14 May: Boreham on Second Fiddles

Second Fiddles
The anniversary of the death of Sir Rider Haggard, who passed from us on May 14, 1925, gives us the opportunity of discussing a class of men of which he is the distinguished representative. "You can make me Lord Chancellor or you can make me a crossing sweeper," exclaimed Sydney Smith one evening at Holland House, "but, for heaven's sake, don't make me a second fiddle!" Yet second fiddles play a most valuable part in the eternal scheme of things. In literature, for example, we have a few excellent stories told in an excellent style; these are our classics. But, in addition we have the vast array of second fiddles. And the second fiddles consist of two classes—those which tell a second-rate story in first-class style, and those which tell a first-rate story in second-class style. People dearly love a good tale. If it is well told, so much the better; but they will overlook the gravest defects of terminological technique provided that the plot is lively, cheerful, and well-handled.

None of the great masters, not even Dickens, was more widely read by his own generation than Charles Garvice. Or, changing the sex, take the case of Mrs. Henry Wood. In writing "East Lynne," Mrs. Wood became the authoress of the most popular novel of the 19th century. She sent her manuscript to Chapman and Hall. They asked the advice of George Meredith; Meredith turned up his nose. The package was returned to its author, and Chapman and Hall estimate that its rejection cost them £120,000! Yet, from his own point of view, Meredith was right. Mrs. Wood was no grammarian. Her composition was clumsy. Neither she nor Charles Garvice bothered about the poise and balance of sentences. A split infinitive was neither here nor there. But they both rendered the people of their respective periods a most distinguished service. We owe a debt of profound gratitude to those writers who, falling short of first-class distinction, furnish many hours of unalloyed delight to each separate individual in a clientele that is numbered by the million. This is the coronation, the consolation of second fiddles.

The Taste Of The Man In The Street
It is altogether to the credit of humanity that people are quick to appreciate genuine merit, whether that merit consists in the conception of the plot, in the artistry with which it is developed, in the diction and phraseology in which the tale is told, or in a combination of all these admirable qualities. On the whole, public taste is wonderfully sound. Principal A. M. Fairbairn of Oxford was fond of telling of a luminous experience that fell to his lot in an obscure English hamlet. He had sought the seclusion of this out-of-the-way spot for a weekend, and was revelling in the much-needed respite, when it suddenly flashed upon him that he had undertaken to write an article that would have to be in the editor's hands on the Monday morning.

This disturbing recollection swept into his mind as he was sauntering aimlessly through the sequestered village. He glanced in at a shop window that he happened to be passing, and, among boxes of chocolate, packets of candles, and an assortment of miscellaneous commodities, his eye came to rest on a large assortment of paper-covered novelettes. Stepping inside, he found on a shelf a long row of books. In response to his inquiry, the woman behind the counter informed him that the demand for books was very small. It was the novelettes that people liked. For a shilling, Dr. Fairbairn purchased a dozen of these miniature romances. He was delighted to discover that, without an exception, they were clean, wholesome tales in which anybody might find reaction and amusement. He sat down and wrote an article on "The Reading of a Country Village." He had, he said, been greatly reassured and regarded the incident as proving that the heart of the people was in the right place.

Second Best Sometimes Shames The Best
The fact is that the ordinary man is passionately in love with life and is grateful to any scribe who will gratify his insatiable appetite for the thing that is so dear to him. And, after all, the best stories are the flesh-and-blood stories, the real life stories, the stories that belong to that romantic realm that is notoriously more sensational than melodrama. Let a woman like Mrs. Henry Wood spread a toothsome banquet of this kind, and the multitude will flock to her table, however disapprovingly George Meredith may shake his shaggy head. The really surprising thing is that those who have the genius and the skill to produce work of the very finest texture do not investigate the reasons that lead to the wider appeal of their less gifted colleagues.

There must be thousands of men and women who, if they were to apply themselves to the task, could write as exquisitely and daintily as John Galsworthy or Charlotte Bronte; yet they will never achieve renown because they have never seriously attempted to harmonise their thought with the palpitating heart of humanity. In the more cultured novelists, the temptation is to teach, to preach, to lecture, to philosophise. One novel is a theological treatise; another is a study in psychology; another a geographical guidebook; another an excursion into ancient history; whilst long rows of these solemn tomes deal with the necessity for some particular form of social regeneration. The reader of a novel wants to be entertained; he longs to see fresh phases of life, emotion, action and romance. Let a novelist write such a story, even in an uncouth diction, and he will be the idol of his contemporaries. Let him write such a story with elegance and grace, and his name will be inscribed among the immortals. Second fiddles play a great part in the music of life's orchestra. The Bible itself makes much of them. It gives a certain prominence to homeric figures like Moses and David and Peter and Paul; but its pages are crowded with the records of little people who, unable to lead, nevertheless attained greatness by the unselfish dedication of second-rate powers to exalted ends.

F W Boreham

Image: Rider Haggard