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THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY:

A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics. VOL. XCIII.—JANUARY, 1904. — No. DLV.

ON CATERING FOR THE PUBLIC.

IN that brief catalogue of New Year's resolutions which the good American is periodically tempted to construct, the resolve not to talk shop deserves a place of honor. To be silent about one's trade is the beginning of virtue; but it is difficult for most of us to maintain such reticence for long. That an editor of a magazine should presume to the possession of qualities beyond the compass of his readers is not to be thought of, and the present writer proposes, even before the New Year has fairly begun, to break that fragile resolution of discretion, and to turn his yearly greetings to the Atlantic's company into a discourse upon one aspect of his own profession. May the Toastmaster, before the real entertainment for 1904 begins, chat for a moment upon the perilous art of catering for the public?

The best that may be said for Thoreau's regimen of beans is, not that that immortal diet was merely wholesome or cheap, or even that it was transmuted into delightful literature, but that Thoreau liked it. He was catering for himself and to himself. When Byron came of age, he provided the conventional roast ox and ale for his tenants in honor of his majority, and then dined alone upon his favorite delicacy, eggs and baeon. He catered for his public first, and to himself afterwards. But the only editors who permit themselves such solitary luxury of personal indulgence are the young men who own, write, and print the queer little 5X7 magazines with still

queerer names. They give no hostages to fortune except paper, printer's ink, and time. If you would seek a better analogy to the real editorial function, follow some excellent citizen of Baltimore, or of a foreign city where marketing bears as yet no social stigma, as he journeys to the public market, with basket upon his careful arm, intent upon selecting a dinner for his family.

Observe him. For all his apparent leisureliness of manner, the good gentleman is carrying the burden of a theory. He has certain convictions, more or less definite, about desirable combinations of food and drink. Convention, which is only common sense deposited for long periods upon the reluctant mind of our species, has dictated to him some rude outline of a bill of fare. He has individual partialities of taste, but he has also tolerably distinct ideas of what is possible for his purse. Terrapin and champagne must be for high days only. And our worthy householder has also some fixed notions as to what is best for his family. They will thrive better, he knows, upon honest soups and roasts than upon cocktails and éclairs. Thus, as he makes his way from stall to stall, does he select, from the countless appetizing things displayed, the material for a foreordained dinner. He buys it, precisely as he would gather harmoniously colored flowers for a bouquet, and tucking it into that ample basket, takes it home in all innocence of heart. It is his affair, after all. If he and his family like what is

purchased, well and good, provided their tastes do not become a public scandal, or their cookery grow too menacing to their neighbors' peace of mind. It is a simple matter, this catering for a family table, though not quite so simple as Thoreau's beans or Byron's eggs and bacon. But where is the analogy to editing a magazine? Is it so cunningly hidden away in this image of the householder that one cannot find it at all?

"Patience a moment," to quote the most impatient of poets. We are getting "warm," as the children say, and in a minute more we shall discover our complete and archetypal editor. He is foreshadowed in the market-haunting householder, but he is- the being who keeps boarders.

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Is it not so? The boarding-house keeper is no vulgar caterer to the public in general. He leaves that art to the yellow journal and the corner saloon. But he does cater for that portion of the public who have done him the honor to become his guests. Individual dietary theory may still lurk in his imagination, but it must not be over-indulged. His own favorite beans or eggs and bacon will be too monotonous for his boarders. The family responsibilities of the householder linger in him, too; he must not poison his boarders, or subtly undermine their faith in human nature. Yet he has his weekly or monthly bills to meet, and he can meet them only by pleasing his patrons. Not what his boarders ought to like, if they would grow truly fat and wise and good, but what they do like, gradually comes to affect the policy of even the most stubborn-souled Provider.

The Toastmaster wonders if any readers of the Atlantic recall the once famous pension in Paris, kept by M. Alphonse Doucette, " formerly professor at Lyons?" It was known in the AngloAmerican colonies, from one end of Europe to the other, as the pension des violettes,-spoken with a smile. Yes, one smiled at M. Doucette's amiable vagaries,

but one kept on going there, and paying a whole franc more a day than was charged at any pension of its class in Paris. For, as every one hastened to explain, it was really an admirably kept establishment,

- and then there were the violets! Every night at dinner, in season or out of season, there was a tiny boutonnière of them for each gentleman, and a corsage bouquet of violets was laid by each lady's plate. And Monsieur himself, "formerly professor at Lyons," if you please, always sat at the head of the table and addressed his variegated company with the most incessant and exquisite drollery. Only a franc more than was charged at, the commonplace pensions, and all those violets thrown in!

It happened that the Toastmaster returned to the Pension Doucette very late one night, after witnessing a most dreary seven-act tragedy at the Français. In the little office off the dining-room sat M. Doucette in his shirt-sleeves, drinking sugared water, and looking more tragic than Mounet-Sully at his worst. Something had gone wrong. It was a trivial matter enough, but the former professor at Lyons opened his whole heart. Never before or since-save once in a Vermont woodshed on a Sunday morning, when my host was morosely freezing the ice cream for dinner and imparting with each slow turn of the crank some darkly pessimistic generalization on the subject of summer boarders - has the Toastmaster seen deeper into the Caterer's professional soul. Oh, the sorrows of trying to hold the fickle taste of English and American visitors in Paris! "But there are the violets," I ventured.

"The violets!" M. Doucette spread his palms.

À

A ghastly suspicion dawned upon me. Was his love for violets only a pretense? 66 I loathe violets! he broke out. bas les violettes! The odor and the sight of them are nauseating to me. But it is too late. If I were to give up the

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