Grub Street—and the Way Out We do not recall ever having heard of a "History of Grub Street," but a biographical note concerning a famous writer of the day suggests that this inelegantly named locality offers matter for a very fascinating study. "Grub Street" may be defined as any place in any city where two or three are gathered together in pursuit of literary fame and by force of circumstances submit with enthusiasm, or at least with good grace, to a regimen of high thinking and severely plain living. In one sense, Grub Street" has been the glory of literature, in so far as it has in countless instances represented the sacrifice of success, or even mere comfort, to an ideal. Shakespeare could have enlightened us upon its mingled idealism and poverty. Goldsmith could have written a masterpiece upon the subject. The old grey thoroughfare has been thronged with poets and philosophers, some few destined to fame but the vast majority condemned to profound obscurity. we In these days perhaps, when literary men are becoming almost as respectable as they are numerous, and "Bohemia" is an unregretted memory, a man of talent may get more for a single volume than the genius of a former day gathered in a lifetime, so that little is heard of the street of literary misadventure. This is not to say that the "poor author" lived long enough only to secure an immortal niche in Dr. Johnson's dictionary. The species has sury. But the la existence of a multitude of readers is reflected in substantial royalties and fewer needy literary. merchants. Talent is more liberally rewarded than ever before, once it gets a hearing, and opportunities of such are greater than at any time in history. Hence Grub Street is fast losing its chief claim to fame—picturesque penury. And there are critics who will tell you that an access of comfort has by no means contributed to the quality of work produced.
Probably few of the thousands of readers of Mr. Jack London's novels know that he won_worldwide recognition as a novelist only after years of desperate effort. At the age of 21 he was endeavouring to write immortal works in the midst of grinding poverty. He abandoned the struggle and made a journey to the Klondike, bringing back gold only in the form of material for future stories. With the aid of the pawnbroker and sundry smal] loans, he carried on with his attempts at story writing, eating unbuttered bread in order that he might have stamps to post his manuscript to magazine editors. Before long he had "a four foot spike" loaded with rejection slips. One magazine accepted a short story-but omitted to pay for it—and manuscripts continued to come back with mechanical regularity from other offices, So far, his experience of "writing for a living' had been like chasing the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Tt appeared to Jack London that be kad better seek employment in the Chicago canneries: prospects in that direction seemed brighter. But he returned to his pen, and his poverty. He wrote more stories, borrowed more money, and still the manuscripts came back. After six years of strenuous effort, he had disposed of eleven, short stories for the magnificent "sum of $53. Then came the turn of the tide. One day there came with the usual number of rejected manuscripts a thin envelope with the imprint of the "Atlantic" in the joomer. Folded in the type-written sheet was a cheque for $175 together with a letter from the editor expressing his enthusiasm for the story which had been submitted and asking to see more Mr. London's work. He saw it.
Describing the experience later, the author said it had the effect of a knock out blow:
"He stood holding it in his hand, looking at it without seeing it, stunned into a blankness of insensibility—a period in which he read and re-read the letter, set down on the sagging bed, mechanically rolled and lighted a cigarette—and then, with a rush, an almost delirious joy possessed him. He could not sit still; he rose and walked the little room, turning like a wild thing in a cage. He was mad! The "Atlantic." A hundred and seventy-five dollars! He pinned the cheque to the wall and took it down again to feel its crackling reality in his hand. Ideas for stories swarmed like bees in his mind. His intoxication mounted.
He sww himself alrewly famous, already rich, his name in the 'Atlantic'? again and again, his beloved stories clean and fine in print on smooth white paper, going out in their thousands to eagerly waiting multitudes. He was riotously, exuberantly happy."
He was out of Grub Street!
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.