears in taxes. The story of Robert Stead’s final years is less poignant, but nevertheless still tragic. It was with Grain in the mid-1920s that Stead reached the crossroads of his career. Determined to develop as a serious creative artist in an era no longer obsessed with reform, he wrote a manuscript that moved away from a potentially popular audience. His agent, J.C. Brandt of New York, recognized that he had progressed into a higher-brow delineation of agrarian character in which there was little adventure and action, but she believed that “since the details of that kind of living are foreign to us, and on the whole do not interest city people very much, you must carry your books either on a love story or the loveableness or pathos of some character.”43 Grain’s hero, Gander Stake, fails at love and neither is particularly lovable nor elicits much pathos.

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For reasons unknown to us, Stead’s next novel, The Copper Disc (1931), moved from the farm to the northern wilderness and focuses on spies, corporate intelligence officers, love, and murder in an adventure story about the world of radio broadcasting and electronics.44 Perhaps this was his attempt to write a best-seller for a new market. Whatever the motivation, the experiment was a humiliating disaster, both artistically and financially. Without informing his Canadian publisher, McClelland and Stewart, Stead arranged with his agent, Brandt and Brandt, and Doubleday, Doran and Company for the transfer of the novel to its subsidiary, Crime Club Incorporated, which sold mystery stories for $1.00 rather than the $2.50 expected for a regular novel.45 Realizing that he could not make a profit on the book, and that it might disturb the Canadian market for subsequent Stead novels, McClelland tried unsuccessfully to have the book removed from the Crime Club. When the extra sales predicted by his agent and American publisher did not materialize, Stead was left with little profit and with his integrity as a serious author tarnished. Although he felt that his next novel, once again placed in an agrarian prairie setting, was “unquestionably my most mature and worthwhile production,” neither his agent nor his publisher agreed.46 In the 1930s, when publishers accepted only those works of fiction that seemed likely to return the investment, Stead’s Dry Water did not inspire confidence.47 As late as the mid-1940s, he was still trying unsuccessfully to sell the manuscript, which by then had been rewritten many times. He could write, it seems, for neither a popular nor an elite audience. Until his death in 1959, Stead continued to write inspirational articles for Rotary Club publications, a few short stories, and non-fiction for the Canadian Geographical Journal, and taught creative writing at Carleton College. He did not attempt another novel. Because Nellie McClung wrote no more novels after the publication of Painted Fires in 1925, she did not have a similar experience. She did write many short stories and a syndicated newspaper column which found a loyal audience. Increasingly crippled with arthritis from the 1930s, McClung found it difficult to write and required the services of a secretary. When her husband retired, they moved to an idyllic, rural location on the edge of Victoria, British Columbia, in 1933 – close enough to the city to partake in social and cultural events, but far enough removed to commune with nature, which for the first time included the ocean. Just as she had done earlier in life, McClung devoted herself to causes. At the nearby St Aidan’s United Church, she was one of the few woman elders in Canada. In 1932 she received an appointment as the only woman on the Board of Broadcast Governors, and in 1938

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she was a delegate to the League of Nations. There were also speaking tours across Canada in 1935 and 1937, designed in part to generate money for home renovations but also to wake up citizens in the same manner as she had been doing since the first decade of the century. Most of all, however, she reached her audience through the syndicated newspaper column, which she continued to write from her bed after a heart attack in 1940.48 If there was tragedy near the end of her life, it was the suicide of her eldest son, Jack, who had problems with alcohol, and her own failing health.49 Others were saddened to see this woman, with her unquenchable enthusiasm for life, bedridden with arthritis and a weak heart, unable to go to church, and dictating the final volume of her autobiography because she could no longer write herself. She remained, however, “optimistic Nellie” until her death on 1 September 1951. For Maud Montgomery, there were similar personal tragedies, but like Charles Gordon, she had to continue writing for financial reasons. Disappointed in her two sons, she nevertheless supported them financially in spite of their failings. When the Norval congregation finally forced her husband’s retirement in 1935 because of his increasing debilitation from depression, their move to Toronto entailed the purchase of a house for the first time.50 No longer was there a free manse. Like the McClungs in Victoria, Maud found an idyllic retreat in Toronto adjacent to the Humber River, appropriately named “Journey’s End,” in one of the prettiest middle-class suburbs. With two bathrooms and a recreation room in the basement, it was a very modern dwelling for the Montgomerys in their retirement. But with a sullen, unshaven, and increasingly vindictive husband and her own bouts of neurasthenia and recently acquired asthma, Montgomery found little joy in life. For the first time since the success of Anne of Green Gables in 1908, she also experienced financial difficulties. Having invested many thousands of dollars in the stock market, she now discovered their value to be a fraction of what she had paid. Worse yet, many of the companies either cut their annual dividend in half or passed over them entirely. “It is a long time since I had to be so careful of my expenditure,” she noted in her journal. “I count every cent and spend absolutely nothing that is not necessary. I had meant to buy a new winter coat for my old one is decidedly shabby.”51 Not only did she have to forgo the coat, but she also, for the first time since Anne of Avonlea, typed her own manuscript for Pat of Silver Bush because she could not afford the fifty dollars that a typist would cost. Montgomery also complained about her friends, to whom she had loaned over $10,000, and who were not even bothering to pay interest on the

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loans.52 She suffered another blow when her British publisher, Hodder and Stoughton, refused to accept Mistress Pat. With her savings depleted, she had to depend on her royalties for income. It was probably for this reason, not a desire to write more Anne sequels, that she turned back to the heroine who had made her famous thirty years before for two of her last four novels in the 1930s. Just having Anne in the title was sufficient to garner respectable sales. In 1940, Montgomery suffered a nervous collapse from which she never recovered. She died on 24 April 1942 in her sixty-ninth year. Her Anne would endure forever, but increasingly from the 1930s on, much to Montgomery’s dismay, bookstores placed her books in the children’s section.53 In marketing her in this fashion, retailers marginalized her and depleted her adult audience. Arthur Stringer became a victim of the declining magazine preoccupation with fiction, his continued refusal to be anyone’s permanent servant, and the changing tastes of the public. From the mid-1930s, he began to experience declining sales, a reduction in advances, and the rejection of manuscripts. There was no pre-publication serialization for his last eight novels. With both The Wife Traders (1935) and Intruders in Eden (1942), editors felt that the subject matter of adultery was unsuitable for a magazine audience.54 In the early 1940s, twenty-five magazines rejected “The Windfall,” a situation reminiscent of four decades earlier. When the Saturday Review published an unflattering critique of his Dark Wing in 1939 which referred to Stringer as “an anachronism in the day of Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Hemingway,” he cried out against the “repeated effort to shroud me in a satisfactory aroma of antiquity.”55 But his arguments lack conviction. As a senior man of letters, Stringer continued to publish poetry, address audiences, and hope for something more. In 1939 he joined Charles G.D. Roberts, D.C. Scott, and E.J. Pratt in a poetry reading on the cbc Radio Network. In 1945 the Eaton Auditorium in Toronto produced his drama The Lady Intervenes. After years of pestering, he at last achieved the goal of conducting a poetry seminar at the University of Western Ontario in 1947. Finally, a year later, his biography of Rupert Brooke, The Red Wine of Youth, appeared. There were few limits to his ambition, but there were limits to his success. In 1944 the Yale Review rejected his article “An Apology for Poetry,” and Queen’s Quarterly refused his story “It Pays to Be Kind,” and although Saturday Night accepted three of his poems in the 1940s, the editor reminded Stringer that, with seven thousand poems on file, it might be some time before they were published.56 In 1950, the year of his death after suffering a heart attack, however, several of his poems appeared in the New York Times.

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In spite of the declining popularity of their new works, Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer maintained a profile with their international audiences and became Canadian celebrities. In a Toronto Star poll in the 1920s in search of the most famous living Canadian women, McClung was eighth and Montgomery ninth. In a larger 1924 survey of the greatest living Canadians, sponsored by the Canadian Clubs, Connor was eighth and Montgomery twentysecond. When the ywca organized a contest in the same decade on which books best portrayed Canadian life, Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables ranked sixth and Stringer’s The Prairie Wife tenth.57 By the end of the 1920s the acknowledged popular list of Canadian classics included Montgomery’s Anne, Connor’s Man from Glengarry, and Stringer’s Prairie Wife. Only Robert Stead, who lamented in the mid1930s that all his works were out of print, failed to make these lists, but by the 1970s, Grain did appear on a list of the one hundred best Canadian novels, organized by the University of Calgary Conference on the Canadian Novel.58 In a Quill and Quire list, compiled by thirtyseven academics, writers, booksellers, and librarians in 1999, Anne of Green Gables appeared in tenth position among the forty best Canadian works of fiction published between 1900 and 1984.59 There were more tangible honours as well. Upon the invitation of its members, Charles Gordon became a fellow of the Royal Society of Canada. In 1919 the University of Glasgow awarded him an honorary doctor of divinity degree, and in 1937 the University of Manitoba, an honorary lld. Gordon was made a member of the Order of St Michael and St George in 1935, in the same honours list in which Montgomery became a companion of the Order of the British Empire. In that same year the Literary and Artistic Institute of France selected her as a member. This was a rare honour, infrequently bestowed on someone who was not a French citizen. The University of Western Ontario awarded Stringer a doctor of letters degree in 1946. At the site where the village of Millford once stood, the residents of Manitoba in 1945 erected a cairn to Nellie McClung, who had immortalized the town and region in her Pearlie Watson novels. Twenty years later the Ontario Historic Sites Board honoured Montgomery in similar fashion on the lawn of the manse at Leaskdale. Meanwhile, the tourists streamed into “Anne country” on Prince Edward Island and, in smaller numbers, to the Glengarry schoolhouse featured in Connor novels. “We are becoming quite proud of our school,” the current teacher told Connor in 1933, “as many strangers, who have read your books, come to visit it.”60 The real test for popular authors, however, is not how much fame they acquire or how many personal tributes they receive, but the

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length of time that their books endure as living entities. For these five authors, the record is impressive. During the 1930s, excerpts from Connor’s Glengarry novels appeared in several American school texts.61 In the early 1940s, Grosset and Dunlap printed 10,000 copies of The Sky Pilot and Glengarry School Days.62 In this same period, his first North American paperback, a Collins White Circle edition of The Sky Pilot, was published.63 Since that time, paperback editions of several Connor novels have appeared. Some are still in print. Stead’s volumes remained out of print for several years, but McClung’s Sowing Seed in Danny was available until the 1960s. Both authors received fresh respect and new paperback editions in the upsurge of academic interest in Canadian literature in the 1970s. Montgomery’s best fiction remains so popular that it continues to find audiences throughout the world. For Arthur Stringer, the decline was more gradual and more complete. In the late 1940s the young, opinionated modernist A.J.M. Smith edited him out of the latest anthology of Canadian poetry, but at the same time, McClelland and Stewart reissued The Woman in the Rain and Other Poems.64 In the 1930s there were Hungarian translations of several of his mystery titles and popular reprint editions of his Prairie Trilogy. The only modern paperback edition of any of his works was Harlequin’s issue of The Wife Traders in 1955.65 In the mid1970s, Lightyear Press of Laurel, New York, reissued several of his titles, including The Wire Tappers, Phantom Wires, and The Prairie Wife. Then in the next decade, Ayers Publishing of New Hampshire issued a hardcover edition of his first prose volume, The Loom of Destiny. At the time of this writing, however, he is the only one of the five authors for whom there are no volumes in print. The fundamental reason for Stringer’s current status is his reputation with the Canadian academic literary community. Although Acadia University included him, with Connor and Montgomery, in its inaugural course on Canadian literature in 1924, to which it later added Stead, Stringer would not be part of the 1970s revival of academic interest in Canadian literature.66 Of the five, only Connor and Stead gained entry on their own merits. McClung received attention primarily because of her role as a feminist activist. Other academics initially hid behind the cloak of children’s literature to satisfy their addiction to Montgomery and her fiction. For her, it mattered little what the academic community thought. Her Anne had become an icon, familiar to many international readers. In the 1890s, readers with insatiable appetites for modern fiction and other genres had converged with an emerging commercialized publishing industry. The result was a golden age of hardcover fiction.

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As the publishing industry accepted the principles of modern, market-oriented capitalism, dependent on new technology and capable of producing the millions of volumes now demanded by consumers, literary agents emerged as negotiators between authors and the increasingly impersonal corporations. Those authors who, like Arthur Stringer, took full advantage of the services of these agents to produce work for magazines, books, and movies were able to maximize their earnings. Others who, like Ralph Connor, ignored those services were still able to become internationally famous, best-selling authors on the sheer strength of their popularity and sales. The period from the 1890s to the First World War also witnessed the high point in a liberal age of self-improvement, in which what we now separate into high and popular culture coexisted for a significant percentage of society. Thousands of middle-class citizens gathered in literary and other clubs seeking knowledge and enlightenment from poetry, plays, popular novels, and works of non-fiction. Believing that the creation of a perfect society was possible, both these people and many of the authors whom they studied put their faith in reform movements. Coexisting with this phenomenon was an increasing acceptance of the need for fun and entertainment without the burden of self-improvement. For many, self-realization was becoming the essence of their modern lives. Ralph Connor, Robert Stead, Nellie McClung, Maud Montgomery, and Arthur Stringer each in his or her own way responded to the challenges and opportunities of this golden age. For Connor, Stead, and McClung, fiction became a vehicle for reform. They were able to merge popular genres with advice for improving society. In Connor’s early novels the focus is on maintaining order and Christian faith in an industrial society, whether located on the frontier or in the modern city. In these adventure stories, in which alcohol, gambling, and violence wreck havoc in the lives of the people, he stresses the need for both individual and institutional support to redress the situation. His heroes and heroines, such as Mrs Mavor, The Pilot, Gwen, and Mrs Murray, demonstrate that individuals can change entire societies. With institutions, part of the answer is found in a modernized church possessing a liberal, progressive faith anchored in love, tolerance, and compassion. In his novels, Robert Stead seeks to maintain people’s more secular souls in face of an onslaught of materialistic values and lifestyles, while McClung champions the capacity of women to make this world a better place. She uses Pearlie Watson in her first three novels to show, as Connor had done, that a single person can make miracles happen. Increasingly in her novels, McClung also focuses on the legal and other rights which women had not yet attained.

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While the novels of these three authors both instruct and entertain, the works of Montgomery and Stringer are more in tune with the emerging, twentieth-century world in limiting their obvious purpose to that of entertainment. In spite of this focus, Montgomery introduces, through Anne and her later heroines, a progressive view of childhood and children’s rights, which includes the right to friendship, to belonging, to being heard, to having an imagination and being mischievous, and to an education. Arthur Stringer probes more deeply into modern consciousness in his fiction, in which he is particularly adept at defining the nature and scope of the modern woman. Each of these five authors was in the forefront of new genres of popular fiction. In his wilderness adventure stories with religious overtones, Ralph Connor shared the field with Harold Bell Wright. Robert Stead was one of the North American pioneers of homestead novels. Nellie McClung was an important North American writer of feminist fiction and non-fiction, while Maud Montgomery was a pioneer of secular fiction focusing on children. With his urban and crime fiction, Arthur Stringer was both a Canadian and an international innovator. Later, he joined other authors in using the northern wilderness as a setting for his adventure novels. As the audience, readers played a central part in the golden age of hardcover fiction. Without their voices, we cannot possibly know what the works of these five writers meant or what impact they had. By listening to readers, we learn that this fiction did far more than entertain. It also consoled, brought new hope, enlightened, instilled confidence, motivated, and even redirected lives. They were not passive recipients of a mind-numbing culture. Popular fiction could and did change lives and assist people in their journeys into an everchanging modern world. By the time of their deaths, which ranged from 1937 to 1959, Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer each had grown uncomfortable with some aspects of that ever-changing modernity. These included the flippant attitudes, the prominence of explicit sexual references and graphic realism in fiction, the growing secularism, and the incessant changes. Yet they had come to accept as a natural part of life the salient features of modernity. Brand-name consumerism with its advertising defined their purchasing in a world now shaped by an urban consciousness. Technology made their lives more comfortable and enjoyable. Each in varying ways had, for a time, entered the realm of stardom and had become a personality. Even individuality, now encompassed in a variety of concepts of selfhood, family, and community which they once felt were jeopardized, remained a fundamental buttress of modern society.

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In his presidential address, “Are Our Writers in the Modern Stream?” to the Royal Society of Canada in 1927, critic and University of Toronto professor Pelham Edgar suggested that “there is a sane and a senseless way of being modern.”67 Among the sensible he included Canadians Mazo De la Roche and Martha Ostenso, while the senseless were those foreigners D.H. Lawrence, Rebecca West, and other exponents of the new sex psychology. Although Edgar dismissed the previous generation as being insensitive to prevailing intellectual and emotional forces, Connor, Stead, McClung, Montgomery, and Stringer do not deserve this labelling. They were in touch with their world, and they assisted many readers in their encounters with modernity. In their fiction and in their lives, they avoided the precipices of modernity and found a middle ground, on which they were able to combine the best of the traditional with the best of the new. Their encounters with modernity represent an important transitional stage, which provided a bridge between the Victorian era and the subsequent decades of the twentieth century. To dismiss their works as late-Victorian romanticism or regional idylls is both unfair and inaccurate. Their idealism, their faith in humanity, their focus on rural and small-town communities, and their grappling with current issues would be evident in the works of future generations of Canadian writers, which have included Hugh MacLennan, Margaret Laurence, and Carol Shields. At the very least, they deserve to be recognized for their contribution to Canadian and international popular culture in the golden age of hardcover fiction.

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Notes

preface 1 “Book History, the State of the Play: An Interview with Robert Darnton,” SHARP News, 3, no. 3 (summer 1994): 2. 2 Roger Chartier, The Order of Books: Readers, Authors and Libraries in Europe between the 14th and 16th Centuries (Stanford: Stanford University Press 1994); The Cultural Uses of Print in Early Modern France (Princeton: Princeton University Press 1987). 3 For a recent example, see Robert Darnton, The Forbidden Best Sellers of PreRevolutionary France (New York: W.W. Norton 1996). 4 James L.W. West iii, American Authors and the Literary Marketplace since 1900 (Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press 1988). 5 Simon Eliot, Some Patterns and Trends in British Publishing (London: Bibliographic Society 1994). 6 John Sutherland, Victorian Fiction: Writers, Publishers, Readers (New York: St. Martin’s Press 1995). 7 Lawrence Levine, The Unpredictable Past: Explorations in American Cultural History (New York: Oxford 1993), 302. 8 James Smith Allen, In the Public Eye: A History of Reading in Modern France, 1800–1940 (Princeton: Princeton University Press 1991); Janice A. Radway, Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press 1991). See also James Raven et al., eds., The Practice and Representation of Reading in England (New York: Cambridge University Press 1996), and Kate Flint, The Woman Reader, 1837– 1914 (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1993).

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Notes to pages viii–x

9 Ezra Greenspan, Walt Whitman and the American Reader (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1990); Barbara A. Johnson, Reading Piers Plowman and The Pilgrim’s Progress: Reception and the Protestant Reader (Edwardsville: Southern Ilinois University Press 1992). 10 Lyn Pykett, The “Improper” Feminine: The Women’s Sensation Novel and the New Woman Writing (London: Routledge 1992). 11 John Sutherland., Mrs. Humphrey Ward: Eminent Victorian, Pre-Eminent Edwardian (New York: Oxford University Press 1991). 12 Charles Alan Johainningsmeir, Fiction and the American Marketplace: The Role of the Newspaper Syndicates in America, 1860–1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1997). 13 See Ian Hamilton, Writers in Hollywood, 1915–1951 (New York: Harper and Row 1990); Richard Fine, Hollywood and the Profession of Authorship, 1928– 1940 (Ann Arbor: umi Research Press 1985). 14 As one of many examples, see Helen Damon-Moore, Magazines for the Millions: Gender and Commerce in the Ladies’ Home Journal and the Saturday Evening Post, 1880–1910 (Albany: State University of New York Press 1994). 15 Russel B. Nye, The Unembarrassed Muse: The Popular Arts in America (New York: The Dial Press 1970), 4. Also important is a similar vein are the following studies: John G. Cawelti, Adventure, Mystery, and Romance (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1976); James D. Hart, The Popular Book in America: A History of America’s Literary Taste (New York: Oxford University Press 1950); Frank Luther Mott, Golden Multitudes: The Story of Best Sellers in the United States (New York: Macmillan 1947)); and Alice Payne Hackett, 70 Years of Best Sellers (New York: R.R. Bowker 1967). Although some of these volumes predate The Unembarrassed Muse, Nye and Cawelti are cited most frequently on the nature of popular fiction. Much more understanding and less censorious is Claud Cockburn, Best Seller: The Books That Everyone Read, 1900–1939 (London: Sidgwick and Jackson 1972). 16 Andrew Ross, No Respect: Intellectuals and Popular Culture (New York: Routledge 1989), 52. While a commonly held assumption, this is applied specifically by Ross to the Frankfurt school. 17 Jane P. Tompkins, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin and the Politics of Literary History,” in Elaine Showalter, ed., The New Feminist Criticism: Essays on Women, Literature, and Theory (New York: Pantheon 1985), 82. 18 Levine, The Unpredictable Past, 291ff. 19 Tompkins, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” 83, 84. 20 Carrie MacMillan, Lorraine McMullen, and Elizabeth Waterston, Silenced Sextet: Six Nineteenth-Century Canadian Women Novelists (Montreal/Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press 1992), 207.

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223 Notes to pages x–4 21 Pykett, The Improper Feminine, 80, 158ff. 22 Ross, No Respect, 54. See also Bronner, “Reading Consumer Culture,” in Bronner, ed., Consuming Visions: Accumulation and Display of Goods in America, 1880–1920 (New York: W.W. Norton 1989), 13–14. 23 David D. Hall, ’The History of the Book: New Questions? New Answers?’ Journal of Library History, 21 (1986): 33. 24 Robert Darnton, “What is the History of Books?” in Cathy N. Davidson, ed., Reading in America: Literature and Social History (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press 1989), 27–51. 25 John Coldwell Adams, Seated with the Mighty: A Biography of Gilbert Parker (Ottawa: Borealis Press 1979). 26 Only one work, The Garden of Charity, a novel set in a Nova Scotia fishing village, focused on Canadian life. 27 Many of these novels were in a “Jimmie Dale” mystery series. Only two of his crime novels were set in Canada: Doors of the Night (1922) and The Hidden Door (1933). Basil King made the American best-seller list in 1909 and both the American and Canadian lists in 1910 and 1912. Packard did not appear on the American list, and he made the Canadian top ten only in 1927. Parker appeared frequently on both the American and Canadian lists.

chapter one 1 Thomas J. Schlereth, “Country Stores, County Fairs, and Mail Order Catalogues: Consumption in Rural America,” in Simon J. Bronner, ed., Consuming Visions: Accumulation and Display of Goods in America, 1880–1920 (New York: W.W. Norton 1989), 373. 2 William Leach, “Strategists of Display and the Production of Desire,” in Bronner, Consuming Visions, 101. 3 Ben Singer, “Modernity, Hyperstimulus, and the Rise of Popular Sensationalism,” in Leo Charney and Vanessa R. Schwartz, eds., Cinema and the Invention of Modern Life (Berkeley: University of California Press 1995), 72. 4 Richard Ohmann, Selling Culture: Magazines, Markets, and Class at the Turn of the Century (London: Verso 1998), 204. 5 See Rosalind Williams, “The Dream World of Mass Consumption,” in Chandra Mukerii and Michael Schudson, eds., Rethinking Popular Culture: Contemporary Perspectives in Cultural Studies (Berkeley: University of California Press 1991), 198–235; Christoph Asendorf, Batteries of Life: On the History of Things and Their Perception in Modernity, trans. Don Reneau, (Berkeley: University of California Press 1993), 98–102; T.J. Jackson Lears, Fables of Abundance: A Cultural History of Advertising in America (New York: Basic Books 1994).

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Notes to pages 5–8

6 Clarence Mackinnon, Reminiscences (Toronto: Ryerson Press 1938), 140. 7 Douglas Tallack, Twentieth-Century America: The Intellectual and Cultural Context (London: Longmans 1991), 147. 8 Daniel Howe, “Victorian Culture in America,” in Howe, ed., Victorian America (Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press 1976); quoted in Tallack, Twentieth-Century America, 147. Some Canadian historians stress the importance of social gospel Christianity in these reform movements. When intersecting with modernity as modern religious faith, however, the social gospel becomes a part of the wider liberal sphere in both Canada and the United States. 9 See Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, eds., The Selected Journals of L.M. Montgomery, 4 vols., (Toronto: Oxford University Press 1985–98), 4:233; Ohmann, Selling Culture, 267. 10 Bronner, “Reading Consumer Culture,” in Bronner, Consuming Visions, 25. 11 Peter Gay, The Bourgeois Experience, Victoria to Freud, vol. 4, The Naked Heart (New York: WW. Norton 1995), 4. 12 Warren I. Susman, Culture as History: The Transformation of American Society in the Twentieth Century (New York: Pantheon Books 1984), 276. 13 Ibid., 275–6. This section is from Susman’s chapter 4, “Personality and the Making of Twentieth Century Culture.” 14 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:223; emphasis in the original. 15 Keith Walden, Becoming Modern in Toronto: The Industrial Exhibition and the Shaping of a Late Victorian Culture (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1997), 4. 16 Marshall Berman, All That Is Solid Melts into Air: The Experience of Modernity (New York: Simon and Schuster 1982), 15. 17 T.J. Jackson Lears, No Place of Grace: Antimodernism and the Transformation of American Culture, 1880–1920 (New York: Pantheon Books 1981). Lears continues this theme in Fables of Abundance. See also Walden, Becoming Modern in Toronto; George Cotkin, Reluctant Modernism: American Thought and Culture, 1880–1900 (New York: Twayne Publishers 1992); Michael Dawson, “That Nice Red Coat Goes to My Head Like Champagne,” Journal of Canadian Studies, 32, no. 3 (fall 1997): 119–39. Walden’s focus is more on the dichotomies than on the rejection. 18 Cotkin, Reluctant Modernism, 144. 19 Ian McKay, The Quest for Folk: Antimodernism and Cultural Selection in Twentieth-century Nova Scotia (Montreal/Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press 1994). 20 Mark B. Sandberg, “Effigy and Narrative: Looking into the NineteenthCentury Folk Museum,” in Charney and Schwartz, Cinema and the Invention of Modern Life, 349. 21 Ibid., 321.

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225 Notes to pages 8–12 22 Cotkin, Reluctant Modernism, 153. 23 For an overview of this criticism, see Margery Fee, “English-Canadian Literary Criticism, 1890–1950: Defining and Establishing a National Literature” (PhD thesis, University of Toronto 1981). 24 Charles W. Gordon, Postscript to Adventure: The Autobiography of Ralph Connor (New York: Farrar and Rinehart 1938), 7–11, 153, 412–13. 25 His mother, Mary Robertson, was the daughter of a Congregational clergyman who had emigrated to Canada from Lowland Scotland in 1828, when she was four. She was a university graduate but gave up an academic career to marry the Reverend Daniel Gordon and become mistress of the manse and mother of nine children. Charles was the fourth child of the seven who reached adulthood. See Connor’s The Man from Glengarry (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1993) and Glengarry School Days (1990) for an accurate portrait of his mother as “Mrs Murray.” 26 J.K. Gordon, “The World of Helen Gordon,” Manitoba Pageant, 21, no. 1 (autumn 1978): 1–14; Beth Paterson, “Ralph Connor and his Million Dollar Sermons,” Maclean’s Magazine, November 1953, 26, 56–60; Harris Adams, “The Career of Ralph Connor,” Maclean’s Magazine, April 1913, 109–13. Gordon played several instruments, including guitar, flute, and piano, with a repertoire of spirituals and comic and French-Canadian songs. He disliked Irish songs because of their emotional and risqué features. 27 University of Manitoba, Elizabeth Dafoe Library, Archives (hereafter uma), Charles W. Gordon Papers, mss 56, box 1, file 19, Bill Millar, “Unfinished Towers: The Social Vision of Charles W. Gordon,” paper prepared for Vancouver School of Theology, August, 1990, 7ff. See also, folder 15, “Literary New Notes – Ralph Connor,” George Doran Company, 21 January 1915; folder 12, Ralph Connor, “Presenting a Problem through Characters,” The Editor, Authors’ Weekly, 72, no. 5 (30 January 1926), 69–70; file 3, “Reminiscences of Rev. C.W. Gordon, B.A. by a Young Prairie Missionary.” 28 Formed finally in 1925, the United Church of Canada combined the Methodists, Congregationalists, and about half the Presbyterians into a single denomination. 29 uma, Gordon Papers, box 34, file 1, Manitoba Free Press clipping, Review of the drama “The Sky Pilot,” n.d. 30 St. Stephen’s Church: Silver Jubilee, 1920 (Winnipeg: St. Stephen’s Church, 1920). 31 The Major was a part of the Allied recruitment campaign; see Peter Buitenhuis, The Great War of Words: British, American and Canadian Propaganda, 1914–1918 (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press 1987). 32 uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 8, Gordon to John McClelland, 15 August 1934.

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33 Brian Fraser, The Social Uplifters: Presbyterian Progressives and the Social Gospel in Canada, 1875–1915 (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press 1988), 106. 34 Biographical details from National Archives of Canada (hereafter na), Robert J.C. Stead Papers, mg 30, d74, box 5, file 8; file 11, Scrapbooks and related items; na, Wilfrid Eggleston Papers, mg 30, d282, box 23, file 15, M.J.G. McMullen, ed. Grain Country Gleanings: The Life and Times of Robert J.C. Stead (Winnipeg, 1987); Eric Thompson, Robert Stead and His Works (Toronto: ecw Press, 1988); Rock Lake Review; Robert A. Stead (son) to the author, 31 March 1978; and other sources as noted. Stead was born in Middleville, Lanark County, on 4 September 1880. Middleville is north of Perth and southwest of Ottawa. 35 Stead’s mother, Mary Campbell Stead, opened the Central Boarding House in Cartwright after her husband’s death. 36 Born in 1881, Nettie was one year younger than Robert. Their sons’ births in 1903, 1912, and 1918 are unusually widely spaced for the era. 37 Susman, Culture as History, xxivff. 38 Before his retirement in 1946, Stead spent his final ten working years as superintendent of publicity for the Parks and Resources section of the Department of Mines and Resources. He maintained his community involvement regardless of location. In Calgary he was active in the Canadian Club and Board of Trade. During the First World War he managed the Southern Alberta Victory Loan campaign, and in Ottawa he was involved in several clubs and took an active part in Glebe Presbyterian (later United) Church. 39 Editorial, “Horseless Carriage and Manitoba Roads,” Cartwright Review, 21 June 1899. Stead’s newspaper was published under a variety of titles. 40 Ironically, the cpr had provided him with a pass for free travel on newspaper business when he was in Cartwright. Stead particularly targeted the grain elevators and banks. 41 “A Bookworm’s Diary,” Vancouver Sun, 31 December 1922, 27; na, Wilfrid Eggleston Papers, box 23, file 15, Wilfrid Eggleston to Kenneth W. Allan, 21 March 1973. Stead spoke often to churches, service groups, and professional organizations in both Canada and the United States, including the ymca, Canadian Clubs, women’s organizations, and Rotary Clubs. 42 Biographical details from British Columbia Archives and Records Service (hereafter bca), Nellie L. McClung Papers, Add. mss. 10; Nellie L. McClung, Clearing in the West: My Own Story (Toronto: Thomas Allen 1935); Nellie McClung, “An Author’s Own Story,” Saturday Night, 25 January 1913, 29; Randi R. Warne, Literature as Pulpit: The Christian Social Activism of Nellie L. McClung (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press 1993); Mary Hallett and Marilyn Davis, Firing the Heather: The Life and Times of Nellie McClung (Saskatoon: Fifth House 1993); and other sources as noted.

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227 Notes to pages 14–16 43 As an impetuous, exuberant child, Nellie frequently clashed with her mother, but she always respected her. Both Sowing Seeds in Danny (1908) and The Second Chance (1910) are dedicated to her. 44 McClung, “An Author’s Own Story,” 29. The town of Millford no longer exits. It was near the present-day community of Wawanesa, Manitoba, south of Brandon. 45 Warne, Literature as Pulpit, 3. 46 In order to avoid any embarrassment for the family, McClung made George Motherwell a farmer rather than the local hotel keeper that he actually was; see McClung, “An Author’s Own Story,” 29. Written a quarter of a century before her autobiography as a letter to a friend and not intended for publication, this early autobiography contains details not found elsewhere. 47 Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, 40. 48 See chapter 24 of McClung, Clearing in the West. In Winnipeg, Nellie stayed with her sister Hannah. 49 Her father died in January 1893 at age eighty. Her brother Jack took over the farm, where her mother continued to live. Nellie also gave up her teaching at the Treherne school to help her mother feed the harvesters in the fall of 1895. In January 1896 she continued to live at home while teaching at her old Northfield school just prior to her marriage. 50 While boarding in Manitou, Nellie took lessons in both art and music, and was active in the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union and local church activities. At school, she introduced a Friday afternoon literary program of music, debate, and recitation. 51 Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, 67–8; bca, McClung Papers, box 26, Notebook, 1895. 52 Lois Banner, American Beauty (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1984), 178. 53 Wes was a member of the Masons, the Royal Templars (a temperance organization), the Dog and Duck Hunting Club, the Lacrosse Association, the Hockey Club, and the Curling Club, and coached boy’s baseball. He also served on the town council, including a term as mayor. Nellie was active in the wctu, the Band of Hope (the wctu children’s group), the Methodist Ladies’ Aid, the Epworth League, the Home Economic Association, concerts, and other community activities. She had her “at home” on the first and second Tuesday of each month from 3 to 5 in the afternoon, to which community ladies were invited for tea and visiting with formal, printed invitations. The McClungs also camped at Hughes’ Lake, where Nellie told stories around the campfire. 54 Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, 71. 55 See In Times like These (Toronto: McLeod and Allen 1915) and Purple Springs (Toronto: Thomas Allen 1921). One of the now controversial

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56

57

58 59

60 61 62 63 64

65

66

Notes to pages 16–19

causes espoused by McClung was eugenics, which included the sterilization of defectives. For context, see Angus McLaren, Our Own Master Race: Eugenics in Canada, 1885–1945 (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1990). ‹Cost of High Living Not High Cost of Living That We Are Paying These Days,’ According to Nellie McClung of Edmonton”; quoted in Candace Savage, Our Nell: A Scrapbook Biography of Nellie L. McClung (Halifax: Goodread Biographies 1985), 1. This was particularly true after her increased involvement in politics and public speaking in the pre-war period. There is an eleven-year gap between her second and third novels, and her fourth and final novel appeared in 1925. Susman, Culture as History, 280. Biography based on University of Guelph, McLaughlin Library, Archives (hereafter uga, L.M. Montgomery Papers, Scrapbooks and other material; Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, vols. 1–4; Mollie Gillen, The Wheel of Things: A Biography of L.M. Montgomery (Halifax: Goodread Biographies 1983); Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, Writing a Life: L.M. Montgomery (Toronto: ecw Press 1995); L.M. Montgomery, The Alpine Path: The Story of My Career (Toronto: Fitzhenry & Whiteside 1974); Francis Bolger, The Years before Anne (Halifax: Nimbus 1991); and other sources as noted. Montgomery’s father, who departed for the prairies soon after his wife’s death, would die in January 1900 of pneumonia. In an era when the church pew reflected community status, the Montgomerys sat in the third row from the front on the left-hand side. Ohmann, Selling Culture, 27; Ruth E. Finley, The Lady of Godey’s (Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott 1931). Montgomery, The Alpine Path, 47. Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:xvii. Montgomery did appreciate the greener, treed area around Prince Albert and the sunsets. See her articles “A Western Eden,” Prince Albert Times, 17 June 1891, and “From Prince Albert to P.E. Island,” Daily Patriot (Charlottetown), 31 October 1891. Both articles are reproduced in Bolger, The Years Before Anne. See Cheryl Warsh, Moments of Unreason: The Practice of Canadian Psychiatry and the Homewood Retreat, 1883–1923 (Montreal/Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press 1989). For a perspective from another such caregiver, see Alice Chown, The Stairway (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1988). In letters to Ephraim Weber in these years, Montgomery refers to days spent at friends, in town, and at teas and garden parties. See Wilfrid Eggleston, ed., The Green Gables Letters: From L.M. Montgomery to Ephraim Weber , 1905–1909 (Ottawa: Borealis Press 1981), 33, 61, 92. Montgomery’s journals contain many critical references to her contemporaries. While she could meet regularly with such authors as Marian Keith

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229 Notes to pages 19–20

67

68

69

70 71

72

73

74

75

and Marjory MacMurchy, they could never become kindred spirits. There were also her correspondents, Ephraim Weber from 1902 and George Boyd Macmillan from 1903, who served as confidants. At Cavendish, Montgomery taught Sunday school, played the organ and was choir director for church services, attended mid-week prayer meetings, and was active in the local Literary Society and Women’s Institute. In addition to her church activities, in Ontario she was active in the Hypatia Club, a literary group, in Uxbridge and later the Brampton Literary and Travel Club. She also participated in the Toronto branch of the Canadian Women’s Press Club, serving as vice-president, the Canadian Authors Association, and, during the First World War, the Red Cross. The closest that she came to a kindred spirit was her cousin, Frede Campbell, a frequent visitor until her death from influenza in 1919. Campbell’s death left a huge hole in Montgomery’s life. See Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:255, 296, for examples of her separateness. L.M. Montgomery to G.B. MacMillan, 9 November 1904, in Francis W.P. Bolger and Elizabeth R. Epperly, eds., My dear Mr. M.: Letters to G.B. MacMillan from L.M. Montgomery (Toronto: McGraw-Hill Ryerson 1980), 7; see also 19, 19 March 1906. By the time of the proposal, Montgomery was making a reasonable living from her writing. The great riches and success that she derived from Anne of Green Gables came between the proposal and the marriage. Rubio and Waterston, Writing a Life, 67. Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:206. Maud accompanied Ewen on parish visits, led and participated in the church women’s groups, prepared Sunday school concerts, and led the Young People’s Guild both at Leaskdale and later at Norval. Connected to fears of eternal damnation in an old-style, predestinationbased Calvinism, such conditions were apparently reasonably common. See A.H. Saxton, P.T. Barnum: The Legend and the Man (New York: Columbia University Press 1989), 125, for reference to its prevalence. See Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 3:363; Margaret Mustard, L.M. Montgomery as Mrs. Ewen Macdonald of Leaskdale Manse (Leaskdale: St. Paul’s Presbyterian Church 1965). The household, including all meals, was planned with the domestic help in detail on a two-week schedule. uga, Montgomery Papers, Red Scrapbook, “Hypatia Club Brochure, 1923–1924.” This was a quotation from Louisa M. Alcott, author of Little Women. Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2: 393, 3 January 1920. For context, see Cynthia Jane Wright, “The Most Prominent Rendezvous of the Feminine Toronto: Eaton’s College Street and the Organization of Shopping in Toronto, 1920–1950” (PhD thesis, University of Toronto 1992). Like

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78 79

80

81

82

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Notes to pages 20–2

McClung, Montgomery also treated herself to fresh flowers. See Eggleston, The Green Gable Letters, 33. Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 4:209, 27, 47. She received this camera for being a judge in a photo contest. At Cavendish she even had a processing darkroom for her negatives. See her poem “I Feel (Vers Libre)” (1902), reprinted in Rosemary Sullivan, ed., Poetry by Canadian Women (Don Mills: Oxford University Press 1989), 28–9. Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 3:399, 19 August 1929. This may seem a strange attitude for a clergyman’s wife who had taught Sunday school, led the Young People’s Guild, and been active in parish life, but there is a difference between such outward symbols and an individual’s inner life. Unlike McClung, Montgomery did not have a strong faith which directed her being. She was, however, a very spiritual person in a wider context. For frank discussions of religious beliefs, see Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:47, 196–7, 262; 2:372; Wilfrid Eggleston, The Green Gable Letters, 25 passim. Biography based on University of Western Ontario, D.B. Weldon Library, Rare Book Room (hereafter uwol, Arthur Stringer Papers; Victor Lauriston, Arthur Stringer: Son of the North (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill 1941); Barbara Wales Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters: A Selection of His Correspondence with a Critical Introduction” (PhD thesis, McGill University 1983); and other sources as noted. Because Stringer was fond of embellishing his career, it is important to cross-check his stories with other references. Arbuthnott does not appear on Arthur’s birth certificate, but he was proud of this lineage and added the name to his. After supporting William Lyon Mackenzie in the 1837 rebellion, his paternal grandfather, John Stringer, had taken his family into exile in the United States until his pardon in 1849, at which time he moved to Chatham. There were ten children in all, four from the first two marriages. Stringer, who was closest to his sister Pauline, had bitter disputes with his stepbrothers for his entire life. He lived with his Uncle George and Aunt Kate on a nearby farm for a period after his mother’s death and often spent summers there as well. Arthur Stringer, Lonely O’Malley (Boston: Houghton Mifflin 1905). The family appears to have been Anglican, and Stringer first stayed in residence at Wycliffe College at the University of Toronto. But except for brief references to religious skepticism in this novel, a few negative Anglican allusions in his first novel, The Silver Poppy (New York: Appleton 1903), and a bitter condemnation of religion in Epigrams (London, Ont.: T.H. Warren 1896), 37, which contains the lines “I scorn your empty creed … I worship nothing, that I may be free … kneel to freedom,” there are few references to religion and faith in his fiction or his many letters.

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231 Notes to pages 22–3 84 All published by T.H. Warren of London, Ontario, these included Watchers of Twilight (1894) and Pauline and Other Poems (1895). His third book was Epigrams (1896). 85 Stringer’s studies at Oxford and with Dr Broëmig in Germany during the summer resulted in the publication of A Study of King Lear (New York: American Shakespeare Press 1897). He published his impressions of Oxford in Ainslee’s magazine in the mid-1890s. 86 In addition to E.T. Seton, Charles G.D. Roberts (before he went to England), and Bliss Carman, the list includes Ethelwyn Wetherald, a Ladies’ Home Journal assistant; Jean MacIlwraith, who from 1902 to 1917 read manuscripts for Doubleday, Page; Agnes Laut; and May Agnes Fleming, a successful magazine serial writer who earned over $10,000 a year. See Carole Gerson, “Canadian Women Writers and American Markets, 1880–1940,” in Camille R. La Bossière, ed., Context North America: Canada/U.S. Literary Relations (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press 1994), 109–11. 87 uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3, file 2, “The Perfect Author’s Life,” Brentano’s Book Chat, 42. 88 Nathaniel Benson, “Arthur Stringer,” University of Toronto Alumni Bulletin, 53, no. 4 (April 1953): 10. Madge MacBeth describes the Stringer of these years as “beautiful as Adonis, irresistible as Eros … a menace, that man! Feminine hearts of riper years reacted with flutterings and palpitations”; see Over My Shoulder (Toronto: The Ryerson Press 1953), 12. 89 uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3, “Arthur Stringer at the Canadian Club.” 90 Banner, American Beauty, chapter 8. These lithographs of the Gibson Girl first appeared in Life in the mid-1890s. See also Who Was Who in the Theatre (Detroit: Gale Research Company 1978), 2:1229. 91 H.L. Mencken, My Life as Author and Editor (New York: Alfred A. Knopf 1993), 204. 92 Arthur Stringer, “My Work and My Workshop,” Arts and Decoration, 19, no. 4 (August 1923): 10. 93 Arthur Stringer The Wine of Life (New York: Alfred A. Knopf 1921). In this novel, Storrow’s wife is also a young actress who find life on the farm stultifying and returns to New York. A divorced Storrow then marries his young housekeeper. 94 Born in Michigan in 1894, Margaret lost her father a few months later. She and her older sister, Lossie, lived with the same Uncle George and Aunt Jean Stephens with whom Arthur had stayed for a time after his mother died. In 1907 Arthur attempted to persuade Prime Minister Wilfrid Laurier to appoint George to the Senate. See na, Laurier Papers, reel C-850, Stringer to Laurier, 26 July 1907. Years after the divorce, when H.L. Mencken joked with Jobyna about never remarrying, she burst into tears and said that she had never stopped loving Stringer; see Mencken, My Life

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98

99

100

101 102 103

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as Author and Editor, 269. It is not clear when exactly Arthur and Jobyna separated. She was still with him in 1909 and did not reappear on the stage until early in 1912. Benson, “Arthur Stringer,” 12. Columbia University, Butler Library, Paul Reynolds Papers, Arthur Stringer file, box 167, Stringer to Reynolds, 18 July 1914. The 1914 Turner Valley bonanza in 1914 led to the formation of more than five hundred oil companies and the withdrawal of over half a million dollars from Calgary bank accounts. For this influence, as well as the parallel real estate boom, see Max Foran, Calgary: An Illustrated History (Toronto: James Lorimer 1978), 124. uwol, Stringer Papers, box 2, file 2, Duncan Y. Stewart to Stringer, 25 April 1918. For further details of family investments and problems, see letters between Arthur and his father, Hugh, and further correspondence with Duncan Stewart and Robert Ure in box 2, files 2, 3, 5. Stringer owned this first ranch until the 1940s and experienced many problems collecting rent. Ibid., file 3, Hugh A, Stringer to Arthur and Margaret, 10 September 1920. Arthur also had to support several members of his immediate family at the time of his father’s death in late 1922. Arthur Stringer, The Prairie Wife (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill 1915); The Prairie Mother (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1920), and The Prairie Child (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1921). His various claims ranged from three to seven years’ residence in the west. His correspondence from Chatham and New York during this period suggests otherwise. Stringer probably found the experiences so painful and embarrassing that he invented stories to hide the truth. uwol, Stringer Papers, box 4, Mountain Lakes. Benson, “Arthur Stringer,” 10. Stringer smoked a pipe and had a fondness for Scotch and wine. Queen’s University Archives, Lorne Pierce Papers, 2001a, box ix, file 13, Autograph Book, signed 5 November 1928. Stringer did believe that modern women should be able to have both a family and a career; see uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3, “Articles on Women,” “Interview with Claire Wallace.” The quotation first appears on the first page of The Silver Poppy (1903). Mary Vipond, Mass Media in Canada (Toronto: James Lorimer 1989), 10.

chapter two 1 Hector Charlesworth, I’m Telling You: Being Further Candid Chronicles (Toronto: Macmillan 1937), 316. American publisher George Doran sees

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233 Notes to pages 26–7

2

3 4 5

6

7 8 9

10

11

the years from 1890 to 1915 as the golden age; see his Chronicles of Barabbas, 1884–1934 (Toronto: George G. McLeod 1935), 3. In addition to Gordon (Connor) and Stringer, the list includes Robert Barr, Gilbert Parker, Charles G.D. Roberts (for his fiction), and E.T. Seton. Basil King followed in 1900. Among the women were Sara Jeannette Duncan, Agnes Laut, and Marshall Saunders. For overviews of the period up to the 1950s, see Maria Tippett, Making Culture: English-Canadian Institutions and the Arts before the Massey Commission (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1990); Carole Gerson, A Purer Taste: The Writing and Reading of Fiction in English in Nineteenth-Century Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1989). Ann Cvetkovich, Mixed Feelings: Feminism, Mass Culture and Victorian Sensationalism (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press 1992), 19. Mary Vipond, Mass Media in Canada (Toronto: James Lorimer 1989), 3. Carrie MacMillan, Lorraine McMullen, and Elizabeth Waterston, Silenced Sextet: Six Nineteenth-Century Canadian Women Novelists (Montreal/ Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press 1992). For Scott, see Jane Millgate, Walter Scott: The Making of a Novelist (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1984); Gerson, A Purer Taste, 66–79. For the British scene, see Peter Keating, The Haunted Study: A Social History of the English Novel, 1875–1914 (London: Secker & Warburg 1989). For American background, see Nina Baym, Novels, Readers, and Reviewers: Responses to Fiction in Antebellum America (Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1984). Mary Flett, “Reflections of a Bookseller,” Canadian Bookman, 1, no. 4 October 1919): 51. George L. Parker, The Beginnings of the Book Trade in Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1985), 102, 291. Even Robert Stead’s country weekly, the Rock Lake Review, serialized fiction and printed poetry. See 6 September 1899 for a poem by F.G. Scott and a J.M. Barrie serial. This paper also offered a set of English popular fiction for $1.45 with a year’s subscription. The authors included Wilkie Collins, Braddon, Eliot, Brontë, Thackeray, Dumas, and Reade. Louis-Georges Harvey and Mark V. Olsen, “La circulation de la bibliothèque de l’Institut Canadien de Montréal, 1865–1875,” Histoire sociale/ Social History, 19, no. 37 (May 1986): 139–60. These included Dumas, Sue, Sand, and Hugo. Thomas Schlereth, Victorian America: Transformations in Everyday Life, 1876–1915 (New York: Harper Collins 1991), 155–6; Schlereth, “Country Stores, County Fairs, and Mail-Order Catalogues: Consumption in Rural America,” in Simon J. Bronner, ed., Consuming Visions: Acculturation and Display of Goods in America, 1880–1910 (New York: W.W. Norton 1989), 369. Canada and other countries followed a pattern similar to that in the United States.

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234

Notes to pages 28–9

12 George L. Parker, “The History of a Canadian Publishing House: A Study of the Relation between Publishing and the Profession of Writing” (PhD thesis, University of Toronto 1969), 96. 13 Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, eds., The Selected Journals of L.M. Montgomery, 4 vols., (Toronto: Oxford University Press 1985–98), 4:63. 14 In Britain the publication in 1894 of Hall Caine’s The Manxman and George du Maurier’s Trilby as one-volume editions marked the new age; see Keating, The Haunted Study, 422–3. 15 See Keating, The Haunted Study, 439–43; Frank Luther Mott, Golden Multitudes: The Story of Best Sellers in the United States (New York: Macmillan 1947). 16 See Mary Vipond’s articles: “Best Sellers in English Canada, 1898–1918,” Journal of Canadian Fiction, 24, no. 2 (1979): 96–119; “Best Sellers in English Canada, 1919–1928,” Journal of Canadian Fiction, 35, no. 1 (1986): 73–105. 17 Richard Ohmann, Selling Culture: Magazines, Markets, and Class at the Turn of the Century (London: Verso 1998). 18 George Cotkin, Reluctant Modernism: American Thought and Culture, 1880– 1900 (New York: Twayne Publishers 1992), 117. For a Canadian study, see Bruce Lorne, Free Books for All: The Public Library Movement in Ontario, 1850–1930 (Toronto: Dundurn Press 1994). 19 George H. Locke, “Defending the Two-Dollar Novel,” Bookseller and Stationer, 37 (July 1921): 37. 20 Keith Walden, “Speaking Modern: Language, Culture, and Hegemony in Grocery Store Displays, 1887–1920,” Canadian Historical Review, 70, no. 3 (September 1989): 285–310. The Bookseller and Stationer regularly featured bookstores and advice on window display in its pages, often with a picture to accompany the article. 21 David Monod, “Ontario Retailers in the Early Twentieth Century: Dismantling the Social Bridge,” Journal of the Canadian Historical Association (Ottawa 1993), 212. Wesley McClung’s drugstores in Manitoba carried popular books. In the United States, Britain, and elsewhere, there were similar changes. 22 Keith Walden, Becoming Modern in Toronto: The Industrial Exhibition and the Shaping of a Late Victorian Culture (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1997), 16. 23 National Archives of Canada (hereafter na), Wilfrid Eggleston Papers, mg30, d282, box 23, file 15, 1946 article, 13. During the early 1920s, both the distribution to non-book stores and the large orders appear to have ended. This decline may have been because of the following factors: an overcrowded market, better transportation to larger centres, catalogue sales, and an ebbing of the excitement over books with a local setting by native authors.

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235 Notes to pages 29–32 24 Parker, “The History of a Canadian Publishing House,” 45–6. In December 1904 a large Toronto department store sold Connor’s The Prospector, which was listed at $1.25, for 80¢. Publishers offered all retailers a discount on bulk purchases. With Stead’s Dennison Grant, which retailed at $1.75, Musson offered small quantities at $1.23; the price decreased to $1.17 for ten or more, to $1.12 for twenty-five or more, and to $1.07 for a hundred or more, and special quotes were available for larger orders. See Bookseller and Stationer, 36, no. 11 (November 1920), title page. 25 Clarence Mackinnon, Reminiscences (Toronto: The Ryerson Press 1938), 70. 26 Douglas Lochhead, “John Ross Robertson, Uncommon Publisher for the Common Reader: The First Years as a Toronto Book Publisher,” Journal of Canadian Studies, 11, no. 2 (May 1976): 19–26. These volumes sold at from ten to fifty cents. Lochhead estimates that Robertson published 350 different titles. 27 Books and Notions, 3, no. 10 (May 1887): 166. The appearance of this trade journal is another indication of an expanding market. 28 Parker, The Beginnings of the Book Trade in Canada, 105–9, 169–74, 184–7. 29 University of Manitoba, Elizabeth Dafoe Library, Archives (hereafter uma), Charles W. Gordon Papers, mss56, box 33, file 4, Gordon to Editor, Ridgewood, New Jersey, 27 March 1912. Gordon told this correspondent that “the pirates helped me, gave me unlimited introduction, so that when The Sky Pilot came along there was no further trouble about publishers.” 30 George Parker, “Canadian Copyright in the 1890’s,” Journal of Canadian Studies, 21, no. 2 (May 1976): 50–1. 31 For further details of the agreements of this decade, see Parker, The Beginnings of the Book Trade in Canada, chapter 6. 32 na, Robert J.C. Stead Papers, mg 30, d74, box 1, “Serial Sales.” 33 “At the Mermaid Inn,” Globe, 4 February 1893; quoted in Parker, The Beginnings of the Book Trade in Canada, 232. 34 Warren I. Susman, Culture as History: The Transformation of American Society in the Twentieth Century (New York: Pantheon Books 1984), 59. 35 J. Gordon Mowat, “The Purpose of a National Magazine,” Canadian Magazine, 7 (June 1901): 166–7. 36 The Year Book of the Arts in Canada (Toronto: J.M. Dent & Sons 1913), 56. 37 Bertram Booker, ed. The Yearbook of the Arts in Canada, 1928–1929 (Toronto: Macmillan 1929), 27. 38 Donald F. Davis, “Dependent Motorization: Canada and the Automobile to the 1930’s,” Journal of Canadian Studies, 21, no. 3 (fall 1986): 206–32. McLaughlin liked to upgrade a basic American-designed car to a higher standard and cost, and once supplied a car for the British royal family. 39 See R.D. Gidney and W.P.J. Millar, Professional Gentlemen: The Professions in Nineteenth-Century Ontario (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1994).

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236

Notes to pages 32–4

40 The number of Canadian fiction titles doubled in the 1880s, quadrupled in the 1890s, and remained strong for the next three decades; see Gordon Roper, “New Forces, New Fiction,” in Carl F. Klinck, ed. Literary History of Canada: Canadian Literature in English (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1965), 260; E. Stuart Ross, History of Prairie Theatre: The Development of Theatre in Alberta, Manitoba, and Saskatchewan, 1833–1982 (Toronto: Simon and Pierre 1984), 24ff. The two stage productions were based on novels by Harriet Beecher Stowe and Mrs Henry Wood. 41 Charlesworth, I’m Telling You, 61. For an American perspective on the intellectual seriousness of Victorian parlour and community life, see Louise L. Stevenson, The Victorian Homefront: American Thought and Culture, 1860– 1880 (New York: Twayne 1991). 42 Wilfrid Eggleston, While I Still Remember: A Personal Record (Toronto: Ryerson 1968), 36, 59. 43 Salem G. Bland, James Henderson D.D. (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1926), 53–4, 188. 44 “What Are the Greatest Books in the English Language?” Bookseller and Stationer, 31, no. 1 (January 1916): 31. 45 Earle Birney, Spreading Time: Remarks on Canadian Writing and Writers (Montreal: Vehicle Press 1980), 5. Novels by Connor and McClung held a privileged place in the Birney home library. 46 Lawrence Levine, The Unpredictable Past: Explorations in American Cultural History (New York: Oxford University Press 1993), 169. Levine dates the changes, based on evidence from dramatic productions and audiences, to the mid-nineteenth century. However, many people who had absorbed and experienced a broad-based culture which included Shakespeare continued to live that culture into the twentieth century. Brook’s essay “Highbrow and Lowbrow” first appeared in America’s Coming of Age. 47 Levine, The Unpredictable Past, 150. Further references are also from chapter 8, “William Shakespeare and the American People: A Study in Cultural Transformation.” 48 Ibid., 156. 49 Montgomery to Ephraim Weber, 8 April 1906, in Wilfrid Eggleston, ed., The Green Gable Letters from L.M. Montgomery to Ephraim Weber, 1905–1909 (Ottawa: Borealis Press 1981), 38. 50 University of Guelph, McLaughlin Library, Archives, L.M. Montgomery Papers, Red Scrapbook, “Clippings”. 51 Ibid., Black Scrapbook, Hypatia Club Programs. 52 Ibid., Scrapbook of Reviews, “Keen for Study,” Merry Margaret to Nancy Durham, c.1920. 53 Eggleston, The Green Gable Letters, 8. 54 University of Western Ontario, D.B. Weldon Library, Rare Book Room, Arthur Stringer Papers, Victor Lauriston Other Papers, Lauriston to

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237 Notes to pages 34–7

55

56

57 58 59

60 61 62 63

64

Stringer, 2 March 1929. This club, which had as its motto “To smooth with classic art the rugged tongue,” had existed since 1883; see R.E. Gosnell, “The Macaulay Club,” Canadian Bookman, 10, no. 8 (August 1928): 237. Tippett, Making Culture, 6–9. For an American perspective, see Robert S. and Helen Merrell Lynd, Middletown: A Study in Transition (New York: Harvest 1956), 228ff. The Lynds collected their data in the late 1920s, at which time they noted a decline in reading clubs for men and younger women. Donald Graham French and Frank Home Kirkpatrick, The Standard Canadian Reciter: The Best of the Best Readings and Recitations From Canadian Literature (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1921). According to George Parker, the volume was very popular; the first printing of 2,000 sold out by the late 1920s, and there was a second printing of 1,025 in 1927; see The Beginnings of the Book Trade in Canada, 142–4. Toronto-based elocutionist Evelyn Vrooman specialized in an all-Canadian program which included readings from Connor, Stead, McClung, and Montgomery. Thanks are due to Carole Gerson of Simon Fraser University for bringing her career to my attention. The original documents were found by Dr Sherrill Grace of the University of British Columbia. See Montgomery’s comments in Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 4:353. Levine, The Unpredictable Past, 171. Quoted in Nicholas Delbanco, Group Portrait: Joseph Conrad, Stephen Crane, Ford Madox Ford, Henry James, H.G. Wells (New York: Carroll & Graf 1990), 156. See Don Gifford, The Farther Shore: A Natural History of Perception, 1798– 1984 (New York: Atlantic Monthly Press 1990). Susanna Moodie, Life in the Clearings (Toronto: Macmillan 1959), xxxii. See also her Roughing It in the Bush (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1964). “The Call of the Wild,” Manitoba Free Press, 9 July 1921, 11. John C. Lehr and H. John Selwood, “Ethnicity, Religion, and Class as Elements in the Evolution of Lake Winnipeg Resorts,” Canadian Geographer, 35, no. 1 (1991): 46–58; E.J. Hart, The Selling of Canada: The cpr and the Beginnings of Canadian Tourism (Banff: Altitude Publishing 1983); Patricia Jasen, Wild Things: Nature, Culture, and Tourism in Ontario, 1790–1914 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1993). See Sandra Djwa, “A New Soil and a Sharp Sun: The Landscape of a Modern Canadian Poetry,” Modernist Studies: Literature and Culture, 1977, 3–16; Douglas Cole, “Artists, Patrons, and Public: An Enquiry into the Success of the Group of Seven,” Journal of Canadian Studies, 13, no. 2 (summer 1978): 69–78; Marlene Shore, “Remember the Future: The Canadian Historical Review and the Discipline of History,” Canadian Historical Review, 76, no. 3 (September 1995): 418–19.

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238

Notes to pages 37–41

65 Jonas Frykman and Orvar Lofgren, Culturel Builders: A Historical Anthropology of Middle-Class Life, trans. Alan Crozier (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press 1987), 55. 66 Ronald Rees, New and Naked Land: Making the Prairies Home (Saskatoon: Western Producer 1988), 137. The foothills were also the preferred setting for Zane Grey’s westerns and for many movies. 67 For an overview, see Peter J. Schmitt, Back to Nature: The Arcadian Myth in Urban America (New York: Oxford University Press 1969); Roderick Nash, Wilderness and the American Mind (New Haven: Yale University Press 1982). 68 See Lyn Pykett, The “Improper” Feminine: The Women’s Sensation Novel and the New Woman Writing (London: Routledge 1992), 156ff. It was generally assumed that women had a greater eye for detail than men. 69 na Stead Papers, box 1, file 1, J.C. Brandt to Robert Stead, 5 March 1926. 70 Lacking a better terminology, many reviewers and critics repeated referred to the novels as romances. It was common to view all popular literature in the period as belonging to this genre. 71 Baym, Novels, Readers, and Reviewers, 208; Russel B. Nye, The Unembarrassed Muse: The Popular Arts in America (New York: Dial Press 1970), 38–9. 72 June Sochen, Enduring Values: Women in Popular Culture (New York: Praeger 1987), 95. 73 Richard L. Bushman, The Refinement of America: Persons, Houses, Cities (New York: Vintage Books 1993), 81. 74 For a detailed analysis of emotional reaction to Connor’s novels, see Clarence Karr, “When Men Used to Cry: Gender Responses to Ralph Connor Fiction,” in Lydia C. Shurman, ed., Reading Publics: The Global Common Reader (Boston: University of Massachusetts Press forthcoming). 75 British Columbia Archives and Records Service, Nellie L. McClung Papers, Add. mss 10, box 10, file 1, Caswell to McClung, 26 April 1906. 76 A Congregational clergyman from Kansas, Charles Sheldon wrote In His Steps (1896), which sold millions of copies internationally and helped to prepared the way for Connor. Harold Bell Wright’s career ran simultaneously with Connor’s. See John Ferre, A Social Gospel for the Millions: The Religious Best Sellers of Charles Sheldon, Ralph Connor, and Harold Bell Wright (Bowling Green: Bowling Green State Popular Press 1988). 77 Susman, Culture as History, 93–4.

chapter three 1 L.M. Montgomery to Ephraim Weber, 22 December 1908, in Wilfrid Eggleston, ed., The Green Gable Letters: From L,M, Montgomery to Ephraim Weber, 1905–1909 (Ottawa: Borealis Press 1981), 79–80. 2 Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, eds. The Selected Journals of L.M. Montgomery, 4 vols. (Toronto: Oxford University Press 1985–98), 1:183.

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239 Notes to pages 42–3

3

4 5

6

7

8 9 10 11

12

13 14 15

In 1902, a good but still typical year, she published twenty-five short stories; in 1905 there were thirty-two. For an analysis of this phenomenon see Joan Shelley Rubin, “Listen, My Children: Reading Poetry in American Schools, 1875–1950,” in Karen Halttunen and Lewis Perry, Moral Problems in American Life (Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1998); Joan Shelley Rubin, “They Flash upon That Inward Eye”: Poetry Recitation and American Readers (Worcester: American Antiquarian Society 1997). Roberts to Charles A. Stultz, 2 February 1930, in Laurel Boone, ed., The Collected Letters of Sir Charles G.D. Roberts (Fredericton: Goose Lane 1989), 391. University of Manitoba, Elizabeth Dafoe Library, Archives (hereafter uma), Charles W. Gordon Papers, mss 56, box 49, file 5, Gordon to Billy Shannon (Joliet, Illinois), 28 June 1926. Mary Hallett and Marilyn Davis, Firing the Heather: The Life and Times of Nellie McClung (Saskatoon: Fifth House 1993), 33; “What Are the Greatest Books in the English Language?” Bookseller and Stationer, 31, no. 1 (January 1916): 31. Reid’s painting is in the Art Gallery of Hamilton. Appropriately, Stringer read Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn in a cave during his early teenage years. uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 4, Gordon to Mrs. Florence D. Black, 7 March 1924. For details on Gordon’s familiarity with literature and his approach to reading, see box 28, file 1, “Sermon Notes on Literature and Reading.” Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, 43; Countess of Aberdeen, Through Canada with a Kodak (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1994), li. Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:253. Richard Ohmann, Selling Culture: Magazines, Markets, and Class at the Turn of the Century (London: Verso 1998), 2ff. Nellie L. McClung, The Stream Runs Fast: My Own Story (Toronto: Thomas Allen 1945), 11; British Columbia Archives and Records Service (hereafter bca), Nellie L. McClung Papers, Add. mss 10, box 10, file 5. In addition to local and church and Canadian papers, McClung in 1907 subscribed to McClure’s, Delineator, Country Life in America, and The World’s Work at a monthly cost of fifty cents. In contrast, Charles Gordon told his junior high correspondent to avoid such reading. See Randi R. Warne, Literature as Pulpit: The Christian Social Activism of Nellie L. McClung (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press 1993), 208–11, for examples of the copy. McClung, The Stream Runs Fast, 7–8, 10. Nellie hid this loss from her husband. bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 3, McClung to H. Nicols. Carole Gerson notes that school teaching “was a profession so draining and unrewarding that it was quickly abandoned by almost every

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240

16

17

18

19 20

21 22

23 24 25 26 27 28

29

Notes to pages 44–5

ambitious literary woman.” Sara Jeannette Duncan and Agnes Laut were two others who followed this path. See Gerson, “Canadian Women Writers and American Markets, 1880–1940,” in Camille R. La Bossière, ed., Context North America: Canadian/U.S. Literary Relations (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press 1994), 107. Montgomery was a contributor to the papers at Prince of Wales College and Dalhousie University. Stringer founded and edited the Chip at London Collegiate Institute and was assistant editor of the Varsity at the University of Toronto for a year. Gordon served as editor of the Knox College Monthly for three years while in Toronto. uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 12, “Ralph Connor on Preaching,” clipping from Baptist Standard, 12 March 1914. Gordon was also in the Debating Club at the University of Toronto. Thomas W. Laqueur, “Bodies, Details, and the Humanitarian Narrative,” in Lynn Hunt, ed., The New Cultural History (Berkeley: University of California Press 1989), 181; see also 176. C.I.D., “An Interview with Nellie McClung,” Canadian Bookman, 7, no. 9 (September 1925): 145. University of Guelph, McLaughlin Library, Archives (hereafter uga, L. M. Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, L.M. Montgomery, “The Way to Make a Book,” 86. Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, Writing a Life: L.M. Montgomery (Toronto: ecw Press 1995), 11. Barbara Wales Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters: A Selection of His Correspondence with a Critical Introduction” (PhD thesis, McGill University 1983), 10. “Robert Stead: An Interview,” Canadian Bookman 5, no. 4 (April 1923): 99 Unwin had seen his short stories and asked him for a novel. Smith published three of his poems; see the Week, December 1892, March 1893. Nellie L. McClung, Clearing in the West: My Own Story (Toronto: Thomas Allen 1935), 281. Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, 84–5. McClung, The Stream Runs Fast, 75. Ibid., 76; bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 3 William Withrow to McClung, 16 December 1907. While Withrow served as editor of various periodicals, Caswell was in charge of the book publishing department. See Janet B. Friskney, “Beyond the Shadow of William Briggs, Part I: Setting the Stage and Introducing the Players,” Papers of the Bibliographical Society of Canada, 33, no. 2 (fall 1995): 121–63. Michael A. Peterman and Janet B. Friskney, “Booming the Canuck Book: Edward Caswell and the Promotion of Canadian Writing,” Journal of

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241 Notes to pages 46–8

30 31 32

33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

42 43 44

45 46

47 48 49

50

Canadian Studies, 30, no. 3 (fall 1995): 60–1. The last part of the quote is from the Bookseller and Stationer, 24, no. 8 (August 1908): 38. bca, McClung Papers, box 10, files 2–7, Letters from Caswell to McClung; Peterman and Friskney, “Booming the Canadian Book,” 76–82. bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 3, Caswell to McClung, 7 April 1907. Ibid., file 2, Caswell to McClung, 26 April 1906. In an article in Saturday Night in 1913, McClung gave credit to Caswell for convincing her that she “sure could do it”; see “An Author’s Own Story,” 25 January 1913, 29. bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 3, Caswell to McClung, 10 June 1907. George H. Doran, Chronicles of Barabbas, 1884–1934 (Toronto: George J. McLeod 1935), 200. uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 4, Gordon to F.A. Jones, editorial department, Strand Magazine, 11 January 1915. Ibid., Gordon to Jones, 11 January 1915. Charles Gordon, Postscript to Adventure: The Autobiography of Ralph Connor (New York: Farrar & Rinehart 1938), 147. uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 11, Macdonald to Rev. J. McD. Duncan, 9 March 1897. Ibid., Macdonald to Duncan, 9 March 1897. Ibid., box 32, file 10, Macdonald to Gordon, 23 January 1897. Ibid., Macdonald to Gordon, 9 February 1897. Macdonald cited the praise of McBeth, Grant, Shearer, and Mrs Dr Caven, the wife of one of Gordon’s Knox College professors. St. Stephen’s Presbyterian Church: Silver Jubilee (Winnipeg, 1920), “Postscript.” uma, Gordon Papers, box 49, file 5, Gordon to Billy Shannon, 28 June 1926. Charles Gordon (grandson), “Ralph Connor and the New Generation,” Mosaic, 3, no. 3 (spring 1970): 17. His son and literary executor, J. King Gordon, reinstated that chapter before publication. “A Bookworm’s Diary,” Vancouver Sun, 31 December 1922, 27. National Archives of Canada (hereafter na), Robert J.C. Stead Papers, mg 30, d 74, box 6, file 1, “The Commercial Side of Literature,” Morning Albertan (Calgary), 21 February 1919. Ibid., file 4, “Ivanhoe,” Winnipeg Evening Tribune, 6 August 1921. na, Wilfrid Eggleston Papers, mg 30, d 282, box 21, file 11, Editorial from the Family Herald, 34. Paula M. Powell Slaughter, “Activism and Domesticity: Voice and Metaphor in Nellie McClung” (ma thesis, University of Calgary 1989), 49; Candace Savage, Our Nell: A Scrapbook Biography of Nellie L. McClung (Halifax: Goodread Biographies 1979), 21. McClung, Clearing in the West, 234.

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242 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58

59 60 61 62

63 64

65 66 67

68 69 70 71

Notes to pages 48–50

bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 2, Caswell to McClung, 12 May 1906. Ibid., file 6, Caswell to McClung, 17 March 1908. Bookseller and Stationer, 26, no. 12 (December 1910): 19. uga, Montgomery Papers, Red Scrapbook, “Miss Montgomery’s Visit to Boston.” Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:332, 9 October 1907. Rubio and Waterston, Writing a Life, 116. uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, “The Way to Make a Book,” c.1915. Francis W.P. Bolger and Elizabeth R. Epperly, My dear Mr. M.: Letters to G.B. MacMillan from L.M. Montgomery (Toronto: McGraw-Hill Ryerson 1980), 3. Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 3:240. Montgomery wrote several items under the pen name Maud Cavendish before 1895. Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journal, 1:290, 3 December 1903. Nathaniel L. Benson, “Arthur Stringer: A Literary Enigma,” University of Toronto Alumni Bulletin, 53, no. 4 (April 1953): 1. See N. John Hall, Trollope: A Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1993), 169: Nicolas Delbanco, Group Portrait: Joseph Conrad, Stephen Crane, Ford Madox Ford, Henry James, and H.G. Wells (New York: Carroll & Graf 1990), 33; John Sutherland, Mrs. Humphrey Ward, Eminent Victorian, PreEminent Edwardian (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1991), 133. When Ward’s British sales faded, she turned to the American market, especially serial sales to magazines, to satisfy for her ever-increasing need for money. Beth Paterson, “Ralph Connor and His Million Dollar Sermons,” Maclean’s, 15 November 1953, 57. J. King Gordon, “Introduction,” Gordon, Postscript to Adventure, v. Gordon’s writing, especially in unlined scribblers, had a tendency to be slanted and uneven when he wrote under these conditions. See uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 1–6, Literary Manuscripts, and box 34, file 4, “Glengarry School Days.” uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 5, Gordon to Doran, 9 August 1928. na, Stead Papers, box 6, file 5, Manitoba Free Press, 6 January 1923; na, Eggleston Papers, 23,12, “Interview with Robert Stead.” na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 22, Diary; see entries for 24 March 1924, 21 August 1926. Another civil servant, Anthony Trollope, also read on rail carriages; see Hall, Trollope, 149. Eric Thompson, Robert Stead and His Works (Toronto: ecw Press 1988), 55. C.I.D., “An Interview with Nellie McClung,” Canadian Bookman, 7, no. 9 (September 1925): 145. Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:17. Veronica Strong-Boag, The New Day Recalled: Lives of Girls and Women in English Canada, 1919–1939 (Toronto: Copp Clark Pitman 1988), 54–5, 134.

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243 Notes to pages 50–1

72 73 74 75 76

77 78

79

80

81 82 83 84

85 86 87 88

McClung, who did little cooking or housework after achieving fame, had a series of live-in girls whom she treated as part of the family. Montgomery generally employed older neighbourhood women who were there during the day and who had the primary responsibility for meals and routine household work. She did, however, help with the annual spring housecleaning. Both women loved gardening. Nellie L. McClung, “An Author’s Own Story,” Saturday Night, 25 January 1913, 29. Rubio and Waterston, Writing a Life, 62. May Armitage, “Mrs. Nellie McClung,” Bookseller and Stationer, 31, no. 8 (August 1915): 33. Eggleston, The Green Gable Letters, 61, Montgomery to Weber, 2 March 1908. For the school-teaching period, see Rubio and Waterston, Writing a Life, 28. uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, L.M. Montgomery, “My Anne,” 408; Laura Higgins, “Snapshot Portrait: Finding Montgomery in Her ‘Dear Den,› in Mary Henley Rubio, ed., Harvesting Thistles: The Textual Garden of L.M. Montgomery (Guelph: Canadian Children’s Press 1994), 101–12. Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 3:270. See Margaret Hobbs and Ruth Pierson, “A Kitchen That Wastes No Steps: Gender, Class and Home Improvement Plans, 1930–1940,” Histore sociale/ Social History, 21, no. 41 (May 1988): 33. Generally the kitchen and the laundry room were the woman’s spaces in a house. Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 10. Stringer often suffered from insomnia and wrote to midnight and beyond. See also Alex Kershaw, Jack London: A Life (New York: St. Martin’s Griffin 1999), 80. University of Western Ontario, D.B. Weldon Library, Rare Book Room (hereafter uwol), Arthur Stringer Papers, Victor Lauriston Other Papers, Stringer to Lauriston, 11 January 1923. Madge MacBeth, Over My Shoulder (Toronto: Ryerson Press 1953), 13. uma, Gordon Papers, box 26, file 6, Robertson to Gordon, 19 April 1901. Ibid., box 49, file 5, Gordon’s secretary to Mulford, 9 February 1922. Eggleston, The Green Gable Letters, Montgomery to Weber, 10 September, 22 December 1908, 70, 81. To add to the strain, there had been a house fire that summer, and her Uncle Leander and family were there for their annual summer visit. Montgomery to MacMillan, 20 February 1910, in Bolger and Epperly, My dear Mr. M., 47. uwol, Stringer Papers, Victor Lauriston Other Papers, Stringer to Lauriston, 21 July 1922. Stringer planned his stories thoroughly, but he did routinely paste new paragraphs in the manuscripts. See ibid., box 3, Manuscripts. Paterson, “Ralph Connor,” 57.

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244

Notes to pages 52–3

89 William W. Ellsworth, A Golden Age of Authors: A Publisher’s Recollections (Boston: Houghton Mifflin 1919), 170–4. His firm was the Century Company. 90 uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 13, Gordon to George Doran, 11 November 1921. 91 In the final, typed versions of the manuscripts of Stead and McClung, there are generally only minor corrections. Edward Caswell arranged for the typing of McClung’s The Second Chance. After her second novel, Montgomery routinely sent her manuscripts out for typing. 92 uga, Montgomery Papers, Red Scrapbook, “Miss Montgomery’s Visit to Boston,” 1910. 93 Rubio and Waterston, Writing a Life, 82. For the similar habits of Laura Goodman Salverson, see her Confessions of an Immigrant’s Daughter (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1996), 398ff. 94 uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, L.M. Montgomery, “The Way to Make a Book.” 95 C.I.D., “An Interview with Nellie McClung,” 145. McClung had to throw away eleven chapters at that point and start again. 96 “Montgomery,” Bookseller and Stationer, 28, no. 6 (June 1912): 25; Elizabeth Rollins Epperly, “Approaching the Montgomery Manuscripts,” in Rubio, Harvesting the Thistles, 74–83. 97 uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 10, Letters from W.E. Robertson [Westminster Company] to Gordon; file 12, Westminster Statements. 98 Ibid., file 10, W.E. Robertson to Gordon, 23 November 1906; see also 21 November 1906. This calculation was based on a population of 5,500,000, half of which he counted as French-speaking or recent nonAnglo-Saxon immigrants. If small children are subtracted from the remaining total, the ratio of copy to citizen is even higher. Also not included are repeated library borrowings. 99 Ibid., box 31, file 12, Sales to January 1907. In a typical period between October 1906 and March 1907, British sales totalled 19,900, and the colonial sales (primarily Australia and New Zealand) 43,430; see box 32, file 3, Sales Statement, Hodder and Stoughton, October 1906 to March 1907. The American sales are estimated because of the illegal editions of Black Rock, counted here at 500,000 but thought to have ranged as high as 800,000. 100 Doran, Chronicles of Barabbas, 202. 101 Paterson, “Ralph Connor:” 56. Gidney and Millar estimate that the Presbyterian clergyman in 1889 made $1,750 in Toronto but as little as $750 outside the urban centres. St Stephen’s was a struggling mission congregation when Gordon arrived there. His salary increased as the church grew. See R.D. Gidney and W.P.J. Millar, Professional Gentlemen: The Professions in Nineteenth-Century Ontario (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1994), 188.

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245 Notes to pages 53–4 102 uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 10, D.N. McAinsh to Gordon, 22 December 1899; file 12, Revell Royalty Statement, 1 January 1906. 103 Ibid., box 1, file 30, Financial Folders, Income 1935, Income 1936. Most of Helen Gordon’s income came from a legacy from her father, J.M. King. 104 Doran, Chronicles of Barabbas, 205. For the Winnipeg boom, see W.L. Morton, Manitoba: A History (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1967), chapters 13 and 14. Gordon’s situation may be exaggerated in the fragmentary accounts that survive. In the fall of 1919 he was able to sell Victory Bonds to meet a mortgage payment of $42,000; see uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 10, W.E. Robertson to Gordon, 26 September 1919. 105 uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 4, Gordon to Mrs Florence D. Black, 7 March 1924. 106 There is much duplication in the poetry volumes. 107 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 18, Stead to A.P. Watt and Son, 13 March 1927; file 9, Stead to McClelland and Stewart, 19 August 1926. Like Connor, Stead experienced strong British and colonial sales, which were no doubt assisted by Unwin, his publisher, but he was never very successful in the more lucrative American market. 108 Ibid., file 22, Diary, 1919; na, Eggleston Papers, box 23, file 15, “Interview with Robert Stead,” 21 March 1915. 109 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 6, “Serialization Revenue.” For context, see Charles Alan Johainningsmeir, Fiction and the American Marketplace: The Role of Newspapers Syndicates, 1860–1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1997). 110 na, Stead Papers, box 4, files 6–18; box 7. 111 Danny was fourth, Connor’s The Foreigner second, and Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables sixth, while her Anne of Avonlea was in eighth position. 112 Victoria University, United Church of Canada Archives, Ryerson Press Royalty Books. 113 uga, Montgomery Papers, 006B, “Price Record”; Rubio and Waterston, Writing a Life, 37. The last figure recorded is for 1937, with a total of $289,225.76. There were still five years of royalties to come at this point, plus a $7,500 payment from rko Pictures for film rights to Anne of Windy Poplars. The latter figure, from her journal entry of 26 May 1939, was contributed by Mary Rubio. For stock investments, see Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 4:399. These included the Robert Simpson Company, Teck, McColl-Frontenac, Dominion Stores, Agnew Surpass, Ford, Imperial Tobacco, and insurance companies. 114 uga, Montgomery Papers, 006B, “Price Record.” 115 Eggleston, The Green Gable Letters, 85, Montgomery to Weber, 28 March 1909. Before the publication of Anne, Montgomery’s earnings from poetry and stories had risen slowly from $591.85 in 1904 to $800 in 1906.

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246

Notes to pages 54–8

116 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:264; Strong-Boag, The New Day Recalled, 63. The average salary for a first-class woman teacher in Prince Edward Island in 1927 was $648. In New Brunswick and elsewhere, the figure was higher. 117 uga, Montgomery Papers, 006A, “Book Sales Records, 1908–1942.” The reprint edition of 25,000 would have sold only in Canada and the United States. 118 “Pegasus,” “Arthur Stringer,” Saturday Night, 22 December 1928, 5. 119 Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, University of Toronto, William Arthur Deacon Collection, box 23, Stringer to Deacon, 14 February 1933; quoted in Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 295. 120 Meadowcroft lists six Canadian and eleven American examples. See her “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 62–3. For criticism, see Don Precosky, “Two Early Modernists,” Journal of Canadian Poetry, 2, no. 2 (autumn 1979): 13–27; J.D. Logan and D.G. French, Highways of Canadian Literature (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1924). 121 Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 39. After a rocky start, Stringer made wise investments in bonds, which guaranteed him an income after his sales began to fall. 122 Stringer’s first printings ranged from 7,500 to as high as 15,000. Empty Hands (1924) sold 15,156 copies in five months and appears to have been his best-seller. See Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 19–21. At the height of his career, he sold movie rights for as high as $17,000 per novel and the magazine serial rights to a novel for $20,000. See Columbia University, Butler Library, Paul Reynolds Papers, 166, Arthur Stringer file, 167, Reynolds to Stringer, 3 May 1924; Stringer to Reynolds, 31 October 1924; Meadowcroft,”Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,“14. 123 Theodore Peterson, American Magazines in the Twentieth Century (Urbana: University of Illinois Press 1964), 107. 124 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:339, 15 October 1908. 125 Eggleston, The Green Gables Letters, 78–9, Montgomery to Weber, 22 December 1908; see also Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:290. 126 See the many references to Isobel in Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 4. 127 Both Montgomery and Stringer loaned or gave money to relatives which was seldom repaid. 128 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:391, 11 December 1920.

chapter four 1 See Karen Caplan Altfest, “Canadian Literary Nationalism, 1836–1914” (PhD thesis, City University of New York 1979), 211–14; Janet B. Friskney,

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247 Notes to pages 58–60

2

3 4 5

6

7

8

9 10 11

“Beyond the Shadow of William Briggs, Part I: Setting the Stage and Introducing the Players,” Papers of the Bibliographical Society of Canada, 33, no. 2 (fall 1995): 129. The examples provided are often for poetry, which was in general decline in sales and which could rarely achieve American and British imprints. Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, eds., The Selected Journals of L.M. Montgomery, 4 vols. (Toronto: Oxford University Press 1985–98), 1:331. Rejections came from Bobbs-Merrill of Indianapolis, Macmillan of New York, Lothrop, Lee and Shepard of Boston, and Henry Holt of New York; see Columbia University, Butler Library (hereafter cul), Paul Reynolds Papers, Arthur Stringer file, 166, Reynolds to Stringer, 17 January 1906. Houghton Mifflin, Doubleday Page, Appleton, Dodd, Mead, Harper’s, Bond, Bobbs-Merrill, and Little Brown rejected Stringer’s manuscript. Nathaniel L. Benson, “Arthur Stringer: A Literary Enigma,” University of Toronto Alumni Bulletin, 51, no. 4 (April 1953): 12. University of Manitoba, Elizabeth Dafoe Library, Archives (hereafter uma), Charles W. Gordon Papers, mss 56, box 32, file 1. Peter Keating, The Haunted Study: A Social History of the British Novel, 1875–1914 (London: Secker & Warburg 1989), 431. For his first novel in 1845, Anthony Trollope accepted a half-profits contract; see N. John Hall, Trollope: A Biography (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1993), 92. Peter Ackroyd, Dickens (London: Sinclair-Stevenson 1990), chapter 7ff. Dickens began his career by writing for magazines, as did the authors in this study. Carole Gerson, A Purer Taste: The Writing and Reading of Fiction in English in Nineteenth-Century Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1989), 27. This was the first Canadian magazine to publish much local writing. See Theodore Peterson, Magazines in the Twentieth Century (Urbana: University of Illinois Press 1964); James Playsted Wood, Magazines in the United States, 2nd ed. (New York: The Ronald Press Company 1956). The Saturday Evening Post and the Delineator reached circulations of over two million, and several other magazines a million or more. By the 1920s the top five in advertising revenue were Saturday Evening Post, Literary Digest, Ladies’ Home Journal, Pictorial Review, and Woman’s Home Companion. The average price paid for pre-publication serial rights for a novel ranged from $5,000 to $25,000, and for a short story, from $350 to $5,000. James L.W. West iii, American Authors and the Literary Marketplace since 1900 (Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press 1988), 107. Ibid., 104–13; Wood, Magazines in the United States, 151ff. Among those featured in magazines were Dickens, Thackeray, Eliot, Poe, Hawthorne, Twain, Hardy, Hemingway, Kipling, Howells, Fitzgerald, Drieser, Wharton, Cather, Conrad, James, Stowe, Lewis, Faulkner, Lawrence, and Joyce.

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248

Notes to pages 60–1

12 For a good recent study, see Helen Damon-Moore, Magazines for the Millions: Gender and Commerce in the Ladies’ Home Journal and the Saturday Evening Post, 1880–1910 (Albany: State University of New York Press 1994). 13 cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 166, Stringer to Reynolds, 20 November 1905. 14 Wood, Magazines in the United States, 190–3. In the same period, Smart Set also published Bliss Carman, O. Henry, Gertrude Atherton, and Richard Le Gallienne and would later print James Joyce, George Moore, and D.H. Lawrence. 15 The novels were The Prairie Mother (April to July 1920) and The Prairie Child (February to May 1922). The Pictorial Review had a circulation of over two million at this time and paid Stringer $13,500 for The Prairie Child. See Barbara Wales Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters: A Selection of His Correspondence with a Critical Introduction” (PhD thesis, McGill University 1983), 216. The Saturday Evening Post had published The Prairie Wife, the less-controversial first volume of the trilogy. 16 McClung wrote for the Family Herald (Montreal), the Woman’s Home Companion, the Delineator, and lesser magazines. Stead was never able to break into the top rank of American magazines. 17 University of Guelph, McLaughlin Library, Archives (hereafter uga), L.M. Montgomery Papers, 6A, “Price Record.” 18 Francis W.P. Bolger and Elizabeth R. Epperly, eds., My dear Mr M.: Letters to G.B. MacMillan from L.M. Montgomery (Toronto: McGraw-Hill Ryerson 1980), 4–6; Wilfrid Eggleston, ed., The Green Gable Letters: From L.M. Montgomery to Ephraim Weber, 1905–1909 (Ottawa: Borealis Press 1981), 26. 19 See Eggleston, The Green Gable Letters, 47, 59, for typical comments on East and West of Toronto, and Montgomery’s shock when the Canadian Magazine began to pay for poetry. She did publish stories in the Globe, the Westminster, and the Canadian Magazine, 20 Bolger and Epperly, My dear Mr M., 46–7. Both Connor and McClung, upon achieving fame as novelists, were similarly pestered by magazine editors for submissions. 21 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 3:39. This is in contrast to the experience of Charles Gordon, who received an invitation from the Ladies’ Home Journal in 1904 to send a story; see uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 2, Franklin B. Wiley to Gordon, 2 March 1904. He also received invitations from Century, McClure’s, Smart Set, and many religious magazines. None of these magazines received stories from him. 22 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:191–211, 251–64, 321, 334, 357, 368. 23 Montgomery told the Toronto World in 1911 that both the Delineator and Harper’s Bazaar were interested in the pre-publication serialization of The Story Girl, but Page never agreed to it; see uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews. Montgomery disliked the reworking of stories that

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249 Notes to pages 61–2

24

25

26

27 28

29

30

31

32 33

34

was often necessary for magazine publication, but most of her work would have required little change. British Columbia Provincial Archives and Records Service (hereafter bca), Nellie L. McClung Papers, Add. mss 10, box 10, file 3, Henry W. Lanier [Doubleday, Page & Co.] to McClung, 11 October, 2 November, 10 December 1907. Before this, the Ladies’ Home Journal and the Delineator had rejected Danny. Ibid., file 7, Woman’s Home Companion to McClung, 14 April 1910; Lanier to McClung, 18 April 1910. Later, McClung personally sold Ontario serial rights to the Globe in Toronto for $200, and her Canadian publisher, William Briggs, sold Quebec rights to the Montreal Star for a similar fee; see ibid., Briggs to McClung, 10 January 1911. uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 9, George Doran to Gordon, 14 June 1902. There were also offers from Everybody’s and Circle Magazine; see box 33, file 1, Henry W. Lanier to Gordon, 28 February 1902; box 31, file 12. George Doran to Gordon, 2 March 1909. Ibid., box 31, file 12, Doran to Gordon, 18 January 1912. Ibid., Doran to Gordon, 17 March 1914; Frank A. Munsey to Doran, 17 March 1914. In book form, Patrol did not appear until the third week in December 1914, too late for most of the Christmas trade. Ibid., file 4, Doran to Gordon, 17 February 1928. This loss also applied to Britain, where his publishers never received a manuscript in time for serial publication. See file 1, J.E. Hodder-Williams to Gordon, 5 July 1902, for the failure for Glengarry School Days. West, American Authors and the Literary Marketplace, 100; Paul R. Reynolds, The Middleman: The Adventures of a Literary Agent (New York: William Morrow 1972), 18. Reynolds’s clients included Wells, Wilde, Conrad, Meredith, Norris, Crane, Fitzgerald, Wodehouse, Cather, Leacock, Shaw, and Tarkington. Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 12–13; cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 166, Reynolds to Stringer, 29 September 1908. He also wrote two serials for Maclean’s in Canada in 1918 and 1920. Earlier in his career, there were also short story, poetry, or serial sales to Atlantic Monthly, Century, Cosmopolitan, Everybody’s, Red Book, McCall’s, McClure’s, Metropolitan Magazine, America, Munsey’s, Collier’s, Canadian Magazine, and other papers. Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 197. Indiana University, Lilly Library, Manuscript Division (hereafter iul) Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Arthur Stringer file, Stringer to Hewitt Hanson Howland, 31 January 1919; Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 211–12. The novel, however, was issued uncut by Alfred A. Knopf after Bobbs-Merrill refused to publish it. Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 14. The Squaw Woman was retitled The Lady Quite Lost as a novel.

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Notes to pages 62–4

35 See University of Western Ontario, D. B. Weldon Library, Rare Book Room (hereafter uwol, Arthur Stringer Papers, box 3, Pauline Kaufman (his sister) to Stringer, 2 March, 14 March, 31 March 1931, for comments on The Mud Lark, the novel with which he had the most difficulty. In the 14 March letter, Pauline commented that “you have them [The Post] where you want. You almost set a trap and they fell into it.” The magazine in 1931 did reject “The Lamp in the Valley” as being too political and too pro – New Deal even after Stringer toned it down. See iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, Lawrence Chambers to Stringer, 18 May 1931; Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 15. In 1923, Thomas Costain, a Canadian who was assistant editor from 1920 to 1934, told Stringer that Lorimer, who “is strong for your work,” wanted to meet with him to discuss future submissions; see uwol Stringer Papers, box 1, file 5, Costain to Stringer, 22 November 1923. In total, including stories, poems, and articles, the Post published at least eighty-six different Stringer submissions. 36 uwol, Stringer Papers, Victor Lauriston Other Papers, Stringer to Lauriston, 25 January 1924. 37 Ibid., Stringer to Lauriston, 28 March 1923. 38 George L. Parker, The Beginnings of the Book Trade in Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1985), 207ff; Danielle Hamelin, “Nurturing Canadian Letters: Four Studies in the Publishing and Promotion of EnglishCanadian Writing, 1890–1920” (PhD thesis, University of Toronto 1994), 63. This 1915 building was the second major upgrade for the firm. For an overview of American religious publishing, see Joan Shelley Rubin, “The Boundaries of American Religious Publishing in the Early Twentieth Century,” Book History, 2 (1999): 207–17. 39 Allan Fisher, Fleming H. Revell: The First 125 Years, 1870–1995 (Grand Rapids: Fleming H. Revell 1995), 7–19. 40 Bolger and Epperly, My dear Mr M., 3. For an extensive list of the magazines, see Eggleston, The Green Gable Letters; Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1. These publications paid up to $10.00 for a story or poem. 41 uga, Montgomery Papers, Red Scrapbook, “Miss L.M. Montgomery, Author of Anne of Green Gables,” Republic (Boston), 19 November 1910, 5. 42 Hamelin, “Nurturing Canadian Letters,” 65. 43 Christina Burr, “The Business Development of the Methodist Book and Publishing House, 1870–1914,” Ontario History, 85, no. 3 (September 1993): 262–4. Briggs attended the same church as H.H. Fudger, the president of Simpson’s, and Joseph Flavelle, one of the city’s leading entrepreneurs. 44 Victoria University, United Church of Canada Archives (hereafter ucca), Board of Publication Papers, box 6, file 45, “Agreements,” This was clause no. 5 in the contracts for Temporal Power and God’s Good Man.

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251 Notes to pages 64–7 45 bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 2, Caswell to McClung, 8 March 1906; file 3, 12, 27 February 1907. When McClung refused to adjust her tone, Caswell confessed, “I … admire your spunk and like spirit.” 46 Ibid., file 1, William Briggs to McClung, 31 July 1905. 47 Ibid., Briggs to McClung, 12 September 1905. 48 Ibid., Briggs to McClung, 13 April 1908. Doubleday, Page, and Company was one of the most commercially oriented of the newer American publishers. The firm also published The Second Chance (1910). For In Times Like These (1915), McClung used D. Appleton and Company; for Purple Springs (1921), Dodd, Mead; and for Painted Fires (1925), Houghton, Mifflin. Of her other books, it appears that only the first volume of her autobiography Clearing in the West (1936) had an American edition. It was with Fleming H. Revell. 49 National Archives of Canada (hereafter na), Wilfrid Eggleston Papers, mg 30, d 282, box 21, file 11, “The Causerie.” The reference was to Alice Caldwell Hegan’s Mrs Wiggs of Cabbage Patch, the number-two American best-seller of 1902. Caswell made a similar comparison but found that Hegan’s humour was “forced and unnatural.” For him, Danny was “a way ahead of it.” See bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 2, Caswell to McClung, 26 April 1906. 50 Ibid., file 6, Caswell to McClung, 19 November 1908. 51 ucca, Board of Publication Papers, box 6, file 39, “Agreements,” The Man from Glengarry (1901) and The Foreigner (1909); Bookseller and Stationer, 28, no. 10 (October 1912). 52 uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 4, Gordon to F.A. Jones (editorial department, Strand Magazine, New York), 11 January 1915. 53 Gordon Allison, “The Westminster Company” (MA thesis, University of Toronto 1962), 30. See also uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 10, J.A. Macdonald to Gordon, 8 March 1897. The Westminster Company paid frequent stock bonuses ranging from 1 to 25 per cent to a small group of shareholders which included most of the principals working for the paper. In 1915 it paid out $14,0666.96 to shareholders; at the close of business in 1920, it paid out $139 per share. James A. Macdonald held twenty of the five hundred shares. 54 uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 10, Robertson to Gordon, 3 January 1907. The other significant author whom the Westminster Company introduced to the public was Marion Keith, whose first five books appeared in the Westminster magazine. Only a few of Connor’s books were produced in Toronto. It was more usual to import the Canadian edition from the United States, as was done with most of the Doran imprints from 1909. 55 Ibid., William E. Robertson to Gordon, 20 June 1927. 56 Charles Allan Madison, Book Publishing in America (New York: McGraw-Hill 1966), 283–7. Revell turned down the manuscripts of

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57

58

59

60

61 62 63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70

Notes to pages 67–9

Charles Sheldon’s In His Steps and Harold Bell Wright’s That Printer of Udell. Doran, who was tolerant of views different from his own, published Aldous Huxley and J.V. Benét, but he drew the line at John Don Passos’s Three Soldiers and tore up a three-book contract with D.H. Lawrence over lesbian references in The Rainbow. uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 10. See especially, Robertson to Gordon, 29 December 1905, 5 October 1906; ibid., file 11, 23 April 1907. Doran had disappeared from sight for two weeks in Chicago just before he moved to New York. Revell’s attitude towards alcohol was extremely negative. bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 3, Caswell to McClung, 3 January 1907. The Revell firm had lost the manuscript of McClung’s Danny for months, and Caswell believed that a drunken Doran had left it in a car or somewhere. uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 10, W.E. Robertson to Gordon, 27 March, 11 April 1907; file 12, Doran to Gordon, 10 December 1907, 14 August 1908. Doran would purchase a one-quarter share in Hodder and Stoughton in 1924. In 1927, Doran merged with Doubleday to form Doubleday, Doran, but he was never comfortable in the new company. His two assistants, Stanley Rinehart, his son-in-law, and John Farrar, also left to establish their own firm. Doran published the McClelland and Stewart roster of Canadian writers, including H.A. Cody, W.A. Fraser, Marion Keith, Isabel Mackay, Frank Packard, Marshall Saunders, and D.C. Scott. British authors from Hodder and Stoughton included Corelli, Beresford, Barrie, Walpole, Parker, and Kilmer. For one example, see uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 12, Doran to Gordon, 7 June 1922. Ibid., file 1, J.E. Hodder-Williams to Gordon, 27 November 1902. See ibid., Gordon to J.E. Hodder-Williams, 9 November 1912 for one instance with his son, J. King Gordon, for £50. On another occasion, it was £135 for daughter Mary. na, Robert J.C. Stead Papers, mg 30, d 74, box 4, file 21, “Poems in Print.” ucca, Board of Publication Papers, box 3, file 4, Ledger, cost of selected works, 1908–13, 50. A.F. Kempton, manager of the Occidental Fire Insurance Company, bought seventy-five to distribute to his agents. Bookseller and Stationer, 26, no. 11 (November 1910): 34. Globe, 8 July 1911. The American edition was issued by the Platt and Peck Company of New York, and the British edition by Gay and Hancock of London. ucca, Board of Publication Papers, box 3, file 4, “Ledger, cost of selected works, 1908–1913,” 4. Service had initially paid a first instalment of $100 to have the book published.

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253 Notes to pages 69–71 71 His stories appeared in the Calgary News Telegram, Canadian Progress, the Canada Monthly, the Bellman, the Canadian Courier, the Canadian Magazine, and Canada West and through the Western Newspaper Union of Chicago. 72 See Carl Berger, The Sense of Power: Studies in the Ideas of Canadian Imperialism, 1867–1914 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1971), for context and the prevalence of this type of Canadian nationalism. 73 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 3. This file contained the correspondence between Stead and Unwin from 1912 to 1914. File 4 continues for the next two years, and files 5 and 6 for the remaining period to 1924, when Stead’s accounts with Unwin were closed. 74 Philip Unwin, The Publishing Unwins (London: Heineman 1972), 39ff. Unwin paid Joseph Conrad £25 for the rights to his first novel. Publishers seldom bought in this manner without believing that they were sure of a successful market. Unwin gave Stead only a 5 per cent Canadian royalty, half of which Briggs kept as a handling fee for marketing. 75 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 4, Unwin to Stead, 29 February 1916; see also the correspondence between the two for 12 October, 1, 15 November, 2 December 1915, 29 February 1916. The price would continue to increase for the duration of the war. 76 Ibid., file 5, Unwin to Stead, 19 February 1917. 77 By the early 1920s, Musson offered for sale the entire Stead list, including the poetry published by Briggs and the early novels. 78 na, Wilfrid Eggleston Papers, box 23, file 15, “Interview with Robert Stead.” A.P. Watt died in 1914, so Stead’s dealing were with his son, who then ran the agency. 79 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 6, Stead to Watt, 22 May 1918, 10 July 1918, 6 August 1918. 80 Ibid., file 18, Royalty Statements. The Cow Puncher sold 17,000 copies in Canada. In the early 1920s, much to Stead’s chagrin, Hodder and Stoughton transferred Smart to Australia. 81 Ibid., file 17, Stead to Watt, 22 May 1920. 82 Ibid., Stead to Watt, 14 May 1921. Part of the problem was with the novel Dennison Grant, in which Stead reached the peak of his philosophizing. Hodder and Stoughton demanded the elimination of much of the philosophy and published the shorter version as Zen of Y.D. in 1922. The novel did, however, sell 12,600 copies in the first two months in Canada. See ibid., Stead to A.P. Watt & Son, 14 May 1921. 83 The Canadian list included W.E. Ingersoll, Basil King, Hopkins Moorhouse, and F.W. Wallace. 84 Sir Percy and Sir Ernest Hodder-Williams on separate occasions invited Stead to lunch and paid his transportation costs; see na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 22, Diary, 6 January, 6 October 1920.

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Notes to pages 71–3

85 Ibid., file 1, 21 August 1923. Other letters involving this agency are found in files 4 and 14. 86 Bolger and Epperly, My dear Mr M., 35. In this letter to MacMillan she spoke of “the usual ten per cent royalty basis.” See also Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:331. 87 na, L.M. Montgomery Collection, mg 30, d 342, Contracts between Montgomery and the L.C. Page Company, 1907 to 1915. Thanks to Carole Gerson for sharing her photocopies with me. 88 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:331; Eggleston, The Green Gable Letters, 52. 89 Carole Gerson, “Dragged at the Chariot Wheels: L.M. Montgomery and the Sequels to Anne of Green Gables,” Papers of the Bibliographical Society of Canada, 35, no. 2 (fall 1997): 143–60. Gerson also notes that, because Montgomery edited her diaries later in life during the period when she was suing Page, they are not an accurate reflection of her attitudes toward him in this early period. It may have been as late as 1916 before she turned against him. 90 Madison, Book Publishing in America, 161. 91 Parker, The Beginnings of the Book Trade in Canada, 190–2; John Caldwell Adams, Sir Charles God Damn: The Life of Sir Charles G.D. Roberts (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1986), 112. Page’s Canadian distributor, Musson, also complained that he believed that Page was not reporting all the Canadian sales in his statements. See Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:19, 25, 408. 92 Stokes was a natural choice for her. According to Madison, he took a middle ground between the didactic and the spectacular and sought works for all ages that were “sane and wholesome, yet at the same time vivid, realistic and entertaining”; see Madison, Book Publishing in America, 115. 93 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:215. Paul Reynolds, who had sued Page for damages on behalf of an author and won, warned Arthur Stringer that he was a man who “will bear watching”; see cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 166, Reynolds to Stringer, 30 March 1905. 94 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:226. Page cut off Mildred’s credit and the electricity to the house when she filed for divorce; see uga, Montgomery Papers, Red Scrapbook, Clippings, “Louis C. Page Sued for Divorce.” 95 na, Montgomery Collection, “Agreement between The Page Company and L.M. Montgomery, 22 January 1919.” See also Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, Writing a Life: L.M. Montgomery (Toronto: ecw Press 1995), 64ff; Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:209ff. Page had offered $10,000, but Montgomery held out for $17,800. 96 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:278ff; Bolger and Epperly, My dear Mr M., 142ff.

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255 Notes to pages 73–4 97 McMaster University, Mills Library, William Ready Archives (hereafter mua), McClelland and Stewart Papers, George Parker Notes, 1966, file 6. For later books the royalty dropped to 15 per cent. Sometime after Parker examined these papers in 1966, McClelland and Stewart destroyed them. His “Notes” are the only record left of the early years. 98 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:29, 149, 309. 99 Stringer’s first three volumes of poetry appeared between 1894 and 1896 under the imprint of T.H. Warren of London, Ontario, which was Stringer’s hometown. 100 cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file 166, Stringer to Reynolds, 28 July 1906. 101 iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, Stringer to Bobbs-Merrill, 13 September 1919; Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 208. Born in Massachusetts, George McLeod had worked with Alex Grosset and George T. Dunlap at John Lovell’s United States Company but had declined their invitation to enter the reprint publishing business. One of the reason for Stringer’s frequent changes in Canadian publishers was his changes in American publishers, with whom the responsibility of selecting a Canadian edition resided. 102 iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, Stringer to H.H. Howland, 7 January 1920; Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 215. 103 mua, McClelland and Stewart Papers, George Parker Notes, file 6, Stringer to McClelland and Stewart, 20 January 1920. 104 iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, Stringer to H.H. Howland, 7 January 1920; Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 222. Of the five authors in this study, only McClung did not move to McClelland and Stewart as Canadian publisher. The firm also published Bliss Carman, Frank Packard, Hiram Cody, Marian Keith, Frederick Niven, J.M. Gibbon, Victor Lauriston, Robert Service, E. Barrington (L.M. Beck), F.P. Grove, Laura Salverson, Robert Service, and others. For a complete list, see George L. Parker, “The History of a Canadian Publishing House: A Study of the Relation between Publishing and the Profession of Writing” PhD thesis, University of Toronto 1969). 105 Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 224–5; mua, McClelland and Stewart Papers, George Parker Notes, file 6. Little, Brown gave Stringer the plates and rights for The Wire Tappers and Phantom Wires; while Houghton Mifflin charged $100 for Lonely O’Malley; Century, $200 for The Shadow; and Appleton, $121.70 for the Silver Poppy. Stringer updated The Wire Tappers, Phantom Wires, and The Gun Runner for a new generation of readers. 106 Elspeth Cameron, “Adventures in the Book Trade,” Saturday Night, November 1983, 30. 107 Madison, Book Publishing in America, 261.

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256

Notes to pages 74–6

108 The other two volumes subjected to change were The Woman Who Couldn’t Die (1929) and Intruders in Eden (1942). 109 Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 24–7. For A Woman at Dusk, he paid $326.20, for Out of Erin, $109.70, and for Shadowed Victory, $477.02. 110 cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 166, Reynolds to Stringer, 25 July 1906. 111 Ibid., Reynolds to Stringer, 9 August, 11 August, 3 November 1906, 28 October 1907. Little, Brown later shipped 1,000 copies of Phantom Wires to Australia. This contract was arranged by Reynolds with the additional support of Curtis Brown, a prominent British literary agent. 112 mua, McClelland and Stewart Papers, George Parker Notes, file 6, Montgomery to McClelland and Stewart, 19 April 1917. Montgomery began with Pitman and moved through Sampson, Low, Marston, Cassells, Constable, and Hodder and Stoughton before settling with Harrap’s. 113 uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 4, Allen Lane to Gordon, 5 January 1933; mua, McClelland and Stewart Papers, George Parker Notes, file 5, Gordon to Dodd, Mead, 5 November 1930. 114 bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 7, Caswell to McClung, 21 March 1910. 115 mua, McClelland and Stewart Papers, George Parker Notes, file 5, L.M. Montgomery to McClelland and Stewart, 19 April 1917. 116 Hilda M. Ridley, The Story of Lucy Maud Montgomery (London: Harrap 1956), 141. In 1924, Page contracted with Harrap’s for the British market, and Angus and Robertson of Sydney for the South Pacific market. 117 Richard Fine, James M. Cain and the American Authors’ Authority (Austin: University of Texas Press 1992), 26. 118 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 4, T. Fisher Unwin to Stead, 16 March 1915. For The Cow Puncher, negotiated by A.P. Watt and Son, Stead’s royalty increased to 10 per cent for the first 1,000, 15 per cent up to 10,000, and then 20 per cent; see ibid., file 6, Watt to Stead, 27 September 1918. 119 uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 10, William E. Robertson to Gordon, 5 October 1906. McClelland and Stewart also charged Gordon a 10 per cent commission for negotiating American and British contracts with Dodd, Mead and John Lane. This was standard practice in the industry. 120 Baker Book House, Grand Rapids, Michigan, Fleming H. Revell Archives, Contract for The Sky Pilot. For The Man from Glengarry, there was no royalty on the first 1,000, 15 per cent on the next 2,500, and then 20 per cent. 121 See na, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 3, Contracts and Royalty Statements. 122 bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 4, Danny Contract, 22 April 1907; Doubleday, Page to McClung, 7 May 1907. 123 Ibid., Lanier to McClung, 5 March 1908; Caswell to McClung, 29 January 1908; Briggs to McClung, 6, 13 April 1908. Because the book was already out and selling well in the United States, McClung was in a favourable

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257 Notes to pages 76–8

124 125

126

127

128

129

130

131 132

133

bargaining position. For Purple Springs in 1921, Dodd, Mead granted her 10 per cent for the first 3,000, 12½ per cent on the next 2,000, and then 15 per cent. See mua, Dodd, Mead Papers, 14–1990, box 3, file 6, McClung Contract. See Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 211–16. uga, Montgomery Papers, box 6A, Book Sales Records, 8. In Canada, 9,460 copies sold, for a return of $641.70, while in Australia, sales of 12,815 earned only $297.79. West, American Authors and the Literary Market place, 30, 127; Madeleine B. Stern, Publishers for Mass Entertainment in Nineteenth-Century America (Boston: G.K. Hall and Co. 1980), 65–9. Two companies, A.L. Burt and Grosset and Dunlap, specialized in reprint editions, which were usually a minimum of 10,000 copies and sold for 75¢, largely through department stores, newsstands, and similar outlets. All of the authors in this study had reprints with one of these firms. Stead, Connor, and Montgomery also had cheap British editions of their best-sellers. Stead’s The Cow Puncher began with a 5,000-copy reprint and was reprinted twice; for Connor’s The Sky Pilot, the first printing was 75,000. West, American Authors and the Literary Marketplace, 30–1; cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 166, Reynolds to Stringer, 23 August 1905. Prior to 1950, advances were rarely over $5,000. The numbers quoted in this section are contained in sources previously cited in this chapter, including na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 7; Revell Archives; Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2; Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters”; and cul, Reynolds Papers, as well as George H. Doran, Chronicles of Barabbas, 1884–1934 (Toronto: George G. McLeod 1935). There is no evidence that McClung received any advances in the few contracts remaining in her papers. bca, McClung Papers, box 12, file 9, Joseph Menchen to Nellie McClung. In the late 1930s, McClung used Joseph Menchen of Los Angeles in an attempt to secure dramatic scripts for her early novels. Montgomery used Miss Elmo of New York in the same period for stories and movie contracts. West, American Authors and the Literary Marketplace, 87–100; Robert Colby, “Out of the Genteel Tradition: Paul Revere Reynolds and the Beginnings of American Literary Agency” (Society for the History of Authorship, Reading, and Publishing conference paper, New York, 1993). na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 6, Watt to Stead, 10 July, 29 October, 1918; Stead to Watt, 21 November 1918. Ibid., box 1, file 9, Stead to John McClelland, 23 February 1926. Stead would continue to use Brandt and Brandt for another decade, but he refused suggestions from both George Doran and the Brandts to place his novels in an American setting or add more action in order to increase sales. Colby, “Out of the Genteel Tradition.”

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258

Notes to pages 78–80

134 cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 166, Stringer to Reynolds, 22 December 1905. 135 In the early part of Stringer’s period with him, Reynolds frequently sent stories to as many as twenty-five magazines and novels to numerous publishers; see ibid., Stringer to Reynolds, 21 November, 5 December 1905; Reynolds to Stringer, 23 February, 20 November 1906. 136 University of Toronto Library, Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, De Lury Collection, box 71, file 5, Stringer to Alfred Tennyson De Lury, 9 January 1904; Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 165. 137 cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 166, Reynolds to Stringer, 2 May 1906; Stringer to Reynolds, 22 September 1906. 138 See the numerous letters from Caswell to McClung in bca, McClung Papers, box 10, files 2, 3, 4, 7. Caswell’s original offer was to pay McClung $200 and share half the American royalties. At the normal 10 per cent royalties on a retail price of $1.25, this offer would have given McClung an advance on 1,600 copies, plus 50 per cent of the royalties on those 1,600 and successive copies. Given the usual sales expected of a first novel, this was a reasonable offer. For the controversy surrounding this offer, see Michael Peterman and Janet Friskney, “Booming the Canuck Book: Edward Caswell and the Promotion of Canadian Writing,” Journal of Canadian Studies, 30, no. 3 (fall 1995): 60–90. 139 bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 3, 7, 8 Letters from Lanier and Doubleday and Page to McClung. 140 uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 3, A.P. Watt to Gordon, 17 December 1904, 11 February 1905; Reynolds to Gordon, 9 January 1903, 9, 24 January 1907. 141 See ibid., box 32, file 10, William E. Robertson to Gordon, 20 June 1927. 142 Ibid., box 33, file 3 Cora Wilkening to Gordon, 26 June 1934; file 2, Gordon to Jacques Chambrun, 14, 29 December 1936, 7, 26 January 1937. Stringer used Cora Wilkening as a movie agent for two decades. One of the principals in the Chambrun agency was Hewitt H. Howland, who worked as a literary agent after leaving Bobbs-Merrill. 143 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 4:292.

chapter five 1 University of Manitoba, Elizabeth Dafoe Library, Archives (hereafter uma, Charles W. Gordon Papers, mss 56, box 34, file 1, Biographical excerpt from Bill’s Bluff, a portion of The Sky Pilot published as a promotional pamphlet; box 1, file 15, “Literary News Notes – Ralph Connor,” George Doran Company, 21 January 1915. See also review excerpts

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259 Notes to pages 80–3

2

3 4

5 6 7

8 9

10

11

published in the Connor novels. Before becoming Gordon’s American publisher in 1908, Doran had managed the Connor account as vice-president of Fleming Revell. Nancy Christie and Michael Gauvreau, A Full-Orbed Christianity: The Protestant Churches and Social Welfare in Canada, 1900–1940 (Montreal/Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press 1996), 14. Ibid., 65–6, see also 7. Selling an estimated one million copies, Black Rock would be his all-time best-seller, followed closely by The Sky Pilot. As late as 1927, sales of The Sky Pilot numbered in the thousands; see uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 10, William E. Robertson to Gordon, 20 June, 19 December 1927. The publication of Gwen’s parable separately from the novel also boosted sales. By far the largest portion of letters that Gordon received from readers were prompted by reading these two novels. The following editions were used for this chapter: Black Rock: A Tales of the Selkirks (New York: Grosset and Dunlap n.d.) and The Sky Pilot: A Tale of the Foothills (Toronto: Westminster 1899). D. Barry Mack presents Connor as a modernist in his “Modernity without Tears: The Mythic World of Ralph Connor,” in William Klempa, ed., The Burning Bush: The Presbyterian Church in Canadian Life and Culture (Ottawa: Carleton University Press 1994), 139–58, but dismisses him as ineffective and naive. See for instance, New York Times Book Review, 23 November 1901, 867. uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 6, Gordon to Ernest Shipman, 5 May 1920. Connor, The Sky Pilot, 51. See uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 3, Leland Malone to Gordon, 12 October 1904; file 6, Beatrice E. Broome to Gordon, 1 May 1918; and box 49, file 4, Magnus George to Gordon, n.d., for reader responses to the scenery. See Keith Walden, Visions of Order: The Canadian Mounties in Symbol and Myth (Toronto: Butterworths 1982). See, for instance, Corporal Cameron of the North West Mounted Police (New York: George H. Doran 1912) and The Patrol of the Sundance Trail (New York: George H. Doran 1914). See J.E. Rea, “The Roots of Prairie Society,” in David Gagan, ed., Prairie Perspectives (Toronto: Holt, Rinehart and Winston 1970), 46–57; Lawrence Ricou, Vertical Man/Horizontal World: Man and Landscape in Canadian Prairie Fiction (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press 1973), 14–16. Connor added Winnipeg to his settings after relocating there. Other primary locales used in his writing include Scotland and the Ontario of his childhood and university training. See David Breen, The Canadian West and the Ranching Frontier, 1874–1924 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1982), for the best analysis of the Canadian ranching frontier. Connor, The Sky Pilot, 81.

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260

Notes to pages 83–4

12 See John Lennox, Ralph Connor (Toronto: ecw Press 1989). For the widespread push for refinement and respectability, see Richard L. Bushman, The Refinement of America: Persons, Houses, Cities (New York: Vintage Books 1993). 13 See uma, Gordon Papers, box 11, file 1, F.B. Hamilton to Gordon, 6 February 1907; box 28, file 10, Sermon, “The Canadian Home and Its Environment.” Gordon also saw sports as an important outlet for youthful enthusiasm which could prevent juvenile delinquency. His St Stephen’s Church sponsored sports activities of all types and even had a recreation building in which they could be played year round. Gordon’s profits from his writing paid for much of the building. 14 For the anti-modernist theme, see T.J. Jackson Lears, No Place of Grace: Antimodernism and the Transformation of American Culture, 1880–1920 (New York: Pantheon Books 1981); Michael Dawson, ‹That Nice Red Coat Goes to My Head like Champagne’: Gender, Anti-modernism and the Mountie Image, 1880–1960,” Journal of Canadian Studies, 32, no. 3 (fall 1997): 119–39. 15 Keith Walden, Becoming Modern in Toronto: The Industrial Exhibition and the Shaping of Late Victorian Culture (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1997), 33. Walden devotes his entire first chapter to the issue of order. 16 Robert H. Wiebe, The Search for Order (New York: Hill and Wang 1967), 14, 62. 17 Warren I. Susman, Culture as History: The Transformation of American Society in the Twentieth Century (New York: Pantheon Books 1984), chapter 6. 18 Desmond Morton, “Aid to Civil Power: The Canadian Militia in Support of Social Order, 1867–1914,” Canadian Historical Review, 50, no. 4 (December 1970): 407. 19 André Cellard and Gérard Pelletier note in “Le Code Criminel canadien, 1892–1927: Étude des acteurs sociant,” Canadian Historical Review, 79, no. 2 (June 1998): 268ff, that concern for public order dominated the pressure for Criminal Code amendments in this period. For concerns over adolescents, see Cynthia Comacchio, “Dancing to Perdition: Adolescence and Leisure in Interwar English Canada,” Journal of Canadian Studies, 32, no. 3 (fall 1997): 5–35. 20 See Cheryl Warsh, ed., Drink in Canada: Historical Essays (Montreal/Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press 1993); John Burnham, Bad Habits: Drinking, Smoking, Taking Drugs, Gambling, Sexual Misbehaviour, and Swearing in American History (New York: New York University Press 1993). 21 Charles W. Gordon, Postscript to Adventure: The Autobiography of Ralph Connor (New York: Farrar and Rinehart 1938), 63, 126ff, 161ff, 276. See Jan Noel, Canada Dry: Temperance Crusades before Confederation (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1995), for an excellent study of the background to the later movement.

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261 Notes to pages 84–6 22 Roy Rosenzweig, “The Rise of the Saloon,” in Chandra Mukerii and Michael Schudson, Rethinking Popular Culture: Contemporary Perspectives in Cultural Studies (Berkeley: University of California Press 1991): 145; see also 146 for comments on gender and leisure. 23 See Mariana Valverde, The Age of Light, Soap, and Water: Moral Reform in English Canada, 1885–1925 (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1991), chapter. 3. This author points out that the success of the Salvation Army in this era was due in part to its use of popular forms of entertainment and communication, including melodrama. 24 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 6, Eleanor F. Train to Ralph Connor, 23 February 1920. 25 Ibid., file 2, Rev. G.H. Finch to Gordon, 20 August 1902. The correspondent noted that there had been indecent behaviour at threshings, raisings, and sports events. Tobacco use by the young had also been lessened. See also ibid., Ellen M. Watson to George Vincent, 11 August 1902, Ellen Watson to Gordon, 20 October 1902, for an example of distribution to temperance leagues. 26 Ibid., file 5, Rev. Robert Rein to Gordon, 15 July 1910. Several boys’ clubs in the United States, Australia, and New Zealand were named after Connor or his novels. 27 See Burnham, Bad Habits, chapter 6. For the British attacks on gambling, see F.L.M. Thompson, The Rise of Respectable Society: A Social History of Victorian Britain, 1830–1900 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1988), 332ff. The one type of gambling that proved difficult to curtail was that associated with horse racing. 28 Ann Fabian, Card Sharps, Dream Books, and Bucket Shops: Gambling in 19thCentury America (Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1990), 6. 29 See uma, Gordon Papers, box 28, file 10, for Gordon’s sentiments as revealed in a series of three typed sermons entitled “The Canadian Home.” 30 Once banned in the Presbyterian Church, hymns had been gradually introduced in the second half of the nineteenth century and were particularly liked by younger people; see John Thomas McNeill, The History and Character of Calvinism (New York: Oxford University Press 1954), 326ff. Gordon’s brother Gilbert donated an organ for Charles’s new church in Canmore. For insightful comments on the changing role of music in the nineteeth century, see Peter Gay, The Bourgeois Experience: Victoria to Freud, vol. 4, The Naked Heart (New York: W.W. Norton 1995), 12ff. 31 Canmore Ralph Connor Memorial Church (Canmore: The Historical Committee 1982), 22. Minnie Fulton taught Sunday school and was in the choir. 32 Wiebe, The Search for Order, 77. See also R. Jackson Wilson, In Quest of Community: Social Philosophy in the United States, 1860–1920 (New York: Oxford University Press 1970).

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262

Notes to pages 87–90

33 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, no. 1, W.B.P. to Gordon, 20 August 1900. 34 See Richard Allen, The Social Passion: Religion and Social Reform in Canada, 1914–1928 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1971), 7ff. 35 See Frederick A. Walker, “Powerful and Appropriate Discourse: Sermons and Sermon Scenes in Five Novels by Ralph Connor” (ma thesis, University of Ottawa 1985). 36 Connor, The Sky Pilot, 275. The Canadian west was officially dry in these years, but residents could obtain liquor permits from the lieutenantgovernor of the territory. 37 Christie and Gauvreau, A Full-Orbed Christianity, 37. 38 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 3, Caroline Campbell to Gordon, 8 January 1904. For more information on Gordon’s theology, see box 28, Sermons; box 1, file 19, Bill Millar, “Unfinished Towers: The Social Vision of Charles W. Gordon” (Paper prepared for the Vancouver School of Theology, August 1980); D. Barry Mack, “Ralph Connor and the Progressive Vision” (ma thesis, Carleton University 1986); Brian Fraser, The Social Uplifters: Presbyterian Progressives and the Social Gospel in Canada, 1875– 1915 (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press 1988). 39 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 3, Gwen Smith to Gordon, 26 November 1905, for two of the most emotional letters. See also file 48, 2, Emma Bowers to Gordon, 5 January 1902. 40 Ibid., file 1, C.G. Trumbull to Gordon, 8 September 1900. 41 Ibid., Rev. A.W. Hirstendahl to Gordon, 17 August 1901. 42 From the Boston Transcript and quoted in the Grosset and Dunlap edition of The Prospector (New York: 1904). 43 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 2, Lulu G. Auld to Gordon, 11 February 1902. 44 See ibid. box 48 for dozens of letters from fans confessing to tears. These were private letters sharing intimate experiences with the author. It is doubtful whether many of the writers would have made similar public confessions. 45 See Esther Scho, Bearing the Dead: The British Culture of Mourning from the Enlightenment to Victoria (Princeton: Princeton University Press 1994); Pat Jalland, Death in the Victorian Family (New York: Oxford 1996). For a more complete analysis, see Clarence Karr, “When Men Used to Cry: Gender Responses to Ralph Connor’s Fiction,” in Lydia C. Shurman, ed., Reading Publics: The Global Common Reader (Boston: University of Massachusetts forthcoming). 46 Gordon, Postscript to Adventure, 76. See also 5ff. 47 George Bryce, The Scotsmen in Canada (Toronto: Musson 1911), 411. 48 Interview with J. King Gordon, Ottawa, 23 June 1974. 49 uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 6, Gordon to Ernest Shipman, 5 May 1920. See the prefaces to Black Rock and The Sky Pilot in the editions cited

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263 Notes to pages 90–2

50

51 52

53

54

55 56 57

58

59

above. See his Postscript to Adventure, 13–17, for comments about the Scots and manliness. Gordon, Postscript to Adventure, 35–41, 53. When Gordon speaks of “the fighting spirit” in his autobiography and his Glengarry novels, he is really talking about a competitive spirit. The virtue of hard work was for him the primary virtue. In “Furrow’s End,” Journal of Canadian Studies, 21, no. 3 (fall 1986): 1–31, W.L. Morton speaks of the inability of his generation, raised on hard work, to relax. Vigorous exercise, even splitting wood on vacation, was a necessary part of life. Gordon’s vigorous play and writing on vacations fit into this mould. uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 4, Gordon to Robert J.C. Stead, 7 March 1924. See Athenaeum, 14 January 1905, 76, for one example. For a recent overviews, see Donald E. Hall, ed., Muscular Christianity: Embodying the Victorian Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1994); Norman Vance, The Sinews of the Spirit: The Ideal of Christian Manliness in Victorian Literature and Religious Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1985). uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 3, Arthur L. Lavy to Gordon, 22 July 1904. For other responses, see box 48, file 1, Frank S. Child to Gordon, 6 June 1900; file 4, Norman H. Hooper to Gordon, 19 December 1906; Grace Hill to Gordon, 2 July 1908; file 5, J. Allen Bailey to Gordon, 28 December 1912; George G. Warner to Gordon, 13 July 1912. Ibid., file 1, Margaret (Mrs Lewis A.) Leonard to Gordon, 20 March 1901. President Theodore Roosevelt boasted that he could “pass an examination in Black Rock and The Sky Pilot”; see Gordon, Postscript to Adventure, 156. uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 6, Beatrice E. Broome to Gordon, 1 May 1915. The author of this letter was sixteen years old. Ibid., box 1, file 12, Ralph Connor, “Presenting a Problem through Characters,” The Editor: The Author’s Weekly, 72, no. 5 (30 June 1926): 69. N.J. Mihaychuck, Letter to the Editor, Canadian Magazine, 34, no. 5 (1910): 487. See also James Murray Gibbon, Canadian Mosaic: The Making of a Northern Nation (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1938), 276–8. In its review the Canadian Magazine labelled The Foreigner “a novel of evolving Canada today, the Canada of the melting-pot”; see 34, no. 4 (February 1910): 390. Alice Payne Hackett, 70 Years of Best Sellers (New York: R.R. Bowker 1967), 117–19. See also Peter Buitenhuis, The Great War of Words: British, American, and Canadian Propaganda, 1914–1918 (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press 1987). For a more modern contextual framework, see Jonathan Vance, Death So Noble: Memory, Meaning, and the First World War (Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press 1997). Vance recognizes the coexistence of residual and emergent cultures, which explains the continued existence of the high diction.

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264

Notes to pages 92–5

60 uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 2, George Doran to Gordon, 9 April 1921; file 13, Gordon to Doran, 16 August 1921; David J. Bercuson, Confrontation at Winnipeg: Labour, Industrial Relations, and the General Strike (Montreal/Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press 1974). 61 Bookseller and Stationer, 27, no. 10 (November 1911): 24. 62 Both the sales and the readers’ reaction to the novel were minimal. 63 Review of The Doctor, in Saturday Night, 23 (20 November 1909): 12. 64 See The Doctor (New York: Fleming Revell 1906), 124), 174. The adjectives “cluttered,” “artificial,” and “too religious” began to be used in describing his work. Connor had used “blankety-blank” to depict swearing in his early novels. This was replaced by “gol dang,” “Good Lord,” “howly Mary,” “Oh God,” and so on in The Doctor. Complaints from readers and viewers began immediately; see uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 4, Alexander Patterson to Gordon, 15 November 1908; file 5, Thomas Kent to Gordon, 18 February 1910. On swearing, see Burnham, Bad Habits, chapter 8; Gertrude Pringle, Etiquette in Canada: The Blue Book of Canadian Social Usage (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1932), 106. Pringle cautions people to avoid vulgar words and slang, including those such as “gosh,” “gee,” and “darn,” used by Connor in his fiction.

chapter six 1 National Archives of Canada (hereafter na), Robert J.C. Stead Papers, mg 30, d 74, box 8, file 3, “Observations,” High River Times, 20 June 1912. 2 Ibid., box 1, file 1, J.C. Brandt to Stead, 4 March 1925. The homestead novel was just being defined in 1914, at the beginning of the First World War. 3 William Leach, “Strategies of Display and the Production of Desire,” in Simon J. Bronner, ed., Consuming Visions: Acculturation and Display of Goods in America, 1880–1920 (New York: W.W. Norton 1989): 101. See also Keith Walden, Becoming Modern in Toronto: The Industrial Exhibition and the Shaping of a Late Victorian Culture (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1997), chapter 3. 4 Simon J. Bronner, “Reading Consumer Culture,” in Bronner, ed., Consuming Visions, 13. 5 See T.J. Jackson Lears, Fables of Abundance: A Cultural History of Advertising in America (New York: Basic Books 1994). See also Christoph Asendorf, Batteries of Life: On the History of Things and Their Perception in Modernity, trans. Don Renean (Berkeley: University of California Press 1993). 6 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 22, Diary, 1948, entries for 15, 24 March 1948. In the early 1950s, Stead edited his diaries. Only the edited version is found in his papers. The edition of The Bail Jumper used for this study was published in London by T. Fisher Unwin in 1914. Stead might also have added overly melodramatic to his list of complaints.

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265 Notes to pages 95–7 7 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 2, Earl Grey to Stead, 6 March 1911. The volume was The Empire Builders (Toronto: William Briggs 1908). 8 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 14, H. Napier Moore to Stead, 29 April 1923. 9 Review of The Cow Puncher (Toronto: Musson 1918), in New York Times Book Review, 29 December 1918, 582. 10 na, Stead Papers, box 5, file 11, Canadian Thresher and Farmer, 18 December 1918. 11 Vancouver Sun, 4 November 1918. David Harum (1898) was a novel by Wescott available in Canada as part of the William Briggs reprint series. E.N. Wescott, an American writer, died soon after this first novel was published. With a rural setting that set the pattern for romance tempered by realism, the novel exuded a homely philosophy in which optimistic farmers outwitted their city cousins. See Frank Luther Mott, Golden Multitudes: The Story of Best Sellers in the United States (New York: Macmillan 1947), 206. 12 Wilfrid Eggleston, The Frontier and Canadian Letters (Toronto: Ryerson 1957), 165. This critic was a close friend of Stead who was in tune with the readers on the prairies and their appreciation of Stead. Legitimacy also applies to Stead’s portrait of the foothills. 13 na, Stead Papers, box 5, file 9, Morning Albertan, 16 December 1916; Robert Stead, The Homesteaders. A Novel of the Canadian West (Toronto Musson 1916). 14 See Bookseller and Stationer, 36, no. 10 (October 1920): 13. 15 na, Stead Papers, box 5, file 4, “Mr East Meets Mr West,” October 1922. See R. Douglas Francis, Images of the West: Changing Perceptions of the Prairies, 1690–1960 (Saskatoon: Western Producer Prairie Books 1989); and Ronald Rees, New and Naked Land: Making the Prairies Home (Saskatoon: Western Producer Prairie Books 1988), for further information on culture making the prairies home. 16 Leo Charney and Vanessa R. Schwartz, Cinema and the Invention of Modern Life (Berkeley: University of California Press 1995), 7. 17 McClelland and Stewart published the Canadian editions of both The Smoking Flax and Grain. Neighbours (Toronto: Hodder and Stoughton 1922) also had a homestead setting, but this time it was in central Saskatchewan. The edition of Grain used for this study is the McClelland and Stewart New Canadian Library edition. 18 Robert Stead, Dennison Grant (Toronto: Musson 1920). 19 Stead, The Bail Jumper, 197. For further comment on Stead’s philosophy see Clarence Karr, “Robert Stead’s Search for an Agrarian Ideal,” Prairie Forum, 14, no. 1 (spring 1989): 37–58; A.T. Elder, “Western Panorama: Settings and Themes in Robert J.C. Stead,” Canadian Literature, 17 (summer 1964): 29–38; Leslie Mundwiler, “Robert Stead – Home in the First Place,” Essays on Canadian Writing, 11 (summer 1978): 184–203.

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266

Notes to pages 97–100

20 Stead, The Homesteaders, 16. The Harris family came from Lanark County, Ontario, the same origin as Stead’s parents. 21 Stead, The Bail Jumper, 197. 22 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 5, Stead to T. Fisher Unwin, 14 August 1918. Stead decided that the book by Arthur West was too dated for use by the cpr. In this same period, R.G. MacBeth entitled his popular history of the west The Romance of Western Canada (Toronto: William Briggs 1918). 23 See Doug Owram, Promise of Eden: The Canadian Expansionist Movement and the Idea of the West, 1856–1900 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1980). Canadian and American traditions are markedly different in this respect. In the United States, confronting the people in the wilderness was an important source for heroism. Stead empathized with the Native peoples but saw them as a doomed race. Although early in his writing career he objected to the immigration of non-white races to Canada, by 1918 he could see no reason to exclude “Hindoos and Chinese” from the country; see Rock Lake Review, 18 January 1899, 4; na, Stead Papers, box 6, file 3, Calgary News Telegram, 7 January 1918. 24 For the importance of table manners, see Manners (Toronto: McClelland, Goodchild & Stewart 1914), 61–5. This book was recommended for Ontario school libraries. See also Margaret Visser, The Rituals of Dinner: The Origins, Evolution, Eccentricities and Meaning of Table Manners (Toronto: Harper Collins 1991). 25 Walden, Becoming Modern in Toronto, 213. See also Richard L. Bushman, The Refinement of America: Persons, Houses, Cities (New York: Vintage Books 1993), 251ff. Stead was a strong supporter of the farm beautification movement, which was an important feature of North American society in the period from the late nineteenth to the early twentieth century. In an editorial in his Rock Lake Review on 3 May 1900, he noted that farmers in the west were now beyond the pioneer phase and should direct their attention to the refinements of life, including the planting of trees. Farm beautification plays an important role in Dennison Grant and The Smoking Flax. 26 Stead, Neighbours, 237–8. 27 Asendorf, Batteries of Life, 52. 28 na, Stead Papers, box 4, file 21, “Poems in Print.” 29 Ibid., box 5, file 8, “Canada’s Neglected Industry,” Address to the Canadian Club, Ottawa, 1946; file 3, “St. Andrew’s Day Address,” undated. 30 Ibid., box 8, file 2, “Observations,” High River Times, 20 February 1913. Although with work and writing, Stead had few idle hours, he enjoyed motoring and dominoes and played his first round of golf in 1922. Family vacations often combined leisure with his career as a writer, as the Steads travelled to conventions or he wrote or edited at a summer cottage. 31 Cynthia Comacchio, “Dancing to Perdition: Adolescence and Leisure in Interwar English Canada,” Journal of Canadian Studies, 32, no. 3 (fall 1997): 9.

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267 Notes to pages 100–5 32 Ann Fabian, Card Sharks, Dream Books and Bucket Shops: Gambling in 19thCentury America (Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1990), 196ff. See also Asendorf, Batteries of Life, chapter 3. 33 Bookseller and Stationer, 32, no. 10 (October 1916): 47 (publisher’s advertising for The Homesteaders quoting a review in the Calgary News). The reviewer made specific reference to Nellie McClung and Emily Murphy, who had provided the west with fine fiction centred on heroines. 34 Elder, “Western Panorama,” 34. For context, see Veronica Strong-Boag, The New Day Recalled: The Lives of Girls and Women in English Canada, 1919– 1939 (Toronto: Copp Clark Pitman 1988); James G. Snell, In the Shadow of the Law: Divorce in Canada, 1900–1939 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1991). The illustrations in The Cow Puncher were by Canadian artist Arthur Heming, a former North West Mounted policeman personally engaged by Stead because he could provide authenticity. The one following page 36 depicts Reenie Hardy riding astride. 35 See Elder, “Western Panorama,” 38. 36 Stead, The Homesteaders, 292–3. 37 Stead, The Cow Puncher, 198. Ozone was thought by many in this era to be a life-giving substance coming from electrical storms. 38 Rock Lake Review, 21 August 1902, 28 November 1901; na, Stead Papers, box 8, file 3, “Observations,” High River Times, 6 March 1913. For context, see Jan Noel, Canada Dry: Temperance Crusades before Confederation (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1995). Treating had been a common practice earlier in the century in which the employer provided beer for his workers during the day. 39 See Stead, The Cow Puncher, 86–92. At the end of the novel, Elden accepts the Christian message of redemption and service from Edith Duncan before leaving for the war, but for him, as for Stead, faith remained a private matter. Stead regularly attended the Presbyterian and then the United Church. 40 Stead, The Cow Puncher, 108. Such self-learning was a prominent feature in Stead’s fiction, especially for male heroes such as Elden, Raymond Burton, and Frank Hall. 41 Learning to understand and drive cars was an important feature of Canadian society at the time. In Alberta, 441 more licences to drive were issued in the first few months of 1918 than in all of 1917, for a total of 21,080. In neighbouring Saskatchewan, the number of licences jumped from 74 in 1908 to 8,027 in 1914 and to 33,000 in the first four months of 1918. See “Canada Third in the Number of Autos,” Bookseller and Stationer, 34, no. 6 (June 1918): 32. This trade journal stated that the automobile opened up a whole new line of books on cars and driving. 42 See Bushman, The Refinement of America, 423. During the previous halfcentury, sentimental literature, largely written by women, had often introduced romance between people originating from different social classes.

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268

Notes to pages 105–9

43 Stead was fascinated with new technology and advocated its adoption for both urban and rural residents. In the novel, cars and telephones are in general use for both business and pleasure. This familiarity with the telephone was ahead of the Canadian pattern; see Robert M. Pike, “Kingston Adopts the Telephone: The Social Diffusion and Use of the Telephone in Urban Central Canada,” Urban History Review, 18, no. 1 (June 1989): 32–47. 44 na, Stead Papers, box 8, file 3, Speech on “The New Federation,” printed in the High River Times, 7 March 1918. 45 Stead, The Cow Puncher, 342–3. 46 na, Stead Papers, box 8, file 4, “Wake Up Canadians,” Winnipeg Evening Tribune, 13 April 1918. 47 Ralph Connor, “The New Canada and Its Needs,” Maclean’s Magazine, December 1919, 29, 109–10, 1 November 1920, 24–5, 45–6; J.O. Miller, ed., The New Era in Canada: Essays Dealing with the Upbuilding of the Canadian Commonwealth (London: J.M. Dent 1917). 48 Mennonites and a few other groups did follow this type of village settlement. 49 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 9, Stead to McClelland and Stewart, 19 August 1926. Canadian sales reached approximately 17,000 copies, but much of this was on the strength of The Cow Puncher, which sold a similar number. The publisher, Musson, was aggressive in its marketing. 50 Ibid., file 6, Review of Neighbours, in Morning Albertan, 25 November 1922. In discussing the origins of his characters, Stead insisted that real people would not work as models because “the public is entitled to better material. Few people are heroes, fewer still villains, and scarcely any sufficiently interesting to hold silent attention for more than a couple of pages”; see Evening Tribune (Winnipeg), magazine section, 4 November 1922, 3. 51 See V.B. Rhodenizer, A Handbook of Canadian Literature (Ottawa: Graphic Press 1930), 105, for one of the first commentaries. 52 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 8, Stead to McClelland and Stewart, 21 March 1926. This was reference to the poor sales of The Smoking Flax. 53 Eric Thompson, Robert Stead and His Works (Toronto: ecw Press 1988), 43. 54 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 9, Stead to McClelland and Stewart, 21 January 1926.

chapter seven 1 Nellie L. McClung, The Second Chance (Toronto: William Briggs 1910), 51. This story is chapter 4, “Something More than Gestures.” 2 Interview with Mark McClung on the subject of his mother, Nellie McClung, by Olivia Jacobs and Katy Burnett from the Ministry of the Secretary of State, at Carleton University on 1 April 1975.

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269 Notes to pages 110–11 3 May L. Armitage, “Mrs Nellie McClung,” Bookseller and Stationer, 31, no. 8 (August 1915): 33; See also Mark McClung, “Portrait of My Mother” (typescript of speech delivered at a conference on Nellie McClung at the University of Guelph, 28 September 1975). As a child, Mark accompanied his mother to several of her speaking engagements. Nellie coached children for wctu’s recitation contests, and in 1908 she was the Royal Templars’ superintendent of elocution for southern Manitoba. 4 For general context, see F.S. Spence, ed., The Facts of the Case: A Summary of the Most Important Evidence and Argument Presented in the Report of the Royal Commission on the Liquor Traffic (Toronto: 1896); Sharon Anne Cook, “Through Shadow and Sunshine”: The Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, Evangelicalism, and Reform in Ontario, 1874–1930 (Montreal/Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press 1995); James H. Gray, Booze: When Whisky Ruled the West (Scarborough: nal 1973). 5 The term “saloon” is more an American than a Canadian one, but because much of the literature for the movement came from the United States, this terminology was adopted by both Connor and McClung together with the more Canadian “bar”. 6 From “Youth and Art,” in Browning’s Dramatis Personae (1864). 7 William Briggs published the Canadian editions of the first two volumes, and Thomas Allen, also of Toronto, the final novel. Allen published McClung for the rest of her career and issued the most recent edition of Danny in 1965. The University of Toronto Press reissued Purple Springs in 1992. Page numbers remain the same, irrespective of the editions. Although McClung’s In Times like These (Toronto: McLeod and Allen 1915; University of Toronto Press 1972) is more famous with historians and feminists, contemporary literature referred most frequently to McClung as the author of Danny. 8 See, for example, Canadian Bookman, 14, no. 1 (January 1932): 12, for specific comments on Flowers for the Living (Toronto, 1931) and general comments on her fiction. See also J.D. Logan and D.G. French, Highways of Canadian Literature (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1924), 303. At the time that she wrote her first novel, McClung’s only trip outside Manitoba had been in the summer of 1892, when she visited her mother’s sister in Alpena, Michigan. Nellie, who was eighteen at the time, travelled alone. 9 Paula M. Powell Slaughter, “Activism and Domesticity: Voice and Metaphor in Nellie McClung” (ma thesis, University of Calgary 1989), 49; see also 4–7, 29, 62. 10 See Nellie L. (Mrs A.D.) Richard to McClung, 26 February 1936; Helen (Mrs Marion) Piscia to Susan Edgar, 27 February 1936; Ruby Macintyre to McClung, 1 February 1936, in Randi R. Warne, Literature as Pulpit: The Christian Social Activism of Nellie L. McClung (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press 1993), appendix, c, 215–18.

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270

Notes to pages 111–14

11 Marilyn I. Davis, “Introduction” in Stories Subversive: Through the Field with Gloves Off. Short Fiction by Nellie McClung (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press 1996), 18. 12 British Columbia Provincial Archives and Records Service (hereafter bca), Nellie L. McClung Papers, Add. mss 10, box 20, file 1, “Recital Flyer.” 13 See as examples “Review” of Sowing Seeds in Danny; Canadian Magazine, 31 (September 1908): 474; National Archives of Canada (hereafter na), Wilfrid Eggleston Papers, mg 30, d 282, box 21, file 11, Lecture to the Canadian Authors Association, 27 January 1942. 14 Warne, Literature as Pulpit, 5. 15 bca, McClung Papers, box 24, file 1, Untitled paper on personal life. 16 Nellie L. McClung, The Stream Runs Fast: My Own Story (Toronto: Thomas Allen 1945), 70; see also 213. McClung’s desire to uplift her readers and listeners should not be confused with her vicious satire of the impractical, hollow, uplifting attempts of Mrs J. Burton Francis in Danny. 17 Davis, “Introduction,” in Stories Subversive; 5; see also 4. 18 “Quaint” would soon refer to the good, wholesome, simple, rustic life of peasants who bypassed the problematic modern world. There is, however, no hint of anti-modernism in McClung’s early novels. It would also have been inappropriate for critics to equate the residents of a young, modern, booming western Canada with Quebec habitants or Nova Scotia fishermen. See Ian McKay, The Quest for Folk: Antimodernism and Cultural Selection in Twentieth-Century Nova Scotia (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1994). 19 Mary Hallett and Marilyn Davis, Firing the Heather: The Life and Times of Nellie McClung (Saskatoon: Fifth House 1993), 25–6. 20 See Warne, Literature as Pulpit, 148–50; Dolores Hayden, The Grand Domestic Revolution: A History of Feminist Designs for American Homes, Neighborhoods, and Cities (Cambridge: MIT Press 1981). 21 The first Manitoba log house of Nellie’s parents had only a ladder to the bedroom attic, but the second house, built soon after, had a proper staircase. This transition represented a major refinement. See Richard L. Bushman, The Refinement of America: Persons, Houses, Cities (New York: Vintage Books 1993), 114–15, 118–20. 22 See Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, 235–6, for further analysis as well as commentary on the manner in which McClung uses satire to reduce the romantic to the absurd. 23 bca, McClung Papers, box 3, file 4, “Manners.” 24 Nellie McClung, “An Author’s Own Story,” Saturday Night, 25 (January 1913): 29. 25 Nellie McClung, Sowing Seeds in Danny (Toronto: The Ryerson Press 1929), 159.

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271 Notes to pages 114–18 26 27 28 29 30 31

32

33

34 35

36

37

38

39 40

41 42

Ibid., 197. McClung, In Times like These, 30ff. bca, McClung Papers, box 26, file 1, “Notes.” McClung, “An Author’s Own Story,” 29. Warne, Literature as Pulpit, 28. See also Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, 237. See bca, McClung Papers, box 2, file 3, “Monotony”; see also box 24, file 3, “Gloomers”; file 6, “Self-Expression”; box 25, file 4, “The Measure of Life”; file 9, “Making the Best of Ourselves; box 26, “Gentle Lady.” Rev. J.A. McClung to Nellie McClung, 15 November 1908, in Candace Savage, Our Nell: A Scrapbook Biography of Nellie L. McClung (Halifax: Goodread Biographies 1985), 62. J.A. McClung stated in his letter that some contemporaries found Pearlie too evangelical. Randi Warne suggests the second possibility; see Literature as Pulpit, 25. McClung’s editor, however, criticized her for being too flippant in her approach to religion in Danny; see bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 1, E.S. Caswell to McClung, 24 February, 26 April 1906, 12 February, 10 June 1907. Mark McClung, “Portrait of My Mother.” Jonas Frykman and Orvar Lofgren, Culturel Builders: A Historical Anthropology of Middle-Class Life, trans. Alan Crozier (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press 1987), 107. Mary Fowler, in McMaster University Monthly, February 1914, 7; quoted in A.B. McKillop, Matters of the Mind: The University in Ontario, 1791–1951 (Toronto; University of Toronto Press 1994), 250. See also bca, McClung Papers, box 24, file 6, “Self-Expression,” 245–6. “Self-expression” is another important key word defining early twentieth-century individuality. bca, McClung Papers, box 4, file 14, “Notes on Prospective Article Titles.” Beauty and fashion advice was readily available to rural residents in small-town, local newspapers, which printed urban-produced, copyready material. See Robert Stead’s Rock Lake Review in 1905, for example. Lois Banner, American Beauty (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1984), 207–8; see also 206, 215. For further analysis, see Kathy Peiss, Hope in a Jar: The Making of America’s Beauty Culture (New York: Henry Holt 1998). Nellie L. McClung, Clearing in the West: My Own Story (Toronto: Thomas Allen 1935), 111. bca, McClung Papers, box 26, “Notebook, 1890s.” McClung opposed any clothing, including the tight skirts of the Edwardian era, which restricted the freedom of women; see Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, 118. bca, McClung Papers, box 26, “1924 Expenses.” While the shoeshines cost only 15 cents, the flowers were expensive, running as high as $2.75. na, Eggleston Papers, box 21, file 11, M.J.G. McMullen, “My Aunt Nellie” by Ruth Scott, in “Recalled to Life: Covering the Life and Times of Nellie

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272

43 44

45

46 47

48 49

50 51 52 53

54 55 56

Notes to pages 118–22

McClung” (Winnipeg, 1966). For the role of butter in the financial lives of farm women, see Marjorie Griffin Cohen, “The Decline of Women in Canadian Dairying,” in Susan Mann Trofimenkoff and Alison Prentice, eds., The Neglected Majority: Essays in Canadian Womens’s History, vol. 2, 2nd ed. (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1985). Marjory Harper, “Introduction,” in Countess of Aberdeen, Through Canada with a Kodak (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1994), li. bca, McClung Papers, box 24, file 3, “Women’s Place in the BandWagon,” written between 1919 and 1921; see also box 26, file 3, “The Romance of Everyday Life,” a 1928 speech prepared for the Central Church. Warne, Literature as Pulpit, 34. For a feminist Bildungsroman context, see Rita Felski, Beyond Feminist Aesthetics: Feminist Literature and Social Change (Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1989), 133–8. Warne, Literature as Pulpit, 16. The Canadian Who’s Who, 1938/1939, 461; May C. Armitage, “Mrs Nellie McClung,” Bookseller and Stationer, 31, no. 8 (August 1915): 134; Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, chapters 5 and 6. For background to McClung’s evangelical approach to platform speaking, see Christine L. Krueger, Readers’ Repentences: Women Preachers, Women Writers, and Nineteenth-Century Social Discourse (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1993). L.M. Montgomery faced a similar predicament when Anne reached adulthood. For context, see C. Backhouse, “Married Women’s Property Law in Nineteenth Century Canada,” Law and History Review, 6 (1988): 211–57; James G. Snell, In the Shadow of the Law: Divorce in Canada, 1900–1939 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1991). bca, McClung Papers, box 24, file 9, “Every Woman is Not a Housewife,” 114. Maclean’s, 15 February 1928, 10, 70–1, 75. For example, see Austin Bothwell, “Nellie Puts Herself in a Book,” Canadian Bookman, 3, no. 1 (December 1921): 19–20. For a popular biography of McClung which limits her contribution to these spheres, see Mary Lile Benson, Nellie McClung (Toronto: Fitzhenry and Whiteside 1975). For an excellent analysis of In Times like These, including the language, see Warne, Literature as Pulpit, part 3. With a first Canadian edition of 10,000, In Times like These set a record for non-fiction publishing; see Bookseller and Stationer, 31, no. 11 (November 1915): 45. See Warne, Literature as Pulpit, especially 4–5; Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, 113ff. Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, 117–18. Richard Ohmann, Selling Culture: Magazines, Markets, and Class at the Turn of the Century (London: Verso 1998), 144. See also A. Ermatinger Fraser, “A

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273 Notes to pages 122–4

57 58

59

60 61 62 63 64

65

66 67

Cup of Tea with Nellie McClung,” Canadian Bookman, 10, no. 8 (August 1928): 236. For parlours and their transition to living rooms, see Bushman, The Refinement of America, 264–72; Karen Halttunen, “From Parlor to Living Room: Domestic Space, Interior Decoration, and the Culture of Personality,” in Simon J. Bronner, ed., Consuming Visions: Accumulation and Display of Goods in America, 1880–1920 (New York: W.W. Norton 1989), 157–90. “Hearth,” “hospitality,” “comfort,” and “casual” were keywords to denote modern living in the early twentieth century. bca, McClung Papers, box 24, file 7, “The Fellowship of Book Lovers,” written in the mid-1930s. Gillian Beer, “Beyond Determinism: George Eliot and Virginia Woolf,” in Mary Jacobus, ed., Women Writing and Writing about Women (London: Harper and Row 1979): 18–19; quoted in Davis, Stories Subversive. Mabel (Mrs James) Quigley to McClung, 22 February 1931; Mrs Fred Wyss to Chatelaine, 5 March c.1931; Nellie L. (Mrs A.D.) Richard to McClung, 26 February 1936; all in Warne, Literature as Pulpit, appendix C, 214–18. na, Wilfrid Eggleston Papers, box 21, file 11, Lecture to Canadian Authors Association, 27 January 1942. bca, McClung Papers, box 4, file 1, “Heroism.” E.C.H., “A New Novel by Nellie McClung,” Manitoba Free Press, 30 July 1921, 27. See Marilyn Davis, “Antiromantic Fiction of a Feminist,” in Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, 228–69. Thomas J. Schlereth, “Country Stores, County Fairs, and Mail-Order Catalogues: Consumption in Rural America,” in Bronner, Consuming Visions: 372. McClung, Sewing Seeds in Danny, 64. For another perspective on McClung’s response to modern technology, see bca, McClung Papers, box 25, file 3, “Time,” a speech to the Calgary Electrical Cooking School. McClung, Purple Springs, 35. See bca, McClung Papers, box 25, file 3, “The Romance of Everyday Life,” 28 May 1930.

chapter eight 1 University of Guelph, McLaughlin Library, Archives (hereafter uga) L. M. Montgomery Papers, Red Scrapbook, “Newspaper Clippings,” Republic (Boston), 19 November 1910, 5, and unidentified clipping. For Brontë’s visit to London in 1849, see Lyndall Gordon, Charlotte Brontë: A Passionate Life (New York: Vintage 1995), 198–202. Clement S. Shorter had published several volumes on Brontë between 1896 and 1908.

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274

Notes to pages 124–7

2 uga, Montgomery Papers, Red Scrapbook, “Miss L.M. Montgomery, Author of Anne of Green Gables,” Boston Republic, 19 November 1910: 5. A Miss Conway wrote the copy for the Republic. 3 In its review of Anne of Avonlea (Boston: Page 1909), the Bookman of New York stated that Montgomery’s second Anne novel was “calculated to yield the reader weary of the steam riveter and the automobile and the fad› and provide a refreshing sense of peace; see Book Review Digest, 1909, 318. Ironically, Anne also became a fad, albeit one that endured. 4 Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, eds., The Selected Journals of L.M. Montgomery, 4 vols., (Toronto: Oxford University Press 1985–98), 2:19, journal entry for 29 November 1910. 5 Nevertheless, she did sign the contract for The Story Girl on the same terms as for Anne of Green Gables. The initial agreement had included her first five books. 6 uga, Montgomery Papers, Red Scrapbook, “Mrs Montgomery Macdonald Charms Members of the Women’s Canadian Club.” 7 Carole Gerson, “Dragged at Anne’s Chariot Wheels: L.M. Montgomery and the Sequels to Anne of Green Gables,” Papers of the Bibliographical Society of Canada, 35, no. 2 (fall 1997): 143–60. 8 “Review of Anne of Ingleside,” New York Times, 30 July 1939. 9 Francis W.P. Bolger and Elizabeth R. Epperly, eds., My dear Mr M.: Letters to G.B. MacMillan from L.M. Montgomery (Toronto: McGraw-Hill Ryerson 1980), 21, Montgomery to MacMillan, 19 March 1906. 10 See uga, Montgomery Papers, Black Scrapbook, A.V. Brown, “Anne of Green Gables at Home,” an interview at Norval in the late 1920s, for a clear statement from Brown regarding disguised messages. 11 L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables (Boston: Page 1908). The edition used for this chapter is McClelland and Stewart’s New Canadian Library volume, (Toronto, 1992). 12 Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables, 86. 13 See L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Windy Poplars (Toronto: Seal Books 1992), 7–8. 14 Richard L. Bushman, The Refinement of America: Persons, Houses, Cities (New York: Vintage 1993), 257–62. 15 These include Patty’s Place in Kingsport in Anne of the Island (1915), where a modern living room appears in the house in which Anne lives while at Redmond College; Windy Poplars, with its green shutters, dormer tower, and gardens, in Summerside, where she was school principal; and aspects of the two houses at Four Winds Harbour where she and Gilbert began their married life in Anne’s House of Dreams (1922). 16 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:374, 7 January 1910; Bushman, The Refinement of America, 285–306.

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275 Notes to pages 127–9 17 Wendy Mitchinson, The Nature of Their Bodies: Women and Their Doctors in Victorian Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1991), chapter 10. The fact that women were stronger, more aggressive, and more powerful than the men in Avonlea comes as no surprise to those familiar with Canadian rural communities. It was a natural phenomenon, not connected in Montgomery’s mind to feminism. Although she did not categorize herself as a feminist, she was the dominant partner in her own marriage. 18 This painting, part of the requirements for a Royal Canadian Academy of Arts diploma, hangs in the National Gallery of Canada. William Brymner lived from 1855 to 1925. 19 uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, 1911–36, 68, Marjory MacMurchy, “L.M. Montgomery,” Globe (Toronto), c. 1914. 20 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:x. 21 uga, Montgomery Papers, Red Scrapbook, “Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Address to Women’s Canadian Club (Toronto).” 22 See Ian McKay, The Quest for Folk: Antimodernism and Cultural Selection in Twentieth-Century Nova Scotia (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1994); T.D. MacLulich, “Anne of Green Gables and the Regional Idyll,” Dalhousie Review, 63 (1983): 488–501. Montgomery was disappointed at finding no electricity or modern plumbing in the Leaskdale manse in 1911. 23 uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, 184, A.J. Penn to Nancy Durham, Globe (Toronto), c. 1921. 24 See Shelagh Jennifer Squire, “L.M. Montgomery’s Prince Edward Island: A Study in Literary Landscape and Tourist Development” (ma thesis, Carleton University 1988). 25 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:78, 16 March 1892. This appreciation and use of nature represents a combination of the lessons learned from the Romantic poets (including the gothic dimensions of the Haunted Woods); Sir Walter Scott’s works, such as The Lady of the Lake; the Victorian poets, such as Tennyson, with their flair for the dramatic; and the American Transcendentalists, especially Emerson. For a recent Canadian study of some aspects, including the picturesque and the sublime, see Patricia Jasen, Wild Things: Nature, Culture, and Tourism in Ontario, 1790– 1914 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1995). 26 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:88. 27 See L.M. Montgomery, The Alpine Path: The Story of My Career (Toronto: Fitzhenry and Whiteside 1974), 25–44; Bolger and Epperly, My Dear Mr M., 87, Montgomery to MacMillan, 26 February 1919. 28 Wilfrid Eggleston, ed., The Green Gable Letters: From L.M. Montgomery to Ephraim Weber, 1905–1909 (Ottawa: Borealis Press 1981), 24; see also 56–7 for more details regarding nature. 29 See uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, Rose of the River to Nancy Durham, 169.

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Notes to pages 129–30

30 Elizabeth Waterston, Kindling Spirit: L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables (Toronto: ecw Press 1993), 47. 31 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:53, 25 April 1922. 32 Ibid., 58, 13 June 1922. 33 Ibid., 58, 6 August 1922. 34 See Barbara Wachowicz, “L.M. Montgomery, at Home in Poland,” Canadian Children’s Literature, 46 (1987): 7–35; E. Weber, “L.M. Montgomery’s Anne,” Dalhousie Review, 24 (April 1944): 64–73; Douglas Baldwin, “L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables: The Japanese Connection,” Journal of Canadian Studies, 28, no. 3 (autumn 1993): 105–22. For Sweden, see Gabriella Åhmansson, “Mayflowers Grow in Sweden Too: L.M. Montgomery, Astrid Lindgren and the Swedish Literary Consciousness,” in Mary Henley Rubio, ed., Harvesting Thistles: The Textual Garden of L.M. Montgomery (Guelph: Canadian Children’s Press 1994), 14–22. There is enduring popularity in Scandinavia, and a French edition of Anne of Green Gables was produced in Switzerland in the 1920s. The reviewer of Anne of Green Gables in the Montreal Herald, 21 July 1908, 4, noted that if Montgomery was Canadian, she was one of the few “that can appeal to the whole English-speaking world.” Confusion over her nationality came about because of the absence of a Canadian edition of the novel. 35 Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables, 176. 36 For context, see Margaret Prang, “The Girl God Would Have Me: The Canadian Girls in Training, 1915–1939,” Canadian Historical Review, 65, no. 2 (June 1982): 154–84; Harvey J. Graff, Conflicting Paths: Growing Up in America (Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1995), especially 123ff, 208ff, 318ff: Mary Ann Mason, From Father’s Property to Children’s Rights: The History of Child Custody in the United States (New York: Columbia University Press 1994); Neil Sutherland, Growing Up: Childhood in English Canada from the Great War to the Age of Television (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1997). 37 See Baldwin, “L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables,” 74. In addition to Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women (1868), the works of this generation include Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Books (1894–95), Alice Hegan Rice’s Mrs Wiggins of Cabbage Patch (1901), Beatrix Potter’s Tales of Peter Rabbit (1902), Kate Wiggin’s Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm (1903), Frank Baum’s Wizard of Oz (1907), Frances H. Burnett’s Secret Garden (1911), Eleanor Porter’s Pollyanna (1913), and J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan (1914). 38 Karin Calvert, “Children in the House, 1880–1930,” in Jessica H. Foy and Thomas J. Schlereth, American Home Life, 1880–1930: A Social History of Spaces and Services (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press 1992): 83; see also 82. 39 uga, Montgomery Papers, Black Scrapbook, A.V. Brown, “Anne of Green Gables at Home.” This interview took palce at Norval.

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277 Notes to pages 131–4 40 Gabriella Åhmansson, A Life and Its Mirrors: A Feminist Reading of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Fiction (Uppsala: Acta Universitatis Uppsaliensis 1991), 1:76. See also Susan Drain, “Community and the Individual in Anne of Green Gables: The Meaning of Belonging,” Children’s Literary Association Quarterly, 11, no. 1 (spring 1986): 15–19. 41 Mollie Gillen, The Wheel of Things: A Biography of L.M. Montgomery (Halifax: Goodread Biographies 1983), 123. 42 uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, Kountry Kid to Globe (Toronto), 49. 43 Baldwin, “L.M. Montgomery’s Anne,” 127. 44 Temma F. Berg, “Anne of Green Gables: A Girl’s Reading,” Children’s Literature Association Quarterly, 13, no. 3 (fall 1988): 124. The more aggressive woman with a troublesome and passionate personality came into vogue in the United States from the 1890s, and no doubt contributed to the success of Anne of Green Gables; see Lois Banner, American Beauty (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1984), 176. 45 Wachowicz, “L.M. Montgomery, at Home in Poland,” 27, letter from Wieslawa Hundt, aged twenty, in response to a serialized radio broadcast of Anne of Green Gables in Poland in the 1980s. Other redheads in this study are Connor’s Gwen and McClung’s husband, Wes. 46 Warren I. Susman, Culture as History: The Transformation of American Society in the Twentieth Century (New York: Pantheon Books 1984), 271. 47 Marilla is unable to compliment Anne for the same reason. Even her triumphs at school go unheralded, except by Matthew. 48 Susman, Culture as History, xxvi. 49 Mary Rubio, “Satire, Realism, and Imagination in Anne of Green Gables,” Canadian Children’s Literature, 1, no. 1 (autumn 1975): 34. 50 uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, Lynette to Nancy Durham, 122. 51 Carol Gay, “Kindred Spirit All: Green Gables Revisited,” Children’s Literature Association Quarterly, 11, no. 1 (spring 1986): 12. 52 Rubio, “Satire, Realism, and Imagination,” 32. 53 uga, Montgomery Papers, Red Scrapbook, “Must Have Great People Before Country Can Have a Great Literature.” 54 See Carole Gerson, “Fitted to Earn Their Own Living,” in Hilary Thompson, ed., Children’s Voices in Atlantic Literature and Culture (Guelph: Canadian Children’s Press 1995), 24–34, for a recent article on the importance of education and professional careers in the lives of Montgomery’s fictional characters. 55 Åhmansson, A Life and Its Mirrors, 121. 56 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 1:136; L.M. Montgomery, “A Girl’s Place at Dalhousie College” (1896), printed in the Halifax Herald, and reproduced in Francis Bolger, The Years before Anne (Halifax: Nimbus 1991), 168.

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278 57 58 59 60 61

62 63 64 65

66 67 68

69

70 71 72

Notes to pages 134–9

Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:308. Montgomery, The Alpine Path, 75. See L.M. Montgomery Anne of the Island (1915). George Cotkin, Reluctant Modernism: American Thought and Culture, 1880– 1900 (New York: Twayne Publishers 1992), 77. L.M. Montgomery, Emily of New Moon (1923), Emily Climbs (1925), and Emily’s Quest (1927), all published by Stokes in New York and McClelland and Stewart in Toronto. See the introductions or afterwords of these editions for comments on the autobiographical elements. See uga, Montgomery Papers, Black Scrapbook, “Accomplished Writer Visits Prince Albert” for one example. See Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, vols. 1 and 2, and Montgomery, The Alpine Path, for scattered references. Weber, “L.M. Montgomery’s Anne,” 66. Mary Rubio, “Lucy Maud Montgomery,” in Jeffrey M. Heath, ed., Profiles of Canadian Literature, (Toronto: Dundurn Press 1991), 7:39. See also Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, Writing a Life: L.M. Montgomery (Toronto: ecw Press 1995), 116–17. Berg, “Anne of Green Gables,” 125. Weber, “L.M. Montgomery’s Anne,” 65–6. See Rea Wilmshurst, “L.M. Montgomery’s Use of Quotations and Allusions in the ’Anne’ Books,” Canadian Children’s Literature, 56 (1989): 15–45. See also her unpublished “Quotations and Allusions in L.M. Montgomery’s Other Novels.” See Joan Shelley Rubin, “Listen My Children: Reading Poetry in American Schools, 1917–1950,” in Karen Halttumen and Lewis Perry, Moral Problems in American Life (Ithaca: Cornell University Press 1998). Banner, American Beauty, 176. See uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews. Montgomery to Weber, 1 November 1924; quoted in Thomas Tausky, “L.M. Montgomery and the Alpine Path, So Hard, So Steep,” Canadian Children’s Literature, 30 (1983): 15.

chapter nine 1 Arthur Stringer, The Silver Poppy (New York: Appleton, 1903), 63. 2 Queen’s University Archives, Lorne Pierce Papers, 2001a, box 7, file 7, item 42, Victor Lauriston to Arthur Stringer, 29 May 1939. 3 Pegasus, “Arthur Stringer,” Saturday Night, 44 (22 December 1922): 5. 4 T.J. Jackson Lears, Fables of Abundance: A Cultural History of Advertising in America (New York: Basic Books 1994), 303. 5 Ibid., 303.

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279 Notes to pages 139–41 6 Saturday Night, 20 (25 May 1920): 12. One of the few other Canadians to write of urban life was Jessie Sime in Our Little Life (New York: Frederick A. Stokes 1921), but her focus was on exposé and reform. Douglas Durkin’s Craig Forrester, in The Magpie (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1974), reacts entirely negatively to Winnipeg and withdraws to an idyllic agrarian location. 7 See George Cotkin, Reluctant Modernism: American Thought and Culture, 1880–1900 (New York: Twayne Publishers 1992), 32ff. 8 See Barbara Wales Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters: A Selection of His Correspondence with a Critical Introduction” (PhD thesis, McGill University 1983), 69, for such an assessment. 9 Arthur Stringer, The Wine of Life (New York: Alfred A. Knopf 1921), 206. See also University of Western Ontario, D.B. Weldon Library, Rare Book Room (hereafter uwol), Arthur Stringer Papers, Victor Lauriston Other Papers, Stringer to Victor Lauriston, 21 July 1921, regarding his interest in a book being dead once it is finished. Although published in 1921, The Wine of Life had been written several years before. He did, however, willingly repackage material for commercial reward. 10 Arthur Stringer, “My Work and My Workshop,” Arts and Decoration, 19, no. 4 (August 1923): 10. After first arriving in New York, Stringer lived with two other aspiring Canadian writers, Harvey O’Higgins and Arthur Macfarlane, in the attic of an declining brownstone mansion at 146 5th Street. 11 Arthur Stringer, The Loom of Destiny (Freeport: Books for Libraries Press 1969), first published in 1899 by Small, Maynard, and Company of Boston. New Yorkers had first encountered this world in print with Jacob Riis’s famous exposé in How the Other Half Lives (1890). 12 uwol, Stringer Papers, Extra Box, Clipping Book. 13 Stringer, The Loom of Destiny, 11. 14 Arthur Stringer, The Wire Tappers (Toronto: Musson 1906). 15 Lewis A. Erenberg, Steppin’ Out: New York Night Life and the Transformation of American Culture, 1890–1930 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1984); David C. Hammack, Power and Society: Greater New York at the Turn of the Century (New York: Russell Sage Foundation 1982); William R. Taylor, “The Evolution of Public Space in New York City: The Commercial Showcase of America,” in Simon J. Bronner, ed., Consuming Visions: Acculturation and Display of Goods in America, 1880–1920 (New York: W.W. Norton 1989), 287–310. 16 Stringer, The Silver Poppy, 20. The increased speed and pace of life is one of the prominent characteristics of modern society; see Stephen Kern, The Culture of Time and Space, 1880–1918 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1983). This section is based on observations from The Silver Poppy, The Wire Tappers, and The Wine of Life.

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Notes to pages 141–4

17 Stringer, The Wine of Life, 2–3. 18 David Riesman, The Lonely Crowd: A Study in the Changing American Character (New Haven: Yale University Press 1950). 19 Stringer, The Wine of Life, 230. 20 Arthur Stringer, Phantom Wires (Boston: Little,Brown 1907). McKinlay, Stone, and Mackenzie later offered eight of these novels in a cheap modern mystery series. In addition to these first two novels, the list included House of Intrigue, The Man Who Couldn’t Sleep, The Gun Runner, The Door of Dread, and The Hand of Peril. Titles in the detective/crime field in American publishing rose from twelve in 1914 to ninety-seven in 1925; see Warren I. Susman, Culture as History: The Transformation of American Society in the Twentieth Century (New York: Pantheon Books 1984), 306 no. 60. 21 Stringer had recently spent a winter in this Mediterranean region. 22 Columbia University, Butler Library (hereafter cul), Paul Reynolds Papers, Arthur Stringer file, 166, Reynolds to Stringer, 16 June 1905; see also Stringer to Reynolds, 8 May 1905, 26 October 1905, 20 November 1905. 23 cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 166, Stringer to Reynolds, 5 December 1905. Beginning in the 1890s in such popular magazines as Saturday Evening Post, McClure’s, and Collier’s, crime fiction gradually won favour with publishers. By the 1920s, Dodd, Mead was publishing Anna Katharine Green; Stokes, Ellery Queen; Morrow, Erle Stanley Gardner; and Knopf, Raymond Chandler. The focus was on real crime and the character of the criminal, which tapped into the public’s concern about the increase in lawlessness. See Leory L. Panek, Probable Cause: Crime Fiction in America (Bowling Green: Bowling Green State University Press 1990). 24 Stringer, The Wire Tappers, 65. 25 cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 166, Stringer to Reynolds 18 June 1906. 26 Ibid., Reynolds to Stringer, 7 August 1907. 27 Ibid., Stringer to Reynolds, 28 July 1906, 28 Ibid., Stringer to Reynolds, 18 June 1906. 29 The technology of wireless photography was invented by the Canadian William Samuel Stephenson while he was a student at the University of Manitoba. Later he added a wireless method, which he perfected in England after moving there in 1921. He became the famous spy “Intrepid” in the Second World War. See The Canadian Encyclopedia (Edmonton: Hurtig 1985), 3:1759. 30 uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3, file 3, K.K. James to Stringer, 9 June 1920. 31 Family Herald and Weekly Star, 1 December 1920, 19. 32 J.D. Logan and D.G. French, Highways of Canadian Literature (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1924), 312. The Prairie Trilogy included The Prairie Wife (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill 1915), The Prairie Mother (Indianapolis:

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281 Notes to pages 144–8

33 34 35 36 37 38

39 40 41 42

43 44

45

46

47 48

Bobbs-Merrill 1920), and The Prairie Child (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill 1921). In Canada, McClelland and Stewart published all three volumes). Stringer, The Wire Tappers, 28. Houghton, Mifflin eventually published the novel. “Arthur Stringer in a New Role,” Bookseller and Stationer, 37, no. 7 (July 1921): 43. Review of The Wine of Life, in Manitoba Free Press, 24 September 1921, 18. Stringer, The Wine of Life, 149, 208. Stringer was very much aware of this special quality and the danger posed by having a male author speak in the female voice. He even offered to have the novel published anonymously, but he preferred to have his name stand behind it regardless of the consequences. See cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 166, Stringer to Reynolds, 10 October 1914. uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3,file 3, Mrs James S. Howe to Stringer, 9 June 1921. Bookseller and Stationer, 38, no. 7 (July 1922): 37. uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3, file 1, Mrs Fanny Ethridge Grant to Stringer, 1 May 1922. Indiana University, Lilly Library, Manuscript Division (hereafter iul), Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Arthur Stringer file, 168, Edna Kelly to Stringer, 15 January 1915. cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 166, Stringer to Reynolds, 14 July 1914. Mary Vipond, “Image of Women in Mass Circulation Magazines in the 1920’s,” in Susan Trofimenkoff and Alison Prentice, The Neglected Majority, (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1977), 1:123. See also Elaine Turner May, Great Expectations: Marriage and Divorce in Post-Victorian America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 1980), 75ff; Peter Ward, Love, Courtship and Marriage in Nineteenth-Century English Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1989), 148ff. It was an independent and aggressive Chaddie who had proposed to Duncan. Grain Growers’ Guide, 8 March 1922. According to May, Great Expectations, 63, cosmetic sales in the United States jumped from $17 million in 1914 to $141 million in 1925. uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3, file 1, L.M. Smith to Stringer, 17 April 1922; Book Review Digest, 1922 (New York: 1923), 516, especially the review of The Prairie Child in the Springfield Republican, 17 June 1922. See Andrew Tolson, The Limits of Masculinity (London: Tavistock Publications 1977), 48ff, for more discussion of these aspects of masculinity. Paul Voisey, Vulcan: The Making of a Prairie Community (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1988), 36ff. According to J.R. Jeffrey, Frontier Women: The Trans-Mississippi West, 1880–1915 (New York: Hill and Wang, 1979), 180ff, this same gender-based difference in visions was common in the United States.

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Notes to pages 148–9

49 E. Anthony Rotundo, “Learning About Manhood,” in J.A. Mangan and James Walvin, Manliness and Morality: Middle-Class Masculinity in Britain and America, 1800–1940 (Manchester: Manchester University Press 1987), 36–43. 50 Stringer, The Prairie Mother, 109–10. 51 See Jeffrey, Frontier Women, 64ff; Sandra L. Myres, Westering Women and the Frontier Experience, 1880–1915 (Alberquerque: University of New Mexico Press 1982), 199ff; Leslie May Robinson, “Agrarian Reformers: Women and the Farm Movement in Alberta, 1909–1925” (ma thesis, University of Victoria 1979). In a 1916 survey, only twenty-one women operated Alberta farms; see Robinson, “Agrarian Reformers,” 13. 52 Stringer, The Wire Tappers, 230–1. 53 Meredith wrote Modern Love (1862, 1892), fifty sonnets dealing with the breakdown of a marriage which ended in suicide. 54 uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3, file 1, L.M. Smith to Stringer, 17 April 1922. 55 Stringer, The Prairie Child, 92. 56 Madge Merton, “Threads and Thrums,” Herald, 9 January 1897. Madge Merton was a pseudonym for Miss Elliott, who subsequently married Joseph Atkinson, owner of The Herald and later owner of the Toronto Star; see Hector Charlesworth, I’m Telling You: Being Further Candid Chronicles (Toronto: Macmillan 1937). 57 James G. Snell, In the Shadow of the Law: Divorce in Canada, 1900–1939 (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1991), 266. See also F.P. Walton, “Divorce in Canada and the United States: A Contrast,” University Magazine, 9 (December 1910): 593. In 1921 there were 558 divorces in Canada and the number was increasing; see Canada, Statistics Canada, Vital Statistics, vol. 2, Marriage and Divorce (Ottawa: Statistics Canada 1986), 84. In contrast, in 1900 there had been only 11 divorces; see Snell, In the Shadow of the Law, 9–10. By 1920, in the United States, 1 of every 6 marriages ended in divorce; see May, Great Expectations, 2. 58 Mary Kinnear, “Do You Want Your Daughter to Marry a Farmer? Women’s Work on the Farm,” in Donald Akenson, ed., Canadian Papers in Rural History, 6 (Gananoque: Langdale Press 1988): 139ff. 59 Family Herald and Weekly Star, 1 December 1920, 19; 26 July 1922, 23. 60 Eight of those divorces ended in tragic circumstances, whereas only three concluded with happy readjustment. See James Harwood Barnett, Divorce and the American Divorce Novels, 1858–1937 (Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press 1939), 97–9. 61 The Prairie Wife ran in the Saturday Evening Post, and the final two volumes in the Delineator. 62 New York Times Book Review, 7 May 1922, 17. Ibsen’s Doll’s House sparked enormous controversy because Nora leaves her husband and her children. She was attacked for being frivolous, personally selfish, and

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283 Notes to pages 150–3

63

64 65 66 67 68 69 70

71 72

73

ignoring her husband. See Joan Templeton, “The Doll House Backlash: Criticism, Feminism and Ibsen,” pmla, 104 (January 1989): 28–40. Sixteen of these letters are in the Stringer files in the Bobbs-Merrill Papers at Indiana University. The remainder are in the Stringer Papers at the University of Western Ontario. Of the forty-nine, thirty-two were from women, twelve were from men, and four were written on behalf of a couple or family. None can be identified as coming from people who had experienced a divorce. iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, 168, Mary Benson to Stringer, 31 January 1915. uwo, Stringer Papers, box 3, file 1, A.G. Holmes to Stringer, 12 August 1922. Ibid., file 3, Lisa Elliott (Goodeve, Saskatchewan) to Stringer, 7 January 1922. Ibid., Jane Neuble to Stringer. The writer supplied no date or return address and warned Stringer not to ask questions about her. Ibid., file 1, Mrs Fanny Ethridge Grant (Vergennes, Vermont) to Stringer, 1 May 1922. Ibid., Helen (Mrs Palmer) Brown to Stringer, 19 June 1922. The first wireless message was sent in 1897, and the first wiretapping was accomplished in 1881. Both phenomena captured the interest of the public in the following decades. See Kern, The Culture of Time and Space, 68, 187. Arthur Stringer to the New York Times, 10 December 1898; quoted in Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 134–5. In her Etiquette in Canada: The Blue Book of Canadian Social Usage (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1932), 283, Gertrude Pringle stated that a well-bred man should display “the simplicity that eschews pretence, tact, gentleness, kindness, politeness, a chivalrous attitude towards women and children, courage, self-control, and a fine toleration towards others.” uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3, “Articles on Women: Interview with Claire Wallace, cbl radio, Toronto.”

chapter ten 1 University of Manitoba, Elizabeth Dafoe Library, Archives (hereafter uma), Charles W. Gordon Papers, mss 56, box 48, file 6, Mary Farquharson to Gordon, 19 February 1917. 2 Ibid., box 33, file 4, Gordon to F.A. Fisher, 11 January 1915. Curiously, in this letter, Gordon acknowledged only male readers. There are 376 letters or references to the content of letters from readers for these five authors. This figure does not include those letters which simply congratulated the author and thanked her or him for the book, or requested an autograph or photograph and made no reference to the actual reading experience.

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Notes to pages 153–5

3 Ibid., box 48,file 1, Florence Stewart to Connor, 19 September 1900. 4 Indiana University, Lilly Library, Manuscript Division (hereafter iul), Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Arthur Stringer file, 168, A.A. Parker to Stringer, 23 January 1915. 5 This has been a standard interpretation since the 1920s. See George H. Locke’s assessment in the Bookseller and Stationer, 42, no. 2 (January 1926): 76. 6 One of Arthur Stringer’s magazine readers, a manufacturer from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, who also purchased books, saved his Saturday Evening Post stories and wrote to Stringer when they had become tattered from repeated usage wondering where he could purchased them as books; see University of Western Ontario, D.B. Weldon Library, Rare Book Room (hereafter uwol), Arthur Stringer Papers, box 3, file 1, Arthur Kuilsdorf to Stringer, 5 May 1921. There are several letters from magazine readers asking the same question. 7 Cathy N. Davidson, “Towards a History of Books and Readers,” in Davidson, ed., Reading in America: Literature and Social History (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press 1989): 17. 8 There were 191 male writers and 179 female, and 6 letters from husbands and wives together. With 205 correspondents, the United States provided the most letters. There were 100 from Canada, 30 from Europe, 18 from Australia and New Zealand, and a total of 23 from South Africa, Asia, or unidentifiable sources. Gordon and Stringer saved their fan mail, but Montgomery did not. Both Stead and McClung appear to have received much less mail, but the editor of Maclean’s told Stead that his Grain received more mail than any other serial published by the magazine. Unfortunately, none of it was saved. See National Archives of Canada (hereafter na), Robert Stead Papers, mg 30, d 74, box 1, file 4, A. Napier Moore to Stead, 12 October 1926. 9 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 1, Tupper Davidson to Gordon, 5 December 1901; file 2, Anna Johannsen to Gordon, 5 September 1902. Many of the letters from middle-class correspondents spoke of earlier workingclass experience. 10 iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Arthur Stringer file, 168, Robert Grange McKinney to Stringer via G. H. Lorimer, 21 January 1915. 11 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 2, Jessie F. Cooper to Gordon, 15 July 1902. 12 This attitude stands in contrast to that of their contemporary Charles G.D. Roberts, who wrote: “Why on earth should you expect the ‘average person’ – the ‘mass’ – to be anything but ‘ordinary’? Anything but ‘sheep.’ Bless their dear souls; how inconvenient and even disastrous it would be if, without any of the necessary qualifications, they should think for themselves! The result would be a rather appalling mixture of dullness and chaos” See Roberts to Mary Vicary, 31 March 1928, in Laurel Boone, ed., The Collected Letters of Charles G.D. Roberts (Fredericton: Goose Lane 1989),

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14 15

16 17

18 19

20

21 22

369. Montgomery personally answered each of the thousands of letters that she received. Gordon, who was a negligent correspondent at the best of times, dictated short responses to a secretary for some letters and personally answered those that moved him deeply. There is evidence that Stringer answered some mail. Jonathan Rose, “Rereading the English Common Reader: A Preface to a History of Audiences,” Journal of the History of Ideas, 53, no. 1 (January/ March 1992): 48. Only three letters from Canadians make reference to pride in the nationality of the authors. uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 2, Mrs W.B. Davidson to Gordon, 25 January 1902; file 7, H. Saunders to Gordon, 23 November 1925; file 2, Elizabeth (Mrs Donald Davis) Robertson to Gordon, 17 February 1902. Interestingly, the first writer was a MacLennan, and the second wrote on behalf of his Highland mother. Neither McClung’s Painted Fires, with its Finnish heroine, nor Connor’s The Foreigner, with its Ukrainian hero, prompted any mail on ethnicity, with the exception of the favourable comments which McClung received from the Finnish government. uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 2, E.W. Voorhis to Conner [sic], 16 September 1902. See Davidson, “Towards a History of Books and Readers,” 18, for a suggestion that this premise be used as a basis for research. Most of the readers who identified their religious denomination were Protestant. It is possible that Roman Catholics and members of non-Christian faiths were less attracted to an author such as Ralph Connor because of their inability to merge the text into their own world views. P.P. Schweickart, “Towards a Feminist Theory of Reading,” in Davidson, ed., Reading in America: 54. It was not always easy for readers to find an address for an author. Books usually included only the publisher’s name and city, while magazines generally published a full address. Hence Stringer received more mail from readers who had read his material in magazines than in books. Much of Connor’s mail was addressed to the publisher, with the name of the city, or to Ralph Connor, Winnipeg, Canada. Readers often stated that they received Connor’s name and city from a magazine article about him. When an Australian paper published Montgomery’s address, she received hundreds of unsolicited letters. James Smith Allen, In the Public Eye: A History of Reading in Modern France, 1800–1940 (Princeton: Princeton University Press 1991), 128. Allen is one of the few researchers who have used readers’ letters as a basis for a study of reading. uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3, file 1, Helen (Mrs Palmar) Brown to Stringer, 19 June 1922. Ibid., Virginia Terlune van de Water to Stringer, 27 February 1921.

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Notes to pages 157–9

23 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 3, Leland Malone to Gordon, 12 October 1904. 24 Ibid., file 2, Lucy B. Horton (Lincoln, Delaware) to Ralph Connor, 10 January 1902. 25 iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, 168, A.A. Parker to Stringer, 23 January 1915. 26 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 7, Geraldine Sullivan (Oklahoma City) to Gordon, 17 March 1926. Sullivan had read the biographical data that Gordon sent five times, and “it seems as if I know you.” 27 William Buckingham, “Poetry Readers and Reading in the 1890’s: Emily Dickinson’s First Response,” in James L. Machor, ed., Readers in History: Nineteenth-Century American Literature and the Context of Response (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press 1993): 168. 28 Victor Nell, Lost in a Book: The Psychology of Reading for Pleasure (New Haven: Yale University Press 1988), 98. 29 See Robert Darnton, “What is the History of Books?” in Davidson, ed., Reading in America, 44. 30 iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, 168, George H. Craig to Stringer, 25 February 1915; uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 1, Mrs Mary Brooks Greaves to Gordon, 28 December 1899. 31 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 1, C.G. Trumbull to Gordon, 8 September 1900. 32 Elizabeth Waterston, Kindling Spirit: L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables (Toronto: ECW Press 1993), 27. 33 University of Guelph, McLaughlin Library, Archives (hereafter uga), L.M. Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, Lynette to Nancy Durham, 122. In her short teaching career, Nellie McClung adopted a cultural program for Friday afternoons. 34 uma, Gordon Papers, box 49, file 4, John Merchant to Gordon; Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, eds., The Selected Journals of L.M. Montgomery, 4 vols. (Toronto: Oxford University Press 1985–98), 3:53. 35 Citizen (Ottawa), 7 October 1922. 36 Cathy Davidson warns us not to over-romanticize the pre-industrial age; see “Towards a History of Books and Readers,” 15–16. 37 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 4, Ronald D. Young to Gordon, 9 July 1909. The book was Glengarry School Days, which sold in England and the colonies as Glengarry Days. 38 uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, Lynette to Nancy Durham, 122. 39 Nell, Lost in a Book, xiii, 1. 40 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 4, Isabel and Elizabeth Bushby and Mabel Oldfield to Gordon, 26 February 1906. 41 Nell, Lost in a Book, 32.

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287 Notes to pages 159–61 42 “Books Render Noble Service as Helpful Companions to the Lonely,” Bookseller and Stationer, 42, no. 2 (January 1926): 76, 81. This report on a speech by Dr George H. Locke, chief librarian, Toronto, mentions loneliness, stress, and the tedium of everyday existence as being curable through reading. 43 Allen, In the Public Eye, 125. 44 Wilfrid Eggleston, ed., The Green Gables Letters: From L.M. Montgomery to Ephraim Weber, 1905–1909 (Ottawa: Borealis Press 1981), 77. 45 uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3, file 4, Mrs S.B. Grossman to Stringer, c.1926. 46 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 1, Rev. James S. Gale to Gordon, 16 May 1900; file 4, George H. Hosford to Gordon, 29 September 1906. 47 Darnton, “What is the History of Books?” 44. 48 For classroom surveys, see Elizabeth Flynn and Patroncinio Schweickart, eds., Gender and Reading: Essays on Readers, Texts, and Contexts (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press 1986); especially Judith Fetterley, “Reading about Reading: ‘A Jury of Her Peers,’ ‘The Murders in Rue Rogue’ and ‘The Yellow Wallpaper,› 147–64; David Bleich, “Gender Interests in Reading and Language,” 234–66; and Elizabeth Flynn, “Gender and Reading,” 267–88 49 Janice A. Radway, Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press 1991). James Allen reminds us that academic-inspired close textual analysis only appeared around 1900 and took several years to become general; see Allen, In the Public Eye, 136. Hence the readers studied in this chapter had no contact with it except for what might have been gained through a few reviews. 50 Flynn, “Gender and Reading,” 270. 51 Rose, “Rereading the English Common Reader,” 59, 66. 52 uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, Rose of the River to Nancy Durham, 169. 53 Hans Robert Jauss, Towards an Aesthetic of Reception (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press 1982), 20–3. Readers in their letters frequently critically compared the author to other authors in detail. For Ralph Connor, the comparisons included Bret Harte, Ian Maclaren, and Victor Hugo. 54 Stanley Fish, Is There a Text in this Class? The Authority of Interpretative Communities (Cambridge: Harvard University Press 1980). Among those who have embraced this concept are James Machor, Jonathan Rose, James Allen, and Victor Nell. The phrase “interpretative community” suggests an academic consciousness and approach. “Reading community” seems more appropriate for incorporating the pleasure, enjoyment, emotional support, and informative aspects of reading along with the interpretative. 55 The five age categories created by J.A. Appleyard, distinguishing levels of reading comprehension and reception from childhood to adulthood, also

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56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76

77

78 79 80 81 82

Notes to pages 161–6

do not fit the varied patterns of the 376 readers in this study; see J.A. Appleyard, Becoming a Reader: The Experience of Fiction from Childhood to Adulthood (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 1990). Gender will receive further analysis later in the chapter. uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 2, J.A.M. Aikins to Gordon, 31 March 1902. Ibid., file 4, Benjamin Keech to Gordon, 9 March 1908. Ibid., file 1, Ruth Harrell to Connor, 12 July 1900. Ibid., file 5, J.D. Robertson to Gordon, 1 January 1913. Gordon had sent him the book for Christmas. Ibid., file 3, Herbert Smith (Auckland) to Gordon, 30 March 1905. Ibid., file 5, M.G.P. to Gordon, 6 May 1914. Ibid., box 49, file 4, Ethel L. Dewhurst to Gordon, 8 October, no year. Ibid., box 46, file 6, Beatrice E. Broome (Bristol) to Gordon, 1 May 1918. iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, 168, A.A. Parker to Stringer, 23 January 1915. Ibid., Margie Steele Bryan to Stringer, 8 February 1915. uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3, file 1, Mrs A.M. Swain to Stringer, 1922; see also L.M. Smith to Stringer, 17 April 1922. Ibid., file 5, Mrs A.M. Lee to Stringer, 30 November 1930. Ibid., file 3, K.K. Jones (Dallas, Texas) to Stringer, 9 June 1920. iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, 168, Henry Herbert Knibbs to Stringer, February 1915. uwol, Stringer Papers, box 3, file 1, Steele Dean to Stringer, n.d. Ibid., Mrs Stanley Tolan to Stringer. Ibid., file 4, Mrs S.B. Grossman to Stringer. Ibid., file 1, Miss Emilie La Frénière (New York City) to Stringer. uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 2, Ayls Wishart to Gordon, 11 March 1902. iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, 168, A.A. Parker to Stringer, 23 January 1915. Randi R. Warne, Literature as Pulpit: The Christian Social Activism of Nellie L. McClung (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press 1993), 214. This reference was to the first volume of McClung’s novel-like autobiography. iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, 168, J.A. McLeary (Atlanta Polo Club) to Stringer, 9 February 1915. For additional analysis of visual imaging, see Ellen J. Esrock, The Reader’s Eye: Visual Imaging as Reader Response (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press 1994). uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 2, D.M. Liddell to Gordon, 23 February 1902. Fish, Is There a Text in This Class? 1–8. Waterston, Kindling Spirit, 47. Jauss, Towards an Aesthetic of Reception, 39. Fetterley, “Reading about Reading,” 150.

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289 Notes to pages 166–8 83 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 1, Pastor George Albert Henry to Gordon, 7 December 1900. 84 Ibid., box 14, file 4, Caroline P. Bowditch to Gordon, 7 February 1907. 85 Rose, “Rereading the English Common Reader,” 61–3. 86 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 1, A.W. Hirstendahl to Gordon, 17 August 1901. 87 Ibid., file 4, J.W. Graves (Cardiff, Saskatchewan) to Gordon, 6 August 1901. The claims made by some, however, that Charles Gordon was a major force in emigration are not substantiated in the readers’ letters. 88 Ibid., file 6, Eleanor F. Train to Gordon, 23 February 1920. Unfortunately, as his daughter related in her letter, this man suffered a cruel but sober death in an industrial accident two years after his reformation. The family, nevertheless, was pleased that it was not the disgraceful drunkard’s death which it had anticipated for many years. 89 With his Natural Law in the Spiritual World and other books, Drummond had helped many link their faith to science and evolution. See uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 3, Herbert Smith (Auckland, New Zealand) to Gordon, 30 March 1905, for the most detailed letter on this subject. 90 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 5, Helen Finlay to Gordon, 11 March 1911. 91 For recent studies of gender and reading, see Kate Flint, The Woman Reader, 1837–1914 (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1993); Flynn and Schweickart, Gender and Reading. 92 uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook, Reviews, Jack Henderson to Nancy Durham. He also read H.A. Cody, Howard Parson, Roy Rockwood, and Ed Huntington. 93 iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, Joe Neuham Hawly to Stringer, 5 February 1915. 94 uma, Gordon Papers, box 48, file 1, Rev. Thomas Naltress to Gordon, 5 September 1897. 95 Ibid., file 2, R.W. Mills to Gordon, 2 July 1902. This correspondent was an English concert performer on tour in Canada who wrote from a resort in Rat Portage, Ontario. For another comment on the same romance, see ibid., A. Amos Crane to Gordon, 13 January 1902. 96 Ibid., box 49, file 2, Mae Burris to Gordon, 29 April 1933. 97 Ibid., box 48, file 1, C.G. Trumbull to Gordon, 8 September 1900. 98 Ibid., file 7, Miss Katherine Rowland (Washington, dc) to Gordon, 11 May 1926. 99 See, for example, iul, Bobbs-Merrill Papers, Stringer file, 166, Margie Steele Bryan to Stringer, 8 February 1915. 100 For a more extensive treatment of gender and reading, see Clarence Karr, “When Men Used to Cry: Gender Responses to Ralph Connor’s Fiction,”

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Notes to pages 168–71

in Lydia C. Shurman ed., Reading Publics: The Global Common Reader (Boston: University of Massachusetts Press forthcoming). 101 Allen, In the Public Eye, 112–13, 227ff.

chapter eleven 1 National Archives of Canada (hereafter na), Robert J.C. Stead Papers, mg 30, d 74, box 1, file 22, Diary, 25 January 1922. 2 Ibid., file 4, Stead to T. Fisher Unwin, 27 February 1915, 13 April 1916, 3 May 1916, 22 November 1916; file 16, A.P. Watt and Son to Stead, 10 July 1918; Stead to A.P. Watt and Son, 6 August 1918. 3 Among the many contemporaries having the idea that the theatre was the road to riches were Henry James, Stephen Crane, and Joseph Conrad; see Nicholas Delbanco, Group Portrait: Joseph Conrad, Stephen Crane, Ford Madox Ford, Henry James, and H.G. Wells (New York: Carroll & Graf 1990), 36. 4 Leo Charney and Vanessa R. Schwartz, Cinema and the Invention of Modern Life (Berkeley: University of California Press 1995), 10; see also 1–10. 5 Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 11, no. 7 (19 August 1920): 21. 6 Ibid., no. 1 (18 May 1920): 44. The estimated average daily attendance at this time was 650,000. In Toronto alone, there were about a hundred theatres showing movies, but even smaller centres throughout Canada had access to movies by this time. According to Robert Sklar, attendance peaked in 1946, with movies in the United States attracting nearly 75 per cent of their potential audience; see Robert Sklar, Movie-Made America: A Social History of American Movies (New York: Vintage 1994), 321. 7 This phrase from the Canadian distributor of Goldwyn Films accurately captures the essence of the movie experience; see The Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 10, no. 9 (15 November 1919): front cover. 8 Sklar, Movie-Made America, 152. In Toronto, during the week beginning 4 January 1919, fifty-five films ranging from serials through eight-reelers to current events were screened; see Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 7, no. 1, (4 January 1919): 4 9 Hector Charlesworth, “The Screen and the Arts,” Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 15, no. 34 (22 December 1923): 21. 10 Arthur Stringer, “Writing for the Movies,” Authors’ League Bulletin, March 1924, 6. 11 McClung made no attempt to sell movie and drama rights until the 1930s, by which time it was too late for her type of books; even earlier, they would have been difficult to film. See British Columbia Archives and Records Service (hereafter bca), Nellie L. McClung Papers, Add. mss 10, box 12, file 9, Joseph Menchen to McClung. It should also be noted that many of these movies based on books had first appeared as stage produc-

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291 Notes to pages 172–3

12 13 14

15

16 17 18 19 20

21

22

23 24

tions; see A. Nicolas Vardac, Stage to Screen: Theatrical Origins of Early Film: David Garrick to D.W. Griffith (New York: De Capo Press 1949). na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 4, Stead to T. Fisher Unwin, 3 May 1916. James L.W. West iii, American Authors and the Literary Marketplace since 1900 (Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press 1988), 131–3. University of Manitoba, Elizabeth Dafoe Library, Archives (hereafter uma), Charles W. Gordon Papers, mss 56, box 33, file 6, Contract for The Sky Pilot, 1 November 1914. This contract between Gordon and Brennan and Selwyn does not specify terms between author and publishers, but an earlier contract with Revell for dramatic rights to the same work split the money equally between author and publishers; see Baker Book House, Grand Rapids, Michigan, Fleming H. Revell Papers, George Doran to Mrs H.C. DeMille, Astor Theatre, New York, 18 October 1906. William Robertson, as the original Canadian publisher, would have received 10 per cent of the profits. uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 12, Doran to Gordon, 29 January 1914. Ibid., George Doran to Gordon, 7 June 1922. Ibid., file 13, Gordon to George Doran, 27 December 1922, 18 January 1923. Gordon eventually did receive a few thousand dollars. na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 16, A.P. Watt and Son to Stead, 10 July 1918. Watt suggested that he try Harper’s, his American publisher. See Anne Elizabeth Wilson, “Authors and Moving Pictures,” Canadian Bookman, 5, no. 7 (July 1923): 197, for the experiences of Basil King and others; Carole Gerson, “Canadian Women Writers and American Markets, 1880–1940,” in Camille R. La Bossière, ed., Context North America: Canada/U.S. Literary Relations (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press 1994): 114–16. uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 6, Gordon to Ernest Shipman, 5 May 1920; box 31, file 13, Gordon to Doran, 11 November 1921; see also The Sky Pilot film. Gordon had objected to the initial scenario produced by Faith Green. Shipman agreed to the changes demanded, but once he sold the right to Catherine Curtis and production moved to California, Gordon lost control over the script. University of Guelph, McLaughlin Library, Archives (hereafter uga), L. M. Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, 408. The graduation scenes were filmed at the Webb Academy of Engineering and Naval Architecture, a New York-based school. The setting for the rest of the film was Dedham, Massachusetts. Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, eds., The Selected Journals of L.M. Montgomery, 4 vols. (Toronto: Oxford University Press 1985–98), 2:358. Ibid. Montgomery’s contracts with Page make no mention of sharing nonprint subsidiary rights, but convention may have dictated the necessity of Page sharing them with her. It was not the normal practice to sell the

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25 26

27

28

29

30 31 32 33 34 35

36

37

Notes to pages 173–5

rights of more than one book for a single movie. This, in part, explains the high price received by Page. uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, 408. Sklar, Movie-Made America, 78–9. The scandal ended the career of Minter and others involved and was one of the factors contributing to a censorship movement. Charles E. Pierce’s Twelve Unsolved Mysteries (1929) includes a chapter on this case. uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, 409. This 1934 film has been available in vcr format. Except for opening and background scenes, which were from Prince Edward Island, the film was shot in a studio in California. Ibid.; see also 385, 393. She saw the movie four times; see Francis W.P. Bolger and Elizabeth R. Epperly, eds., My dear Mr M.: Letters to G.B. MacMillan from L.M. Montgomery (Toronto: McGraw-Hill Ryerson 1980), 179. Montgomery did not like Gilbert at all, and she received several indignant letters from girls who agreed with her. uga, Montgomery Papers, Diary, entries for 8 March, 26 May 1939. Many thanks to Mary Rubio of the University of Guelph for sharing these details with me. New York Times Film Reviews, 1913–1968, 5 vols. (New York: Arno Press 1970), 1939–48: 1727. uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, “My Anne,” 409. Susan Drain, “Too Much Love-Making: Anne of Green Gables on Television,” The Lion and the Unicorn, 11, no. 2 (October 1987): 63–72. Stringer, “Writing for the Movies,” 6. Arthur Stringer, “The Interpreters of Canada,” Empire Club address, 7 April 1932, in Empire Club of Canada Addresses, 30 (1932): 157. Columbia University, Butler Library (hereafter cul), Paul Reynolds Papers, Arthur Stringer file, 167, Stringer to Harold Ober, 13 April 1914; Reynolds to Stringer, 3 April 1914; Stringer to Reynolds, 28 December 1914. King Vidor wrote fifty-two scenarios before selling his first to Vitagraph; see King Vidor, A Tree Is a Tree (New York: Longmans 1954), 38. The company was most likely Motion Pictures Canada Ltd., based in Calgary, which had done work for the federal government and had asked for the rights to Ralph Connor’s books; see uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 6, W.R. Marshall (general manager) to Gordon, 25 October 1919. Marshall had once lived near Harrington, Ontario, and had heard Gordon’s father preach many times. He was a shareholder in the later Canadian Photoplays of Calgary. The company could also have been the All-Red Feature Company of Windsor, Ontario. cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 167, Stringer to Reynolds, 28 December 1914; Barbara Wales Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters: A Selection of His Correspondence with a Critical Introduction”

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293 Notes to pages 175–6

38 39 40

41

42

43 44 45 46

47 48 49

(PhD thesis, McGill University 1983), 36. In 1941 Stringer received another $1,620 for dialogue rights to Iron Claw; see University of Western Ontario, D.B. Weldon Library, Rare Book Room (hereafter uwol), Arthur Stringer Papers, Extra Box, Cora Wilkening to Stringer, 2 April 1941. Stringer, “Writing for the Movies.” He also performed the same task for Fox in the 1930s. cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 167, Reynolds to Stringer, 13 March 1916. uwol, Stringer Papers, Victor Lauriston Other Papers, Stringer to Lauriston, 11 January 1923, 23 June 1923, 25 January 1924. Snow-Blind became the 1923 Cosmopolitan film Unseeing Eyes. Although staff writer Frank Tuttle received credit for the scenario, there is no doubt from Stringer’s correspondence with Lauriston and others that Stringer adapted the story for the screen and saw part of its filming in Florida. Tuttle, a Yale graduate, had been assistant editor of Vanity Fair before moving to Hollywood, where he eventually became a reliable director of fast-paced, sexy, dramatic films. Stringer, “Writing for the Movies,” 6–7. Charles G.D. Roberts tried writing for Famous Players–Lasky and Rudyard Kipling for Pathé. See also Neal Gabler, An Empire of Their Own: How the Jews Invented Hollywood (New York: Anchor Books 198), 322–6; Ian Hamilton, Writers in Hollywood, 1915–51 (New York: Harper and Row 1990); and Richard Fine, Hollywood and the Profession of Authorship, 1928–1940 (Ann Arbor: umi Research Press 1985), for other examples and the general treatment of writers. John Baxter, King Vidor (New York: Monarch Press 1976), 17; Sklar, MovieMade America, 232ff. Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 9, no. 7 (15 March 1919): 13. Details, unless otherwise noted, from Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 80, 231–46, 310–12. Saturday Evening Post, 22 March 1924. The film version was only 6,000 words. Stringer received $3,000 from the magazine for the short story. If the story had not sold, Famous Players–Lasky had agreed to pay Stringer an additional $1,500. uwol, Stringer Papers, Extra Box, Stringer to Julian Johnson, 19 October 1923. Ibid., Victor Lauriston Other Papers, Stringer to Lauriston, 10 May 1924. Ibid., Extra Box, Holman to Stringer, 4 August 1924. Holman also collaborated with Stringer on the photoplay book The Story without a Name the same year. With a novel, Empty Hands, also published by Bobbs-Merrill in 1924, his publisher found it necessary to have Grosset and Dunlap issue Man-Handled. See Marija Dalbello-Lovric, “Verbalizing ’Silences and the Faces’: The Photoplay as a Model of Popular Reading in the Silent Film Era” (sharp conference paper, Worcester, 1996), for more information on photoplay novels.

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Notes to pages 176–8

50 uwol, Stringer Papers, Victor Lauriston Other Papers, Stringer to Lauriston, 25 January 1924. 51 Ibid., Stringer to Lauriston, 19 March 1924. 52 Ibid., Extra Box, Johnson to Stringer, 29 July, 14 August 1924. 53 Hector Charlesworth, “Pictures in Toronto,” Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 16, no. 12 (19 July 1924): 5. He also admitted liking Gloria Swanson. In the same year Stringer’s The Story without a Name and Empty Hands also became Famous Players-Lasky or Paramount films. 54 Stringer, “The Interpreters of Canada,” 158. 55 The American Film Institute Catalogue of Motion Pictures Produced in the United States credits Stringer with only twenty films, of which one was the script for The Canadian, based on a William Somerset Maugham play, The Land of Promise. The only other script for which he receives credit is The Prairie Wife. His correspondence with Victor Lauriston and agents Paul Reynolds and Cora Wilkening, however, leaves no doubt that he should be credited with a larger number. The studios were All-Red Feature Company, Essanay, Paragon, Triangle, Haworth, Metro, Famous Players–Lasky, Paramount, Eastern, Belasco, Tiffany, Cosmopolitan, Robert Kane, Tiffany-Stahl, Warner, and Universal. He also did anonymous work for Fox. 56 cul, Reynolds Papers, Stringer file, 167, Stringer to Mr Ober, 13 April 1914. 57 Ibid., Stringer to Mr Ober, 26 November 1914. 58 uwol, Stringer Papers, Extra Box, Cora Wilkening to Stringer, 17 March 1925. Later, in 1934, Stringer offered it to Fox at a reduced price, without success. 59 Ibid., box 1, Reynolds to Stringer, 3 May 1924. 60 Queen’s University Archives, Lorne and Edith Pierce Collection, 2001b, box 32, file 7, Hale-Garvin Papers, Stringer to John Garvin, 2 January 1935. A former editor of Maclean’s Magazine and a friend of Stringer’s, T.B. Costain, was Fox’s representative on the east coast at this time. Only three of Stringer’s stories became sound films: The Purchase Price (1932), based on The Mud Lark; The Lady Fights Back (1937); and Buck Benny Rides Again (1940), a modern remake of Woman Handled. 61 uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 13, Gordon to George Doran, 5 May 1913. There were several requests to dramatize The Sky Pilot, but it appears that only the one by Frank Mandel, which reached Winnipeg just after the First World War, made it to the stage. The script is in the Gordon Papers, box 34, file 2, and includes material from Black Rock as well as The Sky Pilot. Many churches experienced a similar struggle. In 1919 the Methodist Church of Canada established a lantern slide and film department under the supervision of its book steward, William Briggs; see Victoria University, United Church Archives, Book Publication Committee Minutes, box 2, file 1, 7 May 1919.

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295 Notes to pages 178–81 62 Globe (Toronto), 10 June 1922. In Canada, federal legislation prohibited commercialized entertainment on Sunday. 63 Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 13, no. 8 (15 September 1921): 16. The scene was part of the Pathé news. 64 Variety, 1 February 1918. Much of the film was shot in and around Farnum’s summer home at Sag Harbor, New York, as well as at the Fox studios in Fort Lee, New Jersey. 65 Peter Morris, Embattled Shadow: A History of Canadian Cinema, 1913–1940 (Montreal/Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press 1978), 83ff. All but the Sault Ste Marie and Saint John companies, which made films based on novels by Alan Sullivan (The Rapids) and F.W. Wallace (Blue Water), appeared on Shipman’s 1920 letterhead. He projected similar companies in Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland which were never incorporated. His claim to the Catherine Curtis Corporation, an independent company, was as a sales representative, a service not required for The Sky Pilot. 66 See Nanaimo Free Press, 27 July 1894, for Shipman’s notice of accompanying Miss Effie Elaine Hart on a western Canadian tour. He was then based in Toronto. Much of his work from 1913 on was for the Clifford Photoplay Company. The first film for which he served as producer was Tiger of the Sea (1919), which featured his wife, Nell. 67 Sklar, Movie-Made America, 145–6. By not having the overhead expense of a studio or long-term contracts with stars, independents such as Shipman were able to devote the money raised to production. 68 In Canada the Allen Theatre chain negotiated a twenty-five-year distribution contract for all its theatres except the one in Ottawa. 69 Manitoba Free Press, 10 July 1920, 37; 17 August 1920, 6. 70 Vidor, A Tree is a Tree, 54. 71 For correspondence between Gordon and Shipman regarding problems with the scenario, see uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 6, April-May 1920. 72 The Sky Pilot film. Vidor had learned a hard lesson with his bleak first film for First National, The Jack Knife Man (1920), which had bombed at the box office. The Sky Pilot is available in vhs format. 73 Baxter, King Vidor, 2–10. 74 New York Times Film Reviews, 1913–31: 93. The overdone ending was Gwen’s miraculous and unconvincing cure. Had Pierre Berton read the novel, he would have made less fuss about guns and saloons Americanizing the movie; see his Hollywood’s Canada: The Americanization of Our National Image (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1975), 19–20. 75 Vidor, A Tree Is a Tree, 54–5. See also Colleen Moore, Silent Star (New York: Doubleday 1968), 109–11. 76 Manitoba Free Press, 17 May 1921, 11. 77 Ibid., 28 May 1921, 24. Gordon also spoke at the gala opening at the Allen, where he noted that “it is a man with a big heart that gets on in the world”; see ibid., 24 May 1921, 9.

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296

Notes to pages 181–5

78 Ibid., 25 May 1921, 13; 24 May 1921, 9. 79 Until the mid-1920s, most movies played for only one week; a few enjoyed a second week. By the mid-1920s, runs as long as twelve weeks had started in Toronto, and up to four weeks in Winnipeg and six weeks in Vancouver. 80 “Investigate before Investing,” Editorial, Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 11, no. 7 (19 August 1920): 21. 81 Morris, Embattled Shadow, 104ff; Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 9, no. 3, (15 February 1919): 14. In the period 1921–28 alone, there were twentyseven movies based on Curwood’s books. Only Zane Grey, with thirtyseven, appears to have had more. 82 uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 6, Shipman to Gordon, 28 May 1920. By then, however, the contract had been signed. 83 See Morris, Embattled Shadows, chapter 4. 84 Manitoba Free Press, 1 May 1920, 16. 85 Ibid., 8 May 1920, 167. 86 Ibid., 6 July 1920, 17; 19 June 1920, 44. 87 Ibid., 22 July 1920, 12. 88 Ibid., 1 May 1920, 16; 11 May 1920, 11. 89 Ibid., 15 May 1920, 10. 90 Ibid., 6 July 1920, 17. “Exploitation” was a key word for Shipman. He used it often and included “Production – Exploitation” in large print on his letterhead. 91 Ibid., 5 May 1920, 10; See also 11 May, 11; 28 May, 11. 92 Ibid., 16 September 1920, 44. 93 Ibid., 6 July 1920, 17. 94 Ibid., 19 August 1920, 6; see also 1, 15, 28 May. 95 Ibid., 20 July 1920, 6. The Board of Winnipeg Photoplays Company included the president of the Board of Trade and representatives from Henry Birks, Breen Motors, the Lake of the Woods Milling Company, the Winnipeg Grain Exchange, the T. Eaton Company, and other firms. 96 uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 6, A.W. Lark to Gordon, 25 May 1920. The original issue in Winnipeg was twenty shares at $5,000 each, for a total of $100,000, but more shares were made available to those interested. 97 See Manitoba Free Press, 8, 11, 12, 28 May, 17 August 1920, for statement regarding First National. 98 uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 13, Telegram, Gordon to Doran, 24 March 1921; Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 12, no. 24 (15 May 1921): 18. 99 See Morris, Embattled Shadows, chapter 4, as one example. 100 Manitoba Free Press, 8 May 1920, 17; 15 May 1920, 10; Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 14, no. 35 (23 December 1922): 2; uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 6, Telegram, Shipman to Gordon, 28 May 1920. 101 Manitoba Free Press, 16 September 1920, 44. 102 The year 1922 saw a record of twenty-two Mountie movies; see Berton, Hollywood’s Canada, 112.

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297 Notes to pages 186–91 103 Quoted in Morris, Embattled Shadows, 121. 104 uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 5, Gordon to Doran, 10 June 1936. He used the Stanley Bergurman Agency of Los Angeles, through its eastern representative, Virginia Venable, who was also connected with True Story. 105 Ted Magder, Canada’s Hollywood: The Canadian State and the Feature Films (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1993), 9. 106 Ibid., 21. See also Sklar, Movie-Made America, 216–22. 107 See Berton, Hollywood’s Canada. 108 See Canadian Moving Picture Digest from March to May 1926. 109 Ibid., 10, no. 18 (April 1920): 9. 110 H.F. Angus, ed., Canada and Her Great Neighbour: Sociological Surveys of Opinion in Canada Concerning the United States (Toronto: Ryerson 1938), 125. 111 Charney and Schwartz, Cinema and the Invention of Modern Life, 4. 112 Ben Singer, “Modernity, Hyperstimulus, and the Rise of Popular Sensationalism,” in Charney and Schwartz, Cinema and the Invention of Modern Life, 73, 83.

chapter twelve 1 Arthur Stringer, “A Glance at Lampman,” Canadian Magazine, 2, no. 4 (April 1893): 545. 2 National Archives of Canada (hereafter na), Robert J.C. Stead Papers, mg 30, d 74, box 6, file 5, Scrapbook, Newspaper Clippings, 1918–23, Globe (Toronto), 24 February 1923. 3 For an extended debate prompted by Stead’s speeches on this question, see Manitoba Free Press, literary section, 4 August, 6 October, 3 November 1924, 5 January 1925. 4 Harold A. Adams, “The Career of Ralph Connor,” Maclean’s Magazine, April 1913, 109. 5 Quoted in Canadian Bookman, 4, no. 2 (November 1922): 298. 6 New York Times, 15 August 1908. 7 University of Guelph, McLaughlin Library, Archives (hereafter uga), L.M. Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, 1911–36, 85. 8 Saturday Night, 36 (22 November 1919). 9 Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, eds., The Selected Journals of L.M. Montgomery, 4 vols. (Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1985–98), 4:xxiii, xxiv. 10 T.M. Vesey, “Canadian Literature and Lower Criticism,” Canadian Bookman, 5, no. 4 (April 1923): 91–2. 11 Hugh MacLennan to W.A. Deacon, 7 March 1946, in John Lennox and Michèle Lacombe, eds., Dear Bill: The Correspondence of William Arthur Deacon (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1988), 206. Although MacLennan blamed British critic Q.R. Leavis’s “The Novel and the Reading

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298

12 13

14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

25

26

27 28 29

30 31 32

Notes to pages 191–3

Public” (1932) for this attitude, it had been popular in critical circles for several decades before this time. Canadian Bookman, 7, no. 7 (July 1926): 222. Frederick Philip Grove, It Needs to Be Said (Ottawa: Tecumseh Press 1982; first published in 1929); Philip Marchand, “What I Really Think,” Saturday Night, 112, no. 8 (1997): 52–6. This controversial trashing of Canadian fiction stimulated replies and analysis in the daily press and in subsequent issues of Saturday Night. Arthur Phelps, Canadian Writers (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1951), 85. Queen’s University Archives, Lorne Pierce Collection, 2001a, box 1, file 2, Lorne Pierce Correspondence, J.D. Logan to Lorne Pierce, 8 October 1922. W.J. Keith, Canadian Literature in English (London: Longmans 1985), 122. W.A. Deacon to Emily Murphy, in Lennox and Lacombe, Dear Bill, 61. Desmond Pacey, Creative Writing in Canada (Toronto: Ryerson 1952), 98. Phelps, Canadian Writers, 90. Ibid., 85–6. Bookseller and Stationer, 40, no. 3 (March 1924): 54. Quoted in Lawrence Levine, The Opening of the American Mind: Canons, Culture and History (Boston: Beacon Press 1996), 82. Ibid., 91ff. Graham Carr, “All We North Americans: Literary Culture and the Continental Ideal, 1919–1939,” American Review of Canadian Studies, 17 (summer 1987): 145. Margery Fee, “English-Canadian Literary Criticism, 1890–1950: Defining and Establishing a National Literature” (PhD thesis, University of Toronto 1981), 26ff. John Arthur Bourinot, Our Intellectual Strengths and Weaknesses (1893); quoted in Carole Gerson, A Purer Taste: The Writing and Reading of Fiction in English in Nineteenth-Century Canada (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1989), 22. Douglas Bush, “A Plea of Original Sin,” Canadian Forum, 2, no. 19 (April 1922): 590. John Ayre, Northrop Frye: A Biography (Toronto: Vintage Books 1990), 184. See E.G. Bobak, “Seeking Direct Honest Realism: The Canadian Novel of the 1920’s,” Canadian Literature, 69 (summer 1981): 85–103; Nancy Fraser, “The Development of Realism in Canadian Literature during the 1920’s,” Dalhousie Review, 57 (summer 1977): 287–99. Queen’s University Archives, Dorothy Dumbrille Papers, 2059, box 1, file 11, McClung to Dumbrille, 12 October 1947. Robert Fulford, “Man with a Mission,” Saturday Night, May 1982, 7. There were a few exceptions to this trend. William T. Allison, who taught in Winnipeg universities and had a regular review column in many

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299 Notes to pages 193–6

33 34

35 36 37

38 39 40 41

42 43

44

prairie papers, was a close friend of Robert Stead. Editor Lorne Pierce of Ryerson Press was also more reserved in his criticism than others. na, Stead Papers, box 5, file 4, Untitled article (1922) on race and nation, 2–3. Ibid., file 5, Robert Stead, “Mr. East – Meet Mr. West,” October 1922; box 6, file 1, “The Commercial Side of Literature,” 1919. In 1919, Stead listed the following Canadian authors whose work should be in the home of every well-informed citizen: McClung, Connor, Emily Murphy, R.S. Kendall, R.A. Hood, Isabel McKay, Pauline Johnson, Hopkins Moorhouse, W.E. Ingersoll, Douglas Durkin, Alan Sullivan, Archie McKishnie, Ethel Hope, and J.M. Gibbon. Rock Lake Review, “Editorial,” 18 September 1902; High River Times, “Observations,” 19 December 1912. Nellie L. McClung, The Black Creek Stopping House and Other Stories (Toronto: William Briggs 1912), 222. Mary Hallett and Marilyn Davis, Firing the Heather: The Life and Times of Nellie McClung (Saskatoon: Fifth House 1993), 241, 251, 280. McClung was on the inaugural Board of Broadcast Governors, which regulated the cbc. Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 2:339–40. uga, Montgomery Papers, Black Scrapbook, “Storyteller Wins Applause.” Arthur Stringer, “The Interpreters of Canada,” Empire Club address, 7 April 1932, in Empire Club of Canada Addresses, 30 (1932):122. University of Western Ontario, D.B. Weldon Library, Rare Book Room (hereafter uwol), Arthur Stringer Papers, box 3, Poetry File, “A Christmas Message to Canada.” Arthur Stringer, “Wanted – A National Anthem,” Maclean’s Magazine, November 1916, 15. D. Barry Mack, “Ralph Connor and the Progressive Vision” (ma thesis, Carleton University 1986), 2ff. See also J. Lee and John H. Thompson, “Ralph Connor and the Canadian Identity,” Queen’s Quarterly, 79 (summer 1972): 161–70; F.W. Watt, “Western Myth: The World of Ralph Connor,” Canadian Literature, 1 (spring 1959): 26–36; Brian Fraser, The Social Uplifters: Presbyterian Progressives and the Social Gospel in Canada, 1875–1915 (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press 1988). For typical examples, see University of Manitoba, Elizabeth Dafoe Library, Archives (hereafter uma), Charles W. Gordon Papers, mss 56, box 48, file 1, John Hamilton to Gordon, 18 January 1901; Saturday Evening Post, 18 January 1902, 16. The general consensus in the movie reviews was that both the book and the movie should have remained in Glengarry rather than move on to Quebec City and British Columbia. Readers generally found the more overtly political section tedious and dull.

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300

Notes to pages 196–8

45 uma, Gordon Papers, box 28, file 21, 30 November 1913. See also Ralph Connor, “The New Canada and Its Needs,” Maclean’s Magazine, December 1919 and 1 November 1920. 46 Jonathan Rose, “Rereading the English Common Reader: A Preface to a History of Audiences,” Journal of the History of Ideas, 53, no. 1 (March 1992): 47–70. 47 uga, Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, Free Press (Aberdeen) 18 November 1915. 48 na, Stead Papers, box 5, file 8, Newspaper Clippings, 1902–18, Natal Advertiser, 5 October 1911. 49 Communication from Martyn Lyon, 5 September 1993. 50 Gabriella Åhmansson, A Life and Its Mirrors: A Feminist Reading of L.M. Montgomery (Uppsala: Acta Universitatis Uppsaliensis 1991), 13. 51 Brian McKillop, “Who Killed Canadian History? A View from the Trenches,” Canadian Historical Review, 80, no. 2 (June 1999): 296. In this excellent article, the author presents many arguments regarding the necessity of abandoning such views. 52 Lorne Pierce, “New Voices: The Novelists,” in Encyclopedia of Canada (Toronto: University Associates of Canada 1948), 4:101. 53 Malcolm Ross, The Impossible Sum of Our Traditions: Reflection on Canadian Culture (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1986), 178. Ross dismisses attempts by Northrop Frye, Margaret Atwood, and John Moss to find overriding thematic unity in our culture. 54 Wallace Stegner, “The Provincial Consciousness,” University of Toronto Quarterly, 43 (summer 1974): 306. Stegner spent part of his formative years in southern Saskatchewan; see his Wolf Willow (New York: Viking 1962); and Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Spring: Living and Writing in the West (New York: Random House 1992). Stegner argues that writing novels has little to do with nationality, and he is skeptical about exaggerated generalizations regarding differences between Canadian and American fiction that use similar genres and settings. 55 The list includes T.B. Costain, E.W. Thomson, Bliss Carman, Charles G.D. Roberts, E.T. Seton, Norman Duncan, Harvey O’Higgins, T.S. Jarvis, Agnes Laut, Ethelwyn Wetherald, Jean MacIlwraith, May Agnes Fleming, and Basil King. Some, such as Roberts, moved on to Britain, where Robert Barr, Gilbert Parker, Sara Jeannette Duncan, Alan Sullivan, and others resided. A few, including Carman and MacIlwraith, retired to Canada. Robert Service moved to France. 56 Nicholas Delbanco, Group Portrait: Joseph Conrad, Stephen Crane, Ford Madox Ford, Henry James, and H.G. Wells (New York: Carroll & Graf 1990), 190. James even secretly renounced his American citizenship in 1915 and became a British subject; see Lyall H. Powers, ed., Henry James and

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301 Notes to pages 198–201

57 58 59

60

61 62 63

64

65 66 67 68 69

70

Edith Wharton: Letters, 1900–1915 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons 1990), 19. Robert Stead, “Does Canada Lack a National Literature?” Bookseller and Stationer, 34, no. 6 (June 1918): 30. Bookseller and Stationer, 37, no. 4 (22 April 1921): 39. Barbara Wales Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters: A Selection of His Correspondence with a Critical Introduction” (PhD thesis, McGill University 1983) 272. The Canadian Club of New York began on 6 June 1903 and published a magazine called The Maple Leaf, to which Stringer was a frequent contributor. University of Toronto, Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, W.A. Deacon Collection, ms collection 160, box 23, Stringer to Deacon, 14 February 1933. Stead attempted to purchase Shadow Lawn in 1936 and 1948. Stringer, “The Interpreters of Canada,” 160; Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters,” 297. From Arthur Stringer, Dark Soil (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill 1933). The council was chosen by open ballot, with all founding members eligible. Stringer received the most votes, followed by Bliss Carman, Connor, Marjorie Pickthall, D.C. Scott, Madge MacBeth, Frank Packard, Andrew MacPhail, Montgomery, and others. For recent studies of the caa, see Lynn Harrington, Syllables of Recorded Time: The History of the Canadian Authors Association (Toronto: Simon and Pierre 1981); John W. Lennox, “New Eras: B.K. Sandwell and the Canadian Authors Association, 1919–1922,” English Studies in Canada, 7, no. 1 (spring 1981): 93–103; Mary Vipond, “The Canadian Authors Association in the 1920’s: A Case Study in Cultural Nationalism,” Journal of Canadian Studies, 15, no. 1 (spring 1980): 66–79. Frank Scott set the stage with his satiric poem “The Canadian Authors Meet.” By 1928 the association had over seven hundred members; see Canadian Bookman, 10, no. 5 (May 1928): 139. Harrington, Syllables of Recorded Time, 13. Canadian Bookman, 13, no. 3 (March 1931): 67. Ibid., 37, no. 5 (May 1921): 38. Mary Vipond, “Canadian Nationalism and the Plight of Canadian Magazines in the 1920’s,” Canadian Historical Review, 66, no. 1 (March 1977): 43–63. By 1926, the estimated annual sales of American magazines were about fifty million. With 152,011 copies per issue, the Ladies’ Home Journal led the way, followed by the Saturday Evening Post with 128,574 and Pictorial Review with 128,320. By 1929, for every $1.00 that Canadians spent on British magazines, they spend $100 on American ones. bca, McClung Papers, box 10, file 7, Hammond to McClung, 12 April 1910. Hammond did later agree to the purchase.

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302

Notes to pages 202–5

71 “Tell of Canadian Book Tastes,” Bookseller and Stationer, 29, no. 3 (March 1913): 27. By the 1930s a British tax of 25 per cent on foreign authors, including Canadians, rendered the British market even less profitable for Canadian authors; see uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 4, Allan Lane to Gordon, 5 January 1933. This amount was deducted from all advances and royalties. In the same period, the Federal Lien Tax in the United States was only 8 per cent. 72 H.F. Angus, ed., Canada and Her Great Neighbour: Sociological Surveys of Opinion in Canada Concerning the United States (Toronto: Ryerson 1938), 161. 73 See uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 3, Mrs John Baird to Gordon, 19 August 1921. They did publish Katherine Hale’s first novel. 74 Full-page advertisement in Bookseller and Stationer, 32, no. 8 (August 1916): 44. 75 In this capacity, Costain was a friend of Canadian authors. E.W. Thomson had provided a similar service as editor of Youth’s Companion, in which he published many poems by Montgomery, Bliss Carman, Archibald Lampman, and others between 1891 and 1901. Costain left the Post in 1934 to become the eastern representative for Twentieth Century Fox. In 1939 he joined Doubleday in New York, where he wrote popular historical fiction with Canadian settings. 76 Columbia University, Butler Library, Paul Reynolds Papers, Arthur Stringer file, 167, Reynolds to Stringer, 24 July 1924. Maclean’s at this time was paying $100 a story, with half going to the American magazine and half to the author. 77 Angus, ed., Canada and Her Great Neighbour, 162–2. The actual circulation was 199,385. Part of this increase may also have been the result of the 1930 tariff, but this was also in the depression years, when many homes cut the number of publications they purchased. 78 Wilfrid Eggleston, ed., The Green Gable Letters: From L.M. Montgomery to Ephraim Weber, 1905–1909 (Ottawa: Borealis Press 1981), Montgomery to Weber, 22 December 1908, 80. 79 uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 4, Gordon to F.A. Jones, 11 January 1915. 80 The Spirit of Canada (Montreal: The Canadian Pacific Railway 1939).

conclusion 1 Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, eds., The Selected Journals of L.M. Montgomery, 4 vols. (Toronto: Oxford University Press 1985–98), 3:379, entry for 1 October 1928. 2 Henry James to William Dean Howells, 22 January 1895, in Percy Lubbock, ed., The Letters of Henry James (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons 1920), 1:230.

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303 Notes to pages 205–9 3 University of Manitoba, Elizabeth Dafoe Library, Archives (hereafter uma), Charles W. Gordon Papers, mss 56, box 32, file 8, Gordon to John McClelland, 5 December 1935. 4 Ibid., box 31, file 12, Doran to Charles Gordon, 20 October 1936. 5 Keith Walden, Becoming Modern in Toronto: The Industrial Exhibition and the Shaping of a Late Victorian Culture (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1997), 274. 6 R.L. Kowalczyk, “In Vanished Summertime: Marie Corelli and Popular Culture,” Journal of Popular Culture, 7, no. 4 (Spring 1974): 850ff. 7 uma, Gordon Papers, box 33, file 4, Gordon to Mrs B.F. Laidlaw, 12 September 1921. 8 Salverson to William Arthur Deacon, 1 February 1931, in John Lennox and Michèle Lacombe, eds., Dear Bill: The Correspondence of William Arthur Deacon (Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1988), 120. See Paul Boyer, Purity in Print: The Vice-Society Movement and Book Censorship in America (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons 1968), 89–90, for similar sentiments from best-selling authors Irving Bacheller, Booth Tarkington, Alice Rice Hegan, Gene Stratton-Porter, and Margaret Deland. 9 Nancy Sheehan, “Indoctrination: Moral Education in the Early Prairie School House,” in David C. Jones et al., eds., Shaping the Schools of the Canadian West (Calgary: Detselig 1979), 222–35. 10 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 4:163. 11 Bookseller and Stationer, 40, no. 3 (March 1924): 54. 12 Canadian Magazine, 34, no. 5 (February 1910): 390. 13 Mary Hallett and Marilyn Davis, Firing the Heather: The Life and Times of Nellie McClung (Saskatoon: Fifth House 1993), 229. 14 Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 10, no. 11 (Christmas 1919): 23; no. 12 (mid-January 1919): 4. 15 See “The Mixer,” in Robert Stead, The Empire Builders and Other Poems (Toronto: William Briggs 1908). See Howard Palmer, Patterns of Prejudice: A History of Nativism in Alberta (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart 1982), for racial attitudes typical of Canadians in this period. 16 This book was published by McClelland and Stewart. Gibbon did not include blacks, Asians, or East Indians in his vision. He was also the author of five novels in the early twentieth century. 17 K.P. Stitch, “European Immigrants in the Fiction of Robert Stead,” Studies in Canadian Literature, 1 (winter 1976): 80. 18 Charles W. Gordon, Postscript to Adventure: The Autobiography of Ralph Connor (New York: Farrar and Rinehart 1938), 386. 19 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 4:137. 20 Ibid., 3:105. At the same time, Montgomery was glad to see the end of cumbersome, Victorian fashions; see ibid., 113–14, 6 February 1923.

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304

Notes to pages 209–12

21 National Archives of Canada (hereafter na), George MacMillan Papers, mg 30, d 185, Montgomery to MacMillan, 16 April 1931. 22 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 4:221. 23 British Columbia Archives and Records Service, Nellie L. McClung Papers, Add. mss 10, box 4, file 31, “On the Reading of Books.” 24 Queen’s University Archives, Lorne Pierce Collection, Lorne Pierce Correspondence, 2001a, box 2, file 9, McClung to Pierce, 8 March 1927. 25 Christoph Asendorf, Batteries of Life: On the History of Things and Their Perception in Modernity, trans. Don Renean (Berkeley: Univerity of California Press 1993), 173. 26 uma, Gordon Papers, box 28, file 10, Sermon, “The Canadian Home – Its Environment,” 8 February 1920. 27 University of Western Ontario, D.B. Weldon Library, Rare Book Room (hereafter uwol), Arthur Stringer Papers, box 3, Poetry Notes. 28 Report of speech by George Locke, in Bookseller and Stationer, 40, no. 4 (April 1924): 52. 29 Earle Birney, Spreading Time: Remarks on Canadian Writing and Writers (Montreal: Vehicle Press 1980), 117. 30 uma, Gordon Papers, box 31, file 12, Doran to Gordon, 20 February 1923. 31 Theodore Peterson, Magazines in the Twentieth Century (Urbana: University of Illinois Press 1964), 124. 32 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 4:24. 33 na, Robert J.C. Stead Papers, mg 30, d 74, box 1, file 9, McClelland and Stewart to Stead, 28 September 1926. 34 Frank Dodd to John McClelland, 13 November 1930, in George L. Parker, “The History of a Canadian Publishing House: A Study of the Relations between Publishing and the Profession of Writing” (PhD thesis, University of Toronto 1969), 250. 35 uma, Gordon Papers, box 32, file 7, John McClelland to Gordon, 25 September 1933. 36 Ibid., R. Percy Hodder-Williams to McClelland and Stewart, 26 January 1937; John McClelland to Gordon, 5 May 1936. Eventually the novel was placed with John Lane. 37 Ibid., box 32, file 68, John Lane Royalty Statements. 38 Ibid., box 31, file 4, Doran to Gordon, 5 September 1928. Ford ceased production of the Model T in 1927. The more modern, consumer-oriented Model A was available in many colours. 39 Ibid., box 33, file 1, Wilma K. McFarland to Gordon, 4 August 1931; see also file 3, Cora C. Wilkening and Son to Gordon, 26 June 1934; box 32, file 4, Correspondence with Jacques Chambrun Inc., 1936–37. 40 Ibid., box 32, file 8, Gordon to McClelland, 3, 9 October 1936. 41 Ibid., box 31, file 10, Gordon to Fleming H. Revell Jr, 3 June 1936. 42 Ibid., box 32, file 8, Gordon to John McClelland, 31 August 1933.

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305 Notes to pages 212–16 43 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 1, J.C. Brandt to Stead, 5 March 1926. 44 Robert J.C. Stead, The Copper Disc (Garden City: Doubleday and Doran, 1931). 45 na, Stead Papers, box 1, file 10, Correspondence between Stead and McClelland, December 1936. 46 Ibid., file 1, Stead to Brandt and Brandt, 30 July 1935; Brandt and Brandt to Stead, 30 July 1935; file 12, Stead to McClelland and Stewart, 22 July 1935. 47 The novel was finally published in 1983 by the Tecumseh Press of Ottawa. 48 Some of this work was reprinted in two volumes, Leaves from Lantern Lane (1936) and More Leaves from Lantern Lane (1937), both published by Thomas Allen. 49 Hallett and Davis, Firing the Heather, 293ff. 50 For details of this period, see Mary Rubio and Elizabeth Waterston, Writing a Life: L.M. Montgomery (Toronto: ecw Press 1995), 89ff. Montgomery lost money in the 1929 stock-market crash; but in spite of the Depression, she was able to secure sufficient cash for the down payment on the house. 51 Rubio and Waterston, Selected Journals, 4:91; for further comments on her investments, see 54, 179, 213. 52 Ibid., 157. 53 Mary Henley Rubio, “Introduction,” in Harvesting Thistles: The Textual Garden of L.M. Montgomery (Guelph: Canadian Children’s Press 1994), 2. 54 Barbara Wales Meadowcroft, “Arthur Stringer as a Man of Letters: A Selection of His Correspondence with a Critical Introduction” (PhD thesis, McGill University 1983), 16. 55 See Richard Cordell’s review in Saturday Review, 20 (10 June 1939): 19, and Stringer’s reply on 5 August 1939, 9. 56 uwol, Stringer Papers, box 1, file 7, J.E. Middleton to Stringer, 5 October 1944; Correspondence with Yale Review and Queen’s Quarterly. 57 University of Guelph, McLaughlin Library, Archives, L.M. Montgomery Papers, Scrapbook of Reviews, “Who Are the Twelve Greatest Living Canadian Women,” 203–4; “The Greatest Living Canadians,” 221; “Book Contest Held on Life in Canada,” 252. 58 Charles Steele, ed., Taking Stock: The Calgary Conference on the Canadian Novel (Downsview: ecw Press 1982). In this ranking, Anne of Green Gables placed fortieth, The Man from Glengarry fifty-fifth, Grain sixty-seventh, and Glengarry School Days ninety-ninth. 59 Stephen Smith, “Forty Great Works of Canadian Fiction,” Quill and Quire, July 1999, 21–2. 60 uma, Gordon Papers, box 49, file 2, Mrs Melba E. MacDougall to Gordon, 23 June 1933. She wrote on the suggestion of the inspector and asked for a large portrait of Gordon to hang on the school wall.

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306

Notes to pages 217–20

61 See ibid., box 33, file 2, Correspondence, Ginn and Company to Gordon, 1932 to 1937. 62 Baker Book House Company, Grand Rapids, Michigan, Fleming H. Revell Archives, Contract, 28 November 1941. 63 Collins paid $250 advance and a royalty of 1¢ a copy; see McMaster University, Mills Library, William Ready Archives, McClelland and Stewart Papers, George Parker Notes, file 5, Correspondence between Collins and McClelland and Stewart and McClelland and Stewart and Mrs Helen Gordon. This series in 1942 also published novels by Stephen Leacock, Hugh MacLennan, and Frederick Niven; see Douglas W. Sulipa, Collins White Circle Paperbacks: History, Index, and Price Guide (Winnipeg, n.d.). In 1939, Triangle of New York issued The Runner. 64 Stringer noted that he “put enough of himself in”; see uwol, Stringer Papers, Victor Lauriston Other Papers, Stringer to Lauriston, 12 May 1949. See also A.J.M. Smith, “Wanted, Canadian Criticism,” Canadian Forum, 7, no. 91 (April 1928): 600–1. 65 Harlequin was then a small general publisher based in Winnipeg. 66 See Margery Fee, “English-Canadian Literary Criticism, 1890–1950: Defining and Establishing a National Literature” (PhD thesis, University of Toronto 1981), 220. 67 Pelham Edgar, “Presidential Address,” Transactions of the Royal Society of Canada, series 3, 21 (May 1927): 1.

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Index

adventure stories, 9, 37, 38, 95, 177, 181 advertising, 5, 29, 43, 48, 58, 80, 147, 187; books, 27, 74, 210 agents. See literary agents Åhmansson, Gabriella, 131, 134, 197 Ainslie’s Magazine, 58, 61 Albertan (Calgary), 13 A.L. Burt Company, 74, 76, 257n126 alcohol. See drinking A.L.G. Agency, 79 Allen, James, viii, 156, 159, 168 American Authors’ League, 72 American Baptist Publication Society, 63 American Home (magazine), 61 Angus and Robertson Limited, 210 Anne of Green Gables (Montgomery), 17, 19, 51, 48, 76, 125, 126–32; best-seller, 3, 216; dramatic readings, 216; films, 173–4; publishers,

58, 66, 71, 72, 203; readers, 158, 161, 167 Anne of Windy Poplars (film), 174 Anne’s House of Dreams (Montgomery), 159 Appleton, D. and Company, 58, 73 apprenticeships, 41–7; Connor, 41, 44–5; McClung, 43–4; Montgomery, 41, 43–5; Stead, 43– 5; Stringer, 43–5 A.P. Watt and Son (agency), 45, 70–1, 77, 172 Asendorf, Christoph, 99, 209 Associated First National, 179, 180, 185 Atherton, Gertrude, 59, 175 audience reception, viii, ixx, 160, 219 authorship, 46–52, 135–6, 139–40, 170 Ayers Publishing, 217 Back to God’s Country (film), 181, 184–5 Bail Jumper, The (Stead), 13,

94, 95, 96, 102, 196; heroine, 101; publishing, 69 Baldwin, Stanley, 55 Banner, Lois, 16, 117 Barrie, James M., 133 Baum, Frank, 133 Beach, Rex, 175, 210 Beautiful Joe (Saunders), xi, 63 beauty, 117–18, 147, 206, 209 Becoming Modern in Toronto (Walden), 83 Bell and Cockburn, 74 Ben Hur (Wallace), 34 Benson, Nathaniel, 24, 48 Berman, Marshall, 7 best-sellers, 26, 28, 88, 126, 154, 191; authors’ power, 75, 76; characteristics, 37–40, 48, 106, 125, 129, 135–6, 157, 197; as a commodity, 4; study of, viii-ix. See also individual authors and novels Birney, Earle, 32, 210 Black Creek Stopping House, The (McClung), 35 Black Rock (Connor), 31, 81–90; copyright, 30–1,

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308 Index 210; publishing, 10, 47; readers, 153, 158, 162, 166, 167, 168 Bobbs-Merrill Company, 73, 74, 145, 176, 255n104 Book News Monthly (trade magazine), 62 Books and Notions (trade magazine), 29 Bookseller and Stationer (trade magazine), 68, 182 bookstores, 27, 28–9, 211, 234nn21 & 23 Boston, 72, 124 Brandt and Brandt (agency), 38, 45, 71, 77, 94, 212, 213 Brennan, George H., 172 Briggs, William, 65, 69, 70, 203 Britain, 19, 54, 58, 173, 190, 192, 198, 201; market, 201–2; publishing, 59, 69–70, 74–5, 210, 215 Bronner, Simon, 6, 95 Brontë, Charlotte, 124 Brooke, Rupert, 55 Brooker, Bertram, 32 Brooks, Van Wyck, 33 Browning, Robert, 111 Brymner, William, 127 Buckingham, William, 157 Burnett, Francis H., 133 Burns, Robert, 21, 32, 209 Bush, Douglas, 193 Byron, Lord, 21 Caine, Hall, 30, 68 Calgary, 29, 44, 68, 211; and Connor, 108; and Shipman, 181, 182, 183, 184; and Stead, 13, 96, and Stringer, 23 Callaghan, Morley, 211 Call of the Wild, The (London), 37 Calvert, Karin, 130 Campbell, Wilfred, 31 Cameron of the Mounted (film), 184–6 Canada West Magazine, 43

Canadian Authors Association, 49, 198, 199–201, 208, 210, 301n63 Canadian Bookman (trade magazine), 191 Canadian Book Week, 200, 201 Canadian Geographical Journal, 213 Canadian Magazine, 31, 207 Canadian Methodist Book and Publishing House, 3, 63, 64–5, 68–9, 250n43 Canadian Methodist Magazine, 45 Canadian Monthly and National Review (magazine), 59 Canadian Mosaic: The Making of a Northern Nation (Gibbon), 208 Canadian Moving Picture Digest (trade magazine), 171, 181, 182, 187 Canadian Photoplays Limited, 183, 184 Canadian Thresher and Farmer (magazine), 96 Canmore, 33, 87 capitalism, x, 53, 83–4, 95, 99–101, 122, 218; and best-sellers, 26–8; booms, 23, 102–4; and movies, 185, 187–8; and modernity, 5–6, 59, 117; New York, 141–2. See also consumerism; technology Carman, Bliss, 71 Carr, Graham, 193 Cartwright, 3, 13, 44, 68, 97, 99 Caswell, Edward, 39, 45, 46, 64–5, 67, 75, 76, 78, 258n138 Cavendish, 17, 33, 52 Chambers, David Laurence, 74 character, 6, 17, 147 Charlesworth, Hector, 26, 32, 177, 200 Charlottetown, 18, 136

Charney, Leo, 96, 171 Chartier, Roger, viii Chatham, 21, 23, 52 children/childhood, 80, 114–15, 130–4, 147, 219 Christie, Nancy, 80 Cleverest Woman in the World, The (Stringer), 175 Collins White Circle Paperbacks, 217, 306n63 comics, 13, 192, 209 community, 7, 8, 36, 85–6, 110, 112, 120, 197; ideal, 105–6; need for, 130–1; reading, 161–2, 165–6 concerts, 34–5, 108–9, 111, 136–7, 237n56 Congregationalist (magazine), 64 Connor, Ralph (Charles W. Gordon), 9, 14, 37, 41, 42, 105, 139, 190, 205, 206; adventure stories, 8, 38; agents, 78–9; apprenticeship, 41, 44–5; authorship, 47; best-seller, x, xi, 3, 126; and Canada, 195, 196–7, 199; critics, 92, 191–2; emotions, 39, 86; and the frontier, 26; language, 110; life, 10–12, 55–6, 213, 225nn25 & 26; magazine publishing, 61–2; mentors, 46–7; and modernity, 10, 12, 80–1, 87–8, 92, 208–9; movies, 171–3, 178–86, 295n77; publishing, 58, 66–8, 211–12; and race, 208; reformer, 83–7, 109, 119; religious publishing, 64; reader response, 84, 87, 88, 89, 91, 152–3, 157, 159–60, 161–3, 166–7, 168; recitals, 33–5; religious faith, 81, 97–9, 116, 209; sales and career, 52– 3, 211–12, 216- 18, 244nn98 & 99; and United States, 203–4; writing habits, 51–2, 172–3, 211–12

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309 Index Conrad, Joseph, 69, 171 consumerism, 105–6, 122– 3, 132, 136, 147; and materialism, 99–100; and McClung, 112; and modernity, x, 4–6; and Montgomery, 17, 20 Cooper, James Fenimore, 27, 37, 193 Cooper, John, 200 Copper Disc, The (Stead), 213 copyright, 29–31, 199, 201 Cora Wilkening and Son (agency), 79, 177 Corelli, Marie, 64, 68, 206 Corporal Cameron (Connor), 62, 77, 92, 162, 203 Cosmopolitan Films, 51, 175 Costain, Thomas B., 202, 250n35 Cotkin, George, 7, 8, 28, 135 Count of Monte Cristo, The (Dumas), 32 Covered Wagon, The (film), 177 Cow Puncher, The (Stead), 13, 97, 98, 101, 102–5; contract, 70, 71; and critics, 96; sales, 54 Crime Club, 213 crime fiction, 9, 142–4, 213, 219, 280n23 Critical Age, The (film), 186 Crockett, S.R., 63 Crucible, The (film), 182, 184, 185, 186, 197 Curtis, Catherine, 179 Curwood, James Oliver, 37, 175, 179, 181 Dalhousie University, 18 Dark Wing, The (Stringer), 215 Darnton, Robert, viii, x, 160 Davidson, Cathy, 154 Davis, Marilyn, 111, 122 Deacon, W.A., 55, 192, 198 De la Roche, Mazo, 220

Delineator (magazine), 28, 61, 149, 210 democracy, 8, 100, 188, 190, 196 Dennison Grant (Stead), 54, 105–6 department stores, 4, 20, 64 Dickens, Charles, 44, 45, 46, 49, 59, 171, 211 divorce, 23, 128, 145, 148– 9, 163–4, 179, 183, 282n57 Doctor, The (Connor), 52, 66, 93 Dodd, Frank, 143, 211 Dodd, Mead and Company, 211 Dominion Film Company, 179 Doran, George, 49, 186, 205, 210, 211–12; company, 66–8, 71, 252nn56 & 60; contracts, 172; publicist, 80; with Revell, 53, 62, 66–7 Doublebleday, Doran and Company, 213, 252n60 Doubleday, Page and Company, 58, 65, 76 drinking (alcohol), 66, 83–4, 103, 108–9, 110, 210 Dry Water (Stead), 213 East Lynne (Wood), 32 Eaton’s (department store), 20, 64 Eclair Films, 175 Edgar, Pelham, 200, 220 Edmonton, 16 education, 104, 118, 134–5; Connor, 10; McClung, 15; Montgomery, 18; Stead, 12; Stringer, 22 Eggleston, Wilfrid, 32, 47, 122 Eliot, Simon, viii Elmo, Ann (agent), 79 elocution, 34–5, 108–9, 110, 111, 136, 179, 237n56, 269n3 emergent culture, 8

emotions, 85–6, 95, 129, 148, 157; Connor, 89–90; McClung, 108–9, 110–11; music, 86; pathos and tears, 38–9, 46, 91, 152, 161, 167–8 Empire Builders, The (Stead), 68 Empty Hands (Stringer), 76, 178 escapism, 35, 159 ethnicity, 11, 14, 21, 42, 83, 92, 155–6, 207–8 Evans, Augusta Jane, 39 Evening Telegram (Toronto), 29 Evening Tribune (Winnipeg), 105 Everybody’s (magazine), 64 Fabian, Ann, 85, 100 family, 9, 84, 85–6, 87, 109– 10, 120, 122, 126, 129; Connor’s, 10–11; McClung’s, 17–18; and modernity, 7, 25, 140, 146– 50; Montgomery’s, 17– 19; Stead’s, 12–13; Stringer’s, 21–3, 146–7 Family Herald and Weekly Star (magazine), 144, 149 Famous Players–Lasky, 175, 176, 179, 185 Famous Players–Paramount, 186 fan mail, 154, 156, 284n8, 285n19 Farm and Fireside (magazine), 60 fashion, 15, 104, 117–18, 122–3, 126, 127, 132, 136, 145 Faulkner, William, 59 feminism, viii, 5, 174, 217; McClung and, 16–17, 109, 112, 114–23; Stead and, 100–1; Stringer and, 143–50 Fetterley, Judith, 166 fiction, vii, x-xii, 190–4, 205–6, 210; golden age of, 25, 26, 28, 32, 35–9;

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310 Index and movies, 171; religious, 63–4 Field and Stream (magazine), 175 films: Anne of Green Gables, 173–4; Anne of Windy Poplars, 174; Back to God’s Country, 181–4; Cameron of the Mounted, 184–6; The Covered Wagon, 177; The Crucible (The Foreigner), 185, 186; East Lynne, 32; Empty Hands, 17; Glengarry School Days (The Critical Age), 185, 186; The Heart of the Lion, 178; The Iron Claw, 175; Little Miss Rebellion, 186; Man-Handled, 175–7; The Perils of Pauline, 175; The Prairie Wife, 173; Restless Sex, 186; Snow-Blind, 175; The Sky Pilot, 172, 178–81, 185; Uncle Tom’s Cabin, 32 First World War, 21, 105, 133, 194; and Connor, 11, 53, 68, 92; and publishing, 69–70 Fish, Stanley, 161, 165 Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 59 Fleming, May Agnes, 27, 231n86 Fleming H. Revell Company, 64, 76, 172, 212 Flynn, Elizabeth, 160 folk culture, 7–8, 127–8 Forbidden Fruit (G.A. Reid painting), 42 Ford, Ford Madox, 198 Ford, Henry, 55, 211 Foreigner, The (Connor), 67, 92, 207 Fox Film Corporation, 178, 179 French, Donald, 144 friendship, 131–2, 148 Frohman, Daniel, 23 frontiers, 81–5, 92, 96–106 Frye, Northrop, 193 Further Chronicles of Avonlea (Montgomery), 72

Galsworthy, John, 59 gambling, 83–4, 100, 147–8 Gauvreau, Michael, 80 Gay, Peter, 6 Gay Crusader, The (Connor), 211 gender, 38, 90–1, 127, 138– 51, 275n1; and golden age, 56; and leisure, 84; and popular culture, x; and readers, 154, 162–4, 166, 167–8; and refinement, 99; and vision, 101–2. See also feminism; masculinity George H. Doran Company, 66–8, 71, 252nn56 & 60 Gerson, Carole, 71–2, 125, 254n89 Gibbon, John Murray, 199, 208 Glass, Gaston, 183 Glengarry County, 10, 36, 165, 216 Glengarry Girl, The (Connor), 211 Glengarry School Days (Connor), 10, 61, 91, 185, 186, 217 Globe (Toronto), 31, 34, 66, 68, 74, 201 Godey’s Lady’s Book (magazine), 17, 127 God’s Crucible (The Foreigner; film), 184–5, 186 Golden Dog, The (Kirby), 72 Good Housekeeping (magazine), 79 Gordon, Charles W. See Connor, Ralph Gordon, Daniel, 10, 47 Gordon, Helen. See King, Helen (Gordon) Gordon, Mary, 10, 222n23 Grain (Stead), 34, 77, 95, 101, 102, 107, 212, 216 Grain Growers’ Guide, 147 Green, Faith, 180, 183, 186 Greenspan, Ezra, viii Grey, Earl, 55, 95 Grey, Zane, 71, 175, 191, 211

Grosset and Dunlap, 74, 76, 217, 257n126 Grove, Frederick Philip, 82, 191, 211 Gwen: An Idyll of the Canyon (Connor), 89 Halifax, 18, 54 Hall, David, x Hall, G. Stanley, 135 Hardy, Thomas, 32, 171, 191 Harlequin Publishing, 217 Harper and Brothers, 70, 143 Harper’s Bazaar (magazine), 62 Harrap, G.G. and Company, 75, 211 Harrington, Lynn, 200 Harte, Bret, 29, 43 Hearst, William Randolph, 51, 202 Hearst’s Magazine, 62, 63 Heart of a Lion, The (film), 178 Hemingway, Ernest, 59 Henderson, James, 32 Herald (Montreal), 22, 149, 190 Herodotus, 21 heroes/heroines, 38, 82, 91, 97, 122, 164–5, 207, 218 high culture, 21, 31–2, 33– 5, 150–1, 154, 190–1, 209, 220, 236n46 High River, 13, 44, 94, 97, 100, 206 High River Times, 13, 100 historical consciousness, 8 History of Greece (Grote), 21 History of Rationalism (Lecky), 21 history of the book, vii-ix Hodder and Stoughton, 66, 67–8, 70–1, 75–6, 106, 210, 211 Holland’s Magazine, 61 Hollywood, 176, 178, 183, 187–9 Holman, Russell, 176 home/homes, 86, 112–14, 122, 126–7, 130, 147–8

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311 Index Homesteaders, The (Stead), 13, 91–9, 101 homestead novel, 9, 94–5 Houghton Mifflin Company, 73 Howe, Daniel, 5 Howland, Hewitt Hanson, 74, 258n142 Howland, Jobyna, 22–3, 145, 231–2n94 Huckleberry Finn (Twain), 33 Hughes, Rupert, 175 idealism, 111, 208–9, 218, 220; and Connor, 88; and McClung, 17, 109, 112– 13; and Montgomery, 21; and Stead, 95–6, 97, 105– 6; and Stringer, 24 imagination, 104, 118, 128– 9, 130, 132–4 individuality, 105, 106, 117, 137; and childhood, 131– 2; and feminism, 4; and modernity, 5, 6, 7, 8, 117; and reform, 85, 104, 109, 112, 121 In Times like These (McClung), 56, 121 Intruders in Eden (Stringer), 215 Iron Claw, The (film), 175, 292n37 Jacques Chambrun (agency), 79 James, Henry, xi, 198, 205, 300–1n56 Jauss, Hans, 160, 165 Jerome, Jerome K., 59 Johainningsmeir, Charles, viii John Lane (publishers), 75 Johnson, Barbara, viii Johnson, Julian, 176, 177 journalism, 22, 43–4, 97, 99, 100, 138, 240n16 Joyce, James, 9 Keith, W.J., 191–2 King, Basil, xi, 200, 223n27

King, Helen (Gordon), 10– 11 King Lear (Shakespeare), ix, 22 Kingsley, Charles, 171 Kipling, Rudyard, 32, 68 Kirby, William, 72 Knox Theological College (Toronto), 10, 162 Ladies’ Home Journal (magazine), 61, 63, 202 Lady Quite Lost, A (Stringer), 37, 150 Lake of the Woods, 36, 49, 212 language, 85, 110, 121, 136; and modern culture, 4, 26, 27, 42, 91, 109 Lanier, Henry W., 78 Lasky, Jesse, 176 Laurence, Margaret, 220 Lawrence, D.H., 220 L.C. Page and Company, 71–3, 124, 125, 173 Leach, William, 95 Leacock, Stephen, xi Lears, T.J. Jackson, 7, 83, 139 Leaskdale, 19, 33, 129, 216 leisure, 8, 36, 49, 100, 113, 128, 266n30 Levine, Lawrence, viii, 33, 35, 193 Lewis, Ray, 187 liberalism, 5, 12, 109, 119– 20, 121, 224n8; reform, 83–7, 94–6, 118–23; religious, 81, 87–8, 109–17. See also feminism; reform libraries, 28, 158–9 Lightyear Press, 217 literacy, 32, 118 literary agents, 38, 45, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77–8; A.L.G. Agency, 79; A.P. Watt and Son, 70–1, 77, 172; Brandt and Brandt, 38, 45, 71, 77, 94, 212, 213; Cora Wilkening and Son, 79, 177; Jacques Cham-

brun, 79; Paul Reynolds, 24, 62, 73, 75, 76, 78, 175, 249n30 literary criticism, 9, 35, 37, 92, 111, 135, 138, 154, 189–94. See also modernism literary societies, 33–4, 237–8n54 Little, Brown and Company, 73, 75, 143 Locke, George, 200, 209–10 Logan, J.D., 144, 191 London, Jack, 37 London (Ontario), 22 London (uk), ix, 28, 204 London Times, 206 Lonely O’Malley (Stringer), 22 Long, Ray, 63 Loom of Destiny, The (Stringer), 140, 217 Lorimer, George Horace, 62 Lyon, Martyn, 197 Macaulay, Thomas Babington, 42 Macaulay Club, 34 MacBeth, Madge, 198 McClelland and Goodchild, 70 McClelland and Stewart, 66, 71–3, 205, 211, 212, 213, 217, 255nn104 & 105 McClung, Annie, 18, 45 McClung, Rev. J.A., 15, 115 McClung, Nellie, 38, 40, 41, 109–12, 132, 133, 209; agents, 78; apprenticeship, 43–4; authorship, 47–54; and Canada, 194, 199, 201–2; and critics, 190, 192, 193; dramatic readings, 33, 34; emotions, 39; feminism, 9, 118–22; life, 14–17, 55–6, 206, 207–8, 213–14, 227nn49, 50, 53, & 55, 269n8; mentors, 45–6; popular author, x, 3, 126; publishing, 58, 65, 213–

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312 Index 14, 251n48, 256–7n123; and race, 208; reader response, 111, 122, 165; reading, 42; reformer, xi, 119–22; religion, 39, 116– 17; sales and career, 39, 54, 213–14, 216–18; and United States, 119; writing habits, 50, 244n91 McClung, Wes, 15–16, 227n53 McClure’s (magazine), 61 McCutcheon, George B., 64 Macdonald, Ewen, 18–20, 214 Macdonald, James, 10, 46– 7, 66 MacDonald, Ramsay, 55 Machar, Agnes Maule, 59 Mackenzie, J. Vernon, 199, 202 McKillop, Brian, 197 Mackinnnon, Clarence, 5, 29 Maclean’s Magazine, 105, 190, 199, 202, 203 MacLennan, Hugh, 191, 211, 220 McLeod, George, 74 McLeod and Allen, 65, 74 MacMillan, George, 19, 48, 125 Macmillan Company, 58, 201 MacMurchy, Marjory, 32, 127, 229n66 Macneill, Alexander, 17 Macneill, Lucy, 17 MacRae, Henry, 182, 184, 185, 186 magazine fiction, 55, 59– 63, 192, 247nn8 & 11, 248n14, 250n35 magazine industry, 17, 21– 2, 201, 202–3, 210, 215, 301n69; and golden age, 31; and modernity, 28 magazines: Ainslie’s Magazine, 58, 61; American Home, 61; Book News Monthly, 62; Books and Notions, 29; Bookseller and

Stationer, 68, 182; Canada West Magazine, 43; Canadian Bookman, 191; Canadian Magazine, 31, 207; Canadian Methodist Magazine, 5; Canadian Monthly and National Review, 59; Canadian Moving Picture Digest, 171, 181, 182, 187; Canadian Thresher and Farmer, 96; Congregationalist, 64; Delineator, 28, 61, 149, 210; Everybody’s, 64; Family Herald and Weekly Star, 144, 149; Farm and Fireside, 60; Field and Stream, 175; Godey’s Lady’s Book, 17, 127; Good Housekeeping, 79; Harper’s Bazaar, 62; Hearst’s Magazine, 62, 63; Holland’s Magazine, 61; Ladies’ Home Journal, 61, 62, 202; McClure’s, 61; Maclean’s Magazine, 105, 190, 199, 202, 203; Messenger of the Sacred Heart, 60, 64; Moving Picture World, 182; Munsey’s, 62; National, 60; Outlook, 61; Pictorial Review, 61, 62, 210; Popular Magazine, 62; Rural Magazine, 61; Saturday Evening Post, 28, 60, 62, 149, 176, 202; Saturday Night, 74, 138, 190, 215; Saturday Review, 215; Smart Set, 60, 61, 62; Strand Magazine, 66; Sunday School Times, 64, 158; Varsity, 22; Westminster, 10, 46, 66; Woman’s Home Companion, 61; Women’s Century, 202; Women’s Weekly, 31; Youth’s Companion, 60, 210 Magder, Ted, 186 Magic for Marigold (Montgomery), 61 mail-order catalogues, 5, 29, 122–3, 212

Major, The (Connor), 11, 92 Man from Glengarry, The (Connor), 10, 91, 196, 216; dramatic readings, 33; film, 186; magazine serial, 61; reader response, 155, 161, 168 Man-Handled (Stringer), 175, 176–7 Manitoba Free Press, 36, 181, 182, 184 Manitou, 15, 16, 43, 207 manners, 99–100, 113 Man Who Couldn’t Sleep, The (Stringer), 74, 190 Marchand, Philip, 191 Marion, Francis, 173 Marriage by Capture (Stringer), 150 masculinity, 91–2, 147–8, 151, 154, 263n50 materialism, 9, 99–101, 103–4, 113, 122–3, 147–8 mentors, 45–7 Messenger of the Sacred Heart (magazine), 60, 64 Metro Studios, 179 Millford, 14, 15, 36, 111, 216, 227n44 Minter, Mary Miles, 174 Mistress Pat (Montgomery), 215 modernism, 32–5, 111, 199, 204, 217; and Canadian Authors Association, 200; criticism of popular culture, 9, 31, 59–60 modernity, 4–8, 24, 43, 59, 204, 205–6, 218–19; Connor, 10, 12, 80–1, 82, 87– 8, 92, 208–9; magazines, 59; McClung, 15, 16, 17, 111–12, 117–18, 119, 121, 122–3, 209, 272–3n56; Montgomery, 6, 17, 20, 21, 125, 127, 130, 132–3, 135–6, 208–9, 210; and movies, 171, 186–7, 188; and popular culture, ixx, 2, 7–9, 35, 63, 79, 190, 220; and readers, 35–6, 153, 163, 165, 166, 209;

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313 Index resistance to, 7–8, 59, 83; Stead, 13, 14, 95, 96, 98, 100, 104- 7, 111–12; Stringer, 22–4, 139, 141– 2, 144, 145–6, 147, 209. See also feminism; liberalism; reform; self Montgomery, L.M., 9, 38, 122, 124–6, 205, 206–7, 208–9, 210; advertising, 28; agents, 79; apprenticeship, 41, 43–5; authorship, 47–54; bestseller, x, xi, 3; and Canada, 194–5, 196, 197, 199–200; childhood (views on), 130–4; and critics, 190, 192; education (views on), 134; life, 17–21, 55–6, 214–15, 216–17, 228nn63 & 66, 229n67; literary society, 33; magazine publishing, 60–1; mentors, 45; and modernity, 6, 17, 20, 21, 125, 127, 130, 132–3, 135–6, 208–9, 210; movies, 173–4; nature (relationship to), 129; publishing, 58, 71–3, 214; as reader, 21, 43; reader response, 128, 129–30, 132, 133, 134, 135, 159, 167; religion, 20, 230n79; religious publication, 64; sales and career, 54, 214–15, 239n2, 245nn113 & 115, 246n117; and United States, 192, 203; writing habits, 50–1, 135-6, 244n91, 248n23 Montreal, 22, 27, 43 Moodie, Susanna, 6 Mooney, John, 14, 227n49 Mooney, Letitia, 14 Moore, Colleen, 180 Morning Albertan (Calgary), 96, 106 Mountain Lakes, 24 movie companies: Associated First National, 179,

180, 185; Canadian Photoplays Limited, 183–4; Cosmopolitan Films, 175; Catherine Curtis Corporation, 179–80; Dominion Film Company, 179; Eclair Films, 175; Ernest Shipman Productions, 170, 179– 80, 181–7, 198; Fox Film Corporation, 178–9; Metro Studios, 179; Ottawa Film Productions Limited, 170; Realart Pictures, 173; rko Radio Pictures, 174; Pathé Exchange, 175; Universal Studios, 182, 186; Vitagraph Company, 178; Winnipeg Photoplays Limited, 183–5 movie industry, 6–7, 28, 55, 148, 170–88, 207–8; British, 187–8; and Connor, 172–3, 178–86; and Montgomery, 173–4; and Stead, 170, 172; and Stringer, 170, 173, 174–8, 294n55; writers, 175–6, 293nn41, 42, & 46. See also films movies. See films Moving Picture World (trade magazine), 182 Mowat, J. Gordon, 31 Mudlark, The (Stringer), 150 Munsey, Frank A., 62 Munsey’s (magazine), 62 Musson, Charles J., 71 Musson Book Company, 70–1, 74 Nancy Durham’s Reading Circle, 34 narrative, 44 Natal Advertiser, 196 National (magazine), 60 National American Woman Suffrage Association, 119 nature, 37, 51, 81, 128–9

Neighbours (Stead), 31, 99, 101, 190 Nell, Victor, 157, 159 New Canadian Library, vii newspapers, 27, 29, 43, 60, 182; Albertan (Calgary), 13; Evening Telegram (Toronto), 29; Evening Tribune (Winnipeg), 105; Globe (Toronto), 31, 34, 66, 68, 74, 201; Herald (Montreal), 22, 149, 190; High River Times, 13, 100; London Times, 206; Manitoba Free Press, 36, 181, 182, 184; Morning Albertan (Calgary), 13, 96, 106; Natal Advertiser, 196; New York Times, 96, 125, 149, 174, 180, 190, 215; Rock Lake Review, 13, 99; Southern Manitoba Review, 68; Telegram (Winnipeg), 53; Toronto Star, 216; Vancouver Sun, 14, 96 New York, ix, 28, 36, 84, 184; and Stringer, 22–4, 43, 51, 138, 139–42 New York Times, 96, 125, 149, 174, 180, 190, 215 No Place of Grace (Lears), 7 nostalgia, 7–8, 124, 126–7, 165 Nye, Russel, ix Ohmann, Richard, 4, 28, 43, 122 opera houses, 16 Oppenheim, E. Philips, 191 oral tradition, 42 order, 80, 83, 86–7, 102–3, 106, 107, 147, 195 orphans, 130 Ostenso, Martha, 220 Ottawa Film Productions Limited, 170 Outlook (magazine), 61 Oxford University, 22, 140 Pacey, Desmond, 192 Packard, Frank, xi

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314 Index Page, Louis C., 71–3, 124– 5, 173 Painted Fires (McClung), 52, 121, 208 Parker, Gilbert, xi, 26 Pathé Exchange, 175 Pat of Silver Bush (Montgomery), 214 Patrol of the Sundance Trail, The (Connor), 32 Perils of Pauline, The (film), 175 personality, 6, 119, 219 Peter Pan (Barrie), 133 Phantom Wires (Stringer), 60, 75, 142–4, 217 Phelps, Arthur, 171, 192 Pictorial Review (magazine), 61, 62, 210 Pierce, Lorne, 25, 191, 197, 200, 210 poetry, 6, 33, 34, 54–5, 64, 69; and high culture, 193; and McClung, 111; and Montgomery, 54, 184; and Stead, 13, 66, 68–9, 95, 99, 102, 108; and Stringer, 55, 74, 140, 143, 199, 217 Political Equality League, 119 popular culture, ix, 4, 25, 39–40, 75–6, 187–8, 191; criticism of, 9, 190–3, 205–7, 220; and high culture, 21, 32–5 Popular Magazine, 62 Power (Stringer), 22 Prairie Born and Other Poems (Stead), 69 Prairie Child, The (Stringer), 148–50 Prairie Mother, The (Stringer), 147–8 Prairie Wife, The (Stringer), 153, 216, 217; and Canadian prairie, 34; dramatic reading, 35; film, 173; magazine serial, 62; readers, 145–6, 153, 163, 164, 165 Pratt, E.J., 200, 215

Presbyterianism (Calvinism), 74, 158, 207; and Connor, 10, 81, 88; and Montgomery, 19; and Stringer, 24- 5 Prince Edward Island, 3, 17, 19, 33, 124, 127, 204; and Anne of Green Gables, 128–9, 173, 197, 216 Prince of Wales College, 18 Prospector, The (Connor), 91 publishers: A.L. Burt, 74, 76, 257n126; American Baptist Publication Society, 63; Angus and Robertson, 210; Appleton, 58, 73; Ayers, 217; Bell and Cockburn, 74; Bobbs-Merrill, 73, 74, 145, 176; Canadian Methodist Book and Publishing House, 3, 63, 64–6, 68–9; Collins, 217; Dodd, Mead, 211; Doubleday, Doran, 213, 252n60; Doubleday, Page, 58, 65, 76; Fleming H. Revell, 64, 76, 172, 212; George H. Doran, 66–8, 71, 252nn56 & 60; Grosset and Dunlap, 74, 76, 217, 257n126; Harlequin, 217; Harper, 70, 143; Hodder and Stoughton, 66, 67–8, 70, 71, 75, 76, 106, 210, 211; Houghton Mifflin, 73; Hutchinson, 211; John Lane, 75; L.C. Page, 71– 3, 124, 125, 173; Lightyear, 217; Little, Brown, 73, 75, 143; McClelland and Goodchild, 70; McClelland and Stewart, 66, 71–3, 205, 211, 212, 213, 217, 255nn104 & 105; McLeod and Allen, 65, 74; Macmillan, 58, 201; Small, Maynard, 58; Stokes, 58, 72, 74, 254n92; Thomas Allen, 65; Unwin, 45, 58, 69–70,

97, 172, 253n74; Westminster, 52–3, 61, 66–7, 70, 76 publishing industry, 5, 26– 8, 31, 58–77; contracts, 75–7; British, 59, 69–70, 74–5, 210, 215; religious, 63–7, 238n76; resistance to commercialization, 31–2, 59–60 Purple Springs (McClung), 15, 118–22 Pykett, Lyn, vii, x Queen’s Quarterly (journal), 215 Quest for Folk (McKay), 7 Quill and Quire (trade magazine), 216 race, 195, 207–8, 303n16 Radway, Janice, viii, 160 railways, 5, 13, 27, 208, 210 Raven, James, viii readers and reading, 35–6, 88–9, 91, 152–68, 196; audience reception, viii, ixx, 160, 219; communities, 161–6, 287n54; of Connor, 84, 87, 88, 89, 91, 152–3, 157, 159–60, 161– 3, 166–7, 168; Connor’s, 42; emotions, 38–9, 46, 88–91, 161, 166–7; escapism, 159; fan mail, 154, 156, 285n19; gender, 166, 167–8; heroism, 164–5; journeys, 164–5; of McClung, 111, 122, 165; McClung’s, 42–3; of Montgomery, 128, 129– 30, 132, 133, 134, 135, 159, 167; Montgomery’s, 43; of Stead, 95–6; of Stringer, 146–7, 148, 149–50, 163–4, 168; Stringer’s, 21, 42; multiple readings, 46, 158; oral reading, 42, 157–8; theoretical constructs, 153–7, 158–62, 165–6 Realart Pictures, 173

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315 Index Red Wine of Youth, The (Stringer), 215 refinement, 98–9, 101 reform, 16, 34, 39; and Connor, 47, 81, 84–6; and McClung, 20, 109–13, 119–23; and modernity, 5; and Stead, 94–6, 99– 100, 103, 105–6 religion, 48, 156, 161, 166, 178–9; and Connor, 8, 9, 11–12, 81, 85–9; and McClung, 114–17; and Montgomery, 20, 230n79; and Stringer, 230n83 religious publishing, 39, 47, 63–7 Reluctant Modernism (Cotkin), 135 residual culture, 8 Revell, Fleming, 64, 67, 76, 172, 212 Reynolds, Paul, 62, 73, 75, 76, 78, 175, 249n30 Rilla of Ingelside (Montgomery), 167 Rinehart, Mary Roberts, 171, 175, 210 rko Radio Pictures, 174 Roberts, Charles G.D., 34, 42, 71, 199, 215, 284n12 Robertson, James, 51, 52 Robertson, John Ross, 29 Robertson, Willliam E., 52, 66, 67, 172 Rock Lake Review, 13, 99, 233n9 Rocky Mountains, 32–3, 37, 81 Roe, E.P., 39 romanticism: in Anne of Green Gables, 133–4 Roosevelt, Theodore, 55 Rose, Jonathan, 155, 160, 166, 196 Ross, Andrew, x Ross, Malcolm, 197 Royal Society of Canada, 220–1 Rubio, Mary, 21, 133, 191 Rupert of Hentzan (play), 23

Rural Magazine, 61 Ryerson Press. See Canadian Methodist Book and Publishing House Salverson, Laura Goodman, 206 Sandberg, Mark, 8 Saturday Evening Post (magazine), 28, 60, 62, 149, 176, 202 Saturday Night (magazine), 24, 138, 139, 190, 215, 298n13 Saturday Review (magazine), 215 Saunders, Marshall, xi, 63, 199, 200 Schlereth, Thomas, 122–3 Schwartz, Vanessa, 96, 171 Schweickart, P.P., 156 Scott, D.C., 215 Scott, Frank, 200 Scott, Sir Walter, 27, 36, 49, 59, 133–4, 189, 211 Search for Order, The (Wiebe), 83 Second Chance, The (McClung), 15, 108–11, 112–13, 114–18, 201; influence of Caswell, 45–6; serial rejection, 61 Secret Garden, The (Burnett), 133 self, 6, 25, 34, 95, 99, 131, 132, 137, 206, 219; and Connor, 90; and the modern woman, 110, 117–18, 126; and Prebyterianism, 88; and readers, 129–30, 165; and Stringer, 146 Selwyn and Company, 172 servants, 50, 243n71 Service, Robert, 35, 69 Shadow Lawn farm, 3, 23, 51, 198 Shakespeare, 55, 104, 136, 189, 209; and high culture, 191; and Montgomery, 136; and popular

culture, 32, 33, 34; and Stringer, 22, 55, 138 sharp, vii Sheldon, Charles, 39 Shields, Carol, 220 Shipman, Ernest, 170, 179, 181–7, 198 short stories, 25, 28, 43, 60; McClung, 16; Montgomery, 48, 50, 54; Stead, 45, 49, 54, 69; Stringer, 22, 55, 138 Silver Poppy, The (Stringer), 138, 140, 142, 144 Sky Pilot, The (Connor), 38, 39, 80–90, 102, 217; contract, 35; dramatic readings, 37; film, 172, 173, 176, 179–81, 185, 291n21; magazine serial, 61; readers, 158, 162, 166; sales, 61; and wilderness, 37 Sky Pilot in No Man’s Land, The (Connor), 11, 92 Small, H.S., 70 Small, Maynard and Company, 58 Smart, William, 70 Smart Set (magazine), 60, 61, 62 Smith, Goldwin, 22, 30 Smoking Flax (Stead), 77 Snow-Blind (film), 175 social class, 98–9, 207–8, 218; and Connor, 53; and McClung, 108–9, 112–15, 117; and popular culture, 26, 36; and readers, 155; and reform, 83–4, 85–9; and Stringer, 55–6, 141– 2, 151 Songs of the Prairie (Stead), 69 Southern Manitoba Review (newspaper), 68 Sowing Seeds in Danny (McClung), 15, 64, 112–14, 190, 217; best-seller, 3; and critics, 190; dramatic readings, 35; pathos, 39; publishing, 39, 75; and

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316 Index reform, 116; sales, 54; writing of, 45–6, 48 Squaw Woman, The (Stringer), 62 Stead, Mary, 12, 226n35 Stead, Nettie (Wallace), 13, 226n36 Stead, R.T., 12 Stead, Robert, 8, 37, 38, 82, 107, 111, 114, 126, 206–7; agents, 77; apprenticeship, 43–5; authorship, 47; and Canada, 189, 192, 193–4, 195, 200, 201; and critics, 191, 192; homestead fiction, 36; life, 12–13, 53–4, 213, 226n38, 266n30; magazine fiction, 69, 253n71; mentors, 45; and modernity, 13, 14, 95, 96, 98, 100, 104–7, 111–12; and movie industry, 170, 172; popular author, x, 3; publishing, 58, 68–71, 212–13; and race, 208, 266n23; reader response, 95–6; reform (attitudes towards), 39, 94– 6, 109, 113, 266n25; sales and career, 41, 53–4, 94, 212–13, 253nn80 & 82; and United States, 198, 203; writing habits, 49– 50, 244n91 Stegner, Wallace, 197 Stevenson, Lionel, 200 Stevenson, R.L., 32 Stitch, K.P., 208 Stokes, Frederick A. and Company, 58, 72, 254n92 Stowe, Harriet Beecher, 29, 39 Strand Magazine, 66 Stringer, Arthur, 9, 138–40, 146, 150–1, 203, 206, 208, 209, 232n103, 246n121; agents, 77–8; apprenticeship, 43–5; authorship, 47–8; and Canada, 189, 195, 197–9; and critics, 191; life, 21–5, 55–7, 146–

7, 177, 213–14, 230nn80– 3; and Macaulay Club, 34; magazine publishing, 62–3, 215, 249n31, 250n35; mentors, 45; and modernity, 22–4, 139, 141–2, 144, 145–6, 147, 209; and movies, 170, 173, 174–8; and New York, 139–42; popular author, x, xi-xii, 3; publishing, 58, 73–5, 215; reader response, 146, 149–50, 153, 163–4, 168; reading, 21, 42, 239n6, 246n122; religion, 230n83; sales and career, 41, 55, 215, 216–18, 249n31; and United States, 198, 203; and wilderness, 37; writing habits, 51–2, 139–40 Stringer, Hugh, 21, 232nn97–8 Stringer, Margaret Arbuthnott, 23, 231n94 Stringer, Sally, 21 Sunday School Times, 64, 158 Susman, Warren, 6, 13. 17, 31, 39, 132, 133 Sutherland, John, viii Swanson, Gloria, 176 Tales from the Selkirks (Connor), 46–7 Tarkington, Booth, 171 Taylor, William Desmond, 174 technology, 13, 95, 98, 99– 100, 105–6, 267n41, 280n29; and consumerism, 4, 6; and book industry, 27; and Montgomery, 20, 124, 125; and Stead, 16, 107 Telegram (Winnipeg), 43 temperance, 83–5, 108–9, 119, 161 Tennyson, Alfred Lord, 133 Tess (Hardy), 32 Thackeray, William, 59

Thomas Allen and Company, 65 Tish Plays the Game (Rinehart), 21 To Him That Hath (Connor), 11, 92 Tompkins, Jane, ix, x Toronto, ix, 28, 59, 73, 173, 200, 214 Toronto Star, 216 Trollope, Anthony, 49, 59 Twain, Mark, 29, 33 Uncle Tom’s Cabin (Stowe), 32, 39 Unembarrassed Muse, The (Nye), ix Universal Studios, 183, 186 University of Edinburgh, 10 University of Toronto, 10, 22, 45 Unwin, T. Fisher, 45, 58, 69–70, 97, 172, 253n74 Uxbridge Hypatia Club, 20, 33–4 Vancouver Sun, 14, 96 Varsity, 22 Vidor, King, 179–81 violence, 83–4 Vipond, Mary, 25 Vitagraph Company, 178 Voisey, Paul, 147–8 Walden, Keith, 7, 29, 83, 98, 206 Walker, Ernest W., 65 Wallace, Lew, 29, 39 Walpole, Hugh, 71, 158 Ward, Mrs Humphrey, 49, 59 Warne, Randi, 118 Warner, Eltinger F., 175 Waterston, Elizabeth, 21, 131, 158, 165, 191 Weber, Ephraim, 34, 41, 129, 135, 137 Week (magazine), 22, 45 Wells, H.G., 35, 49 West, James L.W., iii, viii West, Rebecca, 220

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317 Index western Canada, 11, 15, 23–4, 82, 96–9, 102–3 Westminster (magazine), 10, 46, 66 Westminster Company, 52–3, 61, 66–7, 70, 76, 251nn53–4 Wharton, Edith, xi, 198 Wife Traders, The (Stringer), 217 Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, 6 wilderness, 36, 80–1, 92, 93, 111, 120, 138 Wilkening, Cora (agent), 79, 177 William Briggs. See Canadian Methodist Book and Publishing House Wine of Life, The (Stringer), 23, 62, 74, 139–40, 142, 145

Winnipeg, 34, 181, 182–4, 207; and Connor, 10, 53, 173, 212; and McClung, 14, 15, 16, 45; and Stead, 22 Winnipeg Photoplays Limited, 183–6, 296nn95–6 Wire Tappers, The (Stringer), 8, 75, 76, 140, 142–4, 178, 217 Wise, Frank, 201 Withrow, William, 45 Wizard of Oz, The (Baum), 133 Wodehouse, P.G., 59 Woman in the Rain and Other Poems, The (Stringer), 217 Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, 8, 15, 34, 108–9, 110

Woman’s Home Companion (magazine), 61 Women’s Century (magazine), 202 Women’s Weekly (magazine), 31 Wordsworth, William, 209 Wreath of Flowers, A (Brymner painting), 127 Wright, Harold Bell, 52 writing habits, 49–52, 135– 6, 139–40, 172–3, 211–12 Yale Review (journal), 215 Youth’s Companion (magazine), 60, 210 Zen of Y.D. (Stead), 106 Zola, Émile, 49 Zorra, 10

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