THIS is the very psychological moment for the new Canadian writer who wishes to obtain literary recognition in the United States. It is an admitted fact that it is easier just now for a Canadian to become so recognised, other things being equal, than for a mere American of the same ability. This highly gratifying state of things has been brought about by several causes: partly, I think, through a very logical belief on the part of publishers that artistic work coming from a young country is likely to have in it more virility and crude strength than if it had emanated from the cafés and clubs of the metropolis. Partly, no doubt, there is a remnant of the old piquancy in the idea of an artist emerging from the pine woods or, which is much more astonishing, from the artistic Gath and Ascalon of Halifax and Fredericton, or from the Sodom and Gomorrah of Hamilton and Toronto. But in greatest part the vogue of Canadiana is due to the work of two or three Canadian pioneers in New York, who also happened to be men of remarkable genius.

      It is not so very long since our countrymen discovered Manhattan. Bliss Carman was, I believe, one of the first to spy out the land, and that was not more than five or six years ago. Charles G. D. Roberts has made it his headquarters for a still shorter time. But there is already a flourishing Canadian artistic colony here, with the most amazing esprit de corps imaginable, the members of which lend each other their last dimes and, still more wonderful, pay them back occasionally. The Canadian Club, which was founded two or three years ago, was never a distinctively literary association, and of late it seems to have dropped completely out of sight. At the most it never meant more than an annual dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria, with toasts to the Queen, the Governor-General and the Canadian Pacific Railway.

      Last year, the "Bodley Head," John Lane's New York headquarters on Fifth Avenue, seemed to be a sort of meeting-place for the Canadian writers, "the down-town Canadian Club," Roberts called it. I don't know exactly why this should have been so, for I am not aware that Lane ever published a single Canadian book. There were also several west-side cafés frequented mostly by the younger and less-known men, which have witnessed stirring scenes, as when a group of youthful Northern lyrists madly toasted the "Native-Born" with, as the poem recommends, "a foot on the table." Maria's famous restaurant on Twelfth Street once knew all the Canadians well, with the somewhat spectacular form of Bohemia which it represented. It used to be a very delightful place, any one was privileged to get up and sing a song, tell a story, or recite an original poem, and it was here that Carman enraptured the house with his reciting of "The Unsainting of Kavin." But Maria's has grown too self-consciously brilliant of late, and besides, whenever Roberts or Carman appear there they are called upon to speak, which leads them to avoid it.

      Just at present, the centre of New York Canadiana is situated on the top floor of No. 105 East Seventeenth Street, where Charles G. D. Roberts lives with his younger brother, William Carman Roberts. Here, at all hours of the day and night, one is likely to meet poets, painters, novelists, editors and publishers, either hailing from or dealing with the great Dominion. A prophet is without honor in his own country, and it is a fact that Roberts stands much higher in American estimation than the majority of Canadians are apt to imagine. Leaving Carman aside, it is certain that there is no poet in New York to stand above him, and the substantial character of his popularity is shown by the lively competition among publishers to obtain his new books. Both Roberts and Carman were on the first list of members of the National Association, an American institution designed to correspond to the French Academy, which was founded a few weeks ago, with Charles Dudley Warner as President.

      It is not very long since Roberts' first volume of prose fiction was published, and since then his rise into popularity has been strikingly sudden. Of course, nobody who knows anything about literary production will imagine this to be anything else than the ultimate result of years of obscure toil, but it is not given to every writer to hit the mark so surely, even after this preliminary preparation. Of late his stories have been appearing largely in the Atlantic, and he is continually receiving offers of the highest rates for periodical work, most of which he is compelled to refuse on account of the pressure of previous engagements. He has not yet commenced actual work on the third volume of the Acadian trilogy of novels, but is supposed to be thinking hard about it, and meanwhile he is, I believe, preparing a collection of his latest short stories for volume publication. Unfortunately, Roberts sails for England in a few weeks, and for a time, which it is to be hoped will be short, the Canadian colony will be without its chief.

      Bliss Carman has made New York his headquarters for several years, though winterings in the south and summerings in the north have subtracted a good deal from his actual stay in the city. At various times he has held editorial positions on Current Literature, the Independent, the Cosmopolitan, while he was the first editor of the Chap-Book, and was responsible for the peculiar piquancy and originality of that charming periodical in its youth. At present he is doing a weekly literary letter for the Commercial Advertiser. Carman has always kept his personality to himself, in a manner refreshing in these days of syndicated interviews, and he wears a peculiarly enigmatic and sphinx-like air which encircles him with a halo of romance. To say anything about his work would be almost superfluous here; it is certain that there are not more than three or four living poets to match him in pure artistic craftsmanship, and in poetic imagination it is doubtful if there is one.

      Richard Hovey, the young but already distinguished dramatist and poet, is popularly supposed to be a Canadian on account of his association with Roberts and Carman, but he isn't.

      William Carman Roberts, who shares the rooms of his brother on Seventeenth Street, has published no book of his own as yet, but appears largely and to great advantage in the forthcoming volume "Northland Lyrics," of which I shall say more farther on. He has written no prose, outside of editorial work, but his poems have appeared in the Century, Munseys, the Independent, the Chap-Book, and in many lesser periodicals. During 1897 he was on the editorial staff of the Illustrated American, and at present he is editor of a department in the Literary Digest. Like all the rest of the Roberts family he is an enthusiastic canoeist, fisher and woodsman, and he played centre on the University of New Brunswick Rugby team. Thus far his literary work has been less important for quantity than for quality, but as he is only twenty-four, it is evident that he has plenty of time.

      Another brother of Charles G. D. Roberts, Theodore, is not at present in this city, but is to be reckoned in the New York group. He is no more than twenty one years old, and is one of the most precocious figures in Canadian literature. He is a six-foot and magnificently-built youngster, looking five years above his age, and when I saw him last he had an amazing length of blonde hair and an embryo moustache. Last year he was on the staff of the Independent, where he has been publishing poems ever since he was twelve, and when the war broke out that periodical sent him to the front as its correspondent. Before Santiago he succumbed to the fate of all the Canadian correspondents, and got a heavy dose of fever. For some time he was considered as good as dead, but finally recovered sufficiently to be sent back to the United States and to make his way to New Brunswick, where he is still recuperating. It is impossible not to think of his youth in estimating his work, but both in quantity and in quality it would do credit to a man ten years his senior. As yet he has published no book, and his first appearance between cloth covers will be in "Northland Lyrics," of which he has contributed the larger portion; but it is probable that in the course of a few months he will have several books of prose fiction in type. His poems have chiefly appeared in the Century, the Criterion, the Chap-Book, the Independent and Munsey's, while his stories have been published in the Independent, in the Criterion, and in the Black Cat. There is a dashing movement and a splendid virility about his poems that is seldom seen in the work of Canadians, who too frequently belong to the Botanical school. This is not, however, the place to enter into a detailed criticism or appreciation of his writings, but I will venture to prophesy that in five years he will be one of the best known writers of America.

      I have mentioned the book "Northland Lyrics" several times, and I suppose that most of the readers of ACTA have seen it announced in Small & Maynard's list of new publications. It should have appeared a year ago, but has been delayed from time to time. But it will positively come out in a month or so, and I think that it will be one of the most interesting books of Canadian verse that has appeared for a long time, as it is certainly the widest in scope. It is the work of Theodore Roberts, William Carman Roberts and Elizabeth Gostwyke Roberts, with a foreword by Charles G. D. Roberts and a concluding poem by Bliss Carman. If I had space I would like to quote a poem or two, particularly by W. C. Roberts and Theodore, which seem to me absolutely unique and unexcelled in conception. But at all events, no one who is interested in American poetry (American in the wide sense) can afford to miss this volume.

      The very latest recruit to Canadian literature in this city is W. H. Lloyd Roberts, the fourteen-year-old son of the "Canadian Laureate." One of his poems was printed in ACTA last month, and while it would be of course absurd to expect him to have written anything of particular value as yet, still he seems to promise to carry on the tradition of the family, and he is certainly an interesting study in heredity.

      Mr. Peter MacArthur, who was for years editor of the New York Truth, is an Ontario man. At present he is engaged in doing book reviews for Literature, and short stories for a newspaper syndicate. Besides this, he has, I believe, a novel in the press. Mr. Whidden Graham, though not a writer by profession, is a Canadian, and so intimately associated with the New Brunswick writers, that this sketch would be very incomplete without mention of him. His chief characteristics are an exceeding brilliance of conversation and a tendency to preach red revolution as a remedy for America's social troubles.

      There are other Canadian writers of less note here, and probably some of whom I do not know. John Stuart Thompson, the author of "Estabelle and Other Verse," has been here for some time, I do not know how long. Arthur J. Stringer, of London, Ontario, is "freelancing," and has been for several months in the city. For some years he has been publishing a great quantity of very mediocre verse, much influenced by prevailing models, but his three poems in the February Harpers show a decided improvement in strength and originality. J. T. Shotwell, of Toronto, is holding a scholarship at Columbia University, and presumably still writing verses in his leisure hours.

      From a financial point of view there is certainly no place like New York for the struggling "free-lance," be he Canadian or otherwise but as a place to work in it has its defects. The production of literature may be an art, but the selling of it is certainly a matter of business, and it is of indisputable advantage to be right on the spot, to feel the pulse of the market, so to speak, and to know just what periodicals happen to be in present need of the sort of stuff you have to sell. You are able to meet the men personally with whom you deal, and this is likely to be beneficial to seller and buyer alike, and in the association with your fellow-craftsmen you pick up scraps of information that are worth money about the idiosyncrasies of editors and publishers. Then, I am tempted to believe that editors are apt to deal better with a man who gives a New York address at the head of his manuscript. This is without prejudice to the fact of the preference for Canadian work; a Canadian writer is usually known as such even if living in New York or Boston, for he does not, as a general thing, go there until he has obtained enough success while living in Canada to justify him in taking up literature as a profession.

      This is, it will be observed, placing the business of literature on a purely mercantile basis, like the selling of cabbages. That is precisely what it is, but there is another side to the work. The "stuff" must first be written, and if it is to have the faintest artistic value it must be written absolutely without reference to its selling qualities. In the constant endeavor to sell manuscripts enough to pay one's rent and laundry bills the temptation is enormous to write deliberately for a particular market and to endeavor to suit the taste of a particular editor or public, which is usually bad and crude enough. Even if he escapes this danger, the continual association with men wholly occupied with matters of the brush or pen is apt to affect a young writer's individuality and make him the follower of a school, or, at smallest, to make him forget that Life is Life and Literature merely its ghost. Bookishness is fatal to originality, and the dilettante writers who talk about ideals and angels are not the ones who do vigorous work. And in every large city there are plenty of men who prefer talking of mystic ideals and misty incomprehensibilities to trying to see clear and think straight. Literary life in New York, as in London and Paris, is, generally speaking, apt to be neurotic and unwholesome, and it says much for the Canadian writers that they have mostly managed to steer clear of these maladies.

      As I said before. New York is especially inviting and friendly to the Canadian just now. But if he is wise he will confine himself to a few months at a time here, when he wants to sell what he has written, and when he wants to write he will go where the Criterion and the Critic were never heard of, and where a typewriter is more unknown than an automobile cab.

315 East 19th .Street,
     New York, March '99.