My First Book

"My First Book" by Bret Harte is a collection of charming and whimsical stories that celebrate the adventures and challenges of life in the American West during the 19th century. Through a blend of humor and keen observation, Harte captures the spirit of the era, featuring colorful characters and vivid landscapes. The book serves as a delightful introduction to Harte's narrative style and his ability to evoke the unique culture of frontier life, making it a captivating read for those interested in American literature and history.

• Short story

								
When I say that my "First Book" was NOT my own, and contained beyond the
title-page not one word of my own composition, I trust that I will not
be accused of trifling with paradox, or tardily unbosoming myself of
youthful plagiary. But the fact remains that in priority of publication
the first book for which I became responsible, and which probably
provoked more criticism than anything I have written since, was a small
compilation of Californian poems indited by other hands.

A well-known bookseller of San Francisco one day handed me a collection
of certain poems which had already appeared in Pacific Coast magazines
and newspapers, with the request that I should, if possible, secure
further additions to them, and then make a selection of those which I
considered the most notable and characteristic, for a single volume to
be issued by him. I have reason to believe that this unfortunate man was
actutated by a laudable desire to publish a pretty Californian book--HIS
first essay in publication--and at the same time to foster Eastern
immigration by an exhibit of the Californian literary product; but,
looking back upon his venture, I am inclined to think that the little
volume never contained anything more poetically pathetic or touchingly
imaginative than that gentle conception. Equally simple and trustful
was his selection of myself as compiler. It was based somewhat, I think,
upon the fact that "the artless Helicon" I boasted "was Youth," but I
imagine it was chiefly owing to the circumstance that I had from the
outset, with precocious foresight, confided to him my intention of not
putting any of my own verses in the volume. Publishers are appreciative;
and a self-abnegation so sublime, to say nothing of its security, was
not without its effect.

We settled to our work with fatuous self-complacency, and no suspicion
of the trouble in store for us, or the storm that was to presently
hurtle around our devoted heads. I winnowed the poems, and he exploited
a preliminary announcement to an eager and waiting press, and we moved
together unwittingly to our doom. I remember to have been early struck
with the quantity of material coming in--evidently the result of some
popular misunderstanding of the announcement. I found myself in daily
and hourly receipt of sere and yellow fragments, originally torn from
some dead and gone newspaper, creased and seamed from long folding in
wallet or pocketbook. Need I say that most of them were of an emotional
or didactic nature; need I add any criticism of these homely souvenirs,
often discolored by the morning coffee, the evening tobacco, or, heaven
knows! perhaps blotted by too easy tears! Enough that I knew now what
had become of those original but never recopied verses which filled the
"Poet's Corner" of every country newspaper on the coast. I knew now
the genesis of every didactic verse that "coldly furnished forth the
marriage table" in the announcement of weddings in the rural press. I
knew now who had read--and possibly indited--the dreary hic jacets of
the dead in their mourning columns. I knew now why certain letters
of the alphabet had been more tenderly considered than others, and
affectionately addressed. I knew the meaning of the "Lines to Her who
can best understand them," and I knew that they HAD been understood.
The morning's post buried my table beneath these withered leaves of
posthumous passion. They lay there like the pathetic nosegays of
quickly fading wild flowers, gathered by school children, inconsistently
abandoned upon roadsides, or as inconsistently treasured as limp and
flabby superstitions in their desks. The chill wind from the Bay blowing
in at the window seemed to rustle them into sad articulate appeal. I
remember that when one of them was whisked from the window by a stronger
gust than usual, and was attaining a circulation it had never known
before, I ran a block or two to recover it. I was young then, and in an
exalted sense of editorial responsibility which I have since survived,
I think I turned pale at the thought that the reputation of some unknown
genius might have thus been swept out and swallowed by the all-absorbing
sea.

There were other difficulties arising from this unexpected wealth of
material. There were dozens of poems on the same subject. "The Golden
Gate," "Mount Shasta," "The Yosemite," were especially provocative. A
beautiful bird known as the "Californian Canary" appeared to have been
shot at and winged by every poet from Portland to San Diego. Lines to
the "Mariposa" flower were as thick as the lovely blossoms themselves in
the Merced valley, and the Madrone tree was as "berhymed" as Rosalind.
Again, by a liberal construction of the publisher's announcement,
MANUSCRIPT poems, which had never known print, began to coyly unfold
their virgin blossoms in the morning's mail. They were accompanied by
a few lines stating, casually, that their sender had found them lying
forgotten in his desk, or, mendaciously, that they were "thrown off" on
the spur of the moment a few hours before. Some of the names appended
to them astonished me. Grave, practical business men, sage financiers,
fierce speculators, and plodding traders, never before suspected of
poetry, or even correct prose, were among the contributors. It seemed as
if most of the able-bodied inhabitants of the Pacific Coast had been in
the habit at some time of expressing themselves in verse. Some sought
confidential interviews with the editor. The climax was reached when,
in Montgomery Street, one day, I was approached by a well known and
venerable judicial magnate. After some serious preliminary conversation,
the old gentleman finally alluded to what he was pleased to call a task
of "great delicacy and responsibility laid upon my young shoulders."
"In fact," he went on paternally, adding the weight of his judicial
hand to that burden, "I have thought of speaking to you about it. In
my leisure moments on the Bench I have, from time to time, polished and
perfected a certain college poem begun years ago, but which may now be
said to have been finished in California, and thus embraced in the scope
of your proposed selection. If a few extracts, selected by myself, to
save you all trouble and responsibility, be of any benefit to you, my
dear young friend, consider them at your service."

In this fashion the contributions had increased to three times the
bulk of the original collection, and the difficulties of selection
were augmented in proportion. The editor and publisher eyed each other
aghast. "Never thought there were so many of the blamed things alive,"
said the latter with great simplicity, "had you?" The editor had not.
"Couldn't you sorter shake 'em up and condense 'em, you know? keep their
ideas--and their names--separate, so that they'd have proper credit.

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