The Postpaid Poet

At a Literary Tea to which I was recently invited as ballast or something, the subject of childhood reading kept coming up, like radishes. The learned folk on hand recalled, at some length, the pleasure and profit they had gained from reading, at impressionable ages, Hans Brinker, Black Beauty, Treasure Island, Heidi and other familiar works (familiar to them, that is -- I had never heard of half of them, or knew them only as the titles of those depressingly wholesome volumes put into my hands on birthdays and Yuletides by hearty uncles and grandparents, and then, still crisp and unopened, sold by the ungrateful recipient to junkmen and second-hand bookdealers for the wherewithal to purchase Big Little Books and an occasional issue of Spicy Weird Western Horror Stories or whatever it was called).

When it came my turn to reminisce about the literature that had molded my innocent young mind, I'm afraid I did a bit of hemming, followed by hawing and a brief display of shilly-shallying. What could I say? Could I fondly recall the happy boyhood hours spent with Flash Gordon and the Witch Queen of Mongo? Could I extol the noble periods of Popeye in Quest of His Poopdeck Pappy? Not if I wanted to be invited to another literary tea I couldn't, and I do so love the tea they serve at literary teas: it comes in chilled stemmed glasses with olives at the bottoms. And so, perspiring freely (no inhibited perspirer, I) and stammering a veritable cadenza of unmanly sounds, I managed to smile hideously and spit out the name "Smith, Johnson Smith" when asked to name my childhood's favorite author.

"Ah yesss," hissed my inquisitor, a lady with extravagantly intense neck cords, "dear old Johnson Smith; somewhat like L. Frank Baum, was he not?"

He was, though she had no way of knowing that. He had opened to me a world of fantastic wonders far outstripping Mr. Baum's land of Oz. Johnson Smith was a mail-order firm: Johnson Smith & Co., with headquarters in Racine, Wisconsin for 15 years prior to 1936, and then in Detroit, Michigan. The Johnson Smith advertisements appeared on the inside covers of most of the more garish pulp magazines of my nonage, along with those of Charles Atlas and The Rosicrucians ("What Strange Power Did This Man Possess?"). The last two are still in business, to the best of my knowledge, but dear old Johnson Smith, I greatly fear, has gone the way of the dodo and the dinosaur: dead for a ducat, dead. Or, if he is indeed still active, he must have gone underground, for I have not seen his advertisements for lo these many years.

The day I wrapped up a worn dime in toilet paper and sent for Mr. Smith's Complete Mammoth Catalog ("Only book of its kind in existence; nearly 600 pages of all the latest tricks in magic, the newest novelties, puzzles, games, sporting goods, rubber stamps, unusual and interesting books, curiosities in seeds and plants, etc."), that day I fell heir to untold hours of reading enjoyment. Fabulous Johnson Smith! What strange power did this man possess? Come with me down memory lane (that's two blocks west of easy street and just this side of the boulevard of broken dreams) and let me share his meisterwerke with you.

"Like having Eyes in the Back of Your Head" was the way that "Wonder of the 20th Century," The Seebackroscope, was described. These words were accompanied by an ancient cut of a Gay Nineties couple necking shamelessly on a park bench, while near them, on another bench, sat a solitary character who, though not facing the torrid twosome, gave the impression of receiving the well-known eyeful. These vintage illustrations, by the way, were part and (continued overleaf) Postpaid Poet (continued from page 63) parcel of the Johnson Smith catalog. Though I became an enthusiast as late as the mid-Thirties, the "only book of its kind in existence" persisted in illustrating its wares with turn-of-the-century drawings of mustachioed, celluloid-collared men and bustled belles. Likewise, the typefaces were often of the style printers call "Buffalo Bill" and which are seen nowadays only in the bedizened, Barnumesque speeches of Pierpont P. Bridgeport in Pogo. With typical childish cynicism, I at that time attributed this phenomenon to thrift, even parsimony, on the part of Mr. Smith; but now, my eyes clear and wide with the dewy innocence of adulthood, I am beginning to suspect the old cuts and period typefaces may have been a conscious attempt to flavor the catalog. Conscious or not, flavor they did. But back to the Seebackroscope: "The instrument is made of hard rubber and is placed over the eye in much the same way as the magnifying glasses used by jewelers and watch repairers. Persons are often anxious to see who is following them without attracting attention by turning around, and this instrument does the work for you." A remarkable gadget for 15¢, though it has always been hard for me to grasp just how a person could toot around with an instrument made of hard rubber "placed over the eye in much the same way as the magnifying glasses used by jewelers and watch repairers" and yet avoid "attracting attention."

Music was not neglected by Johnson Smith. The Rolmonica was "A Mouth Organ that Plays with a Music Roll." "All you have to do is insert a roll and turn the handle while you blow. That is all there is to it. Nothing could be simpler." There were hundreds of rolls to select from, "All the latest Broadway Hits" including I Faw Down & Go Boom. Only $1.10, with a free roll thrown in. The Magic Flute, or Humanatone (10¢), was "a unique and novel musical instrument that is played with nose and mouth combined." It was said to "produce very sweet music that somewhat resembles a flute.... The effect is charming, as it is surprising." In a rather different musical category was the little box you could buy for 15¢ and which bore the label World's Smallest Wind Instrument. There was a solitary bean within.

Practical jokes were a staple of the Johnson Smith line of merchandise. There was the inflatable Whoopee Cushion "or 'Poo-Poo' Cushion, as it is sometimes called.... When the victim unsuspectingly sits upon the cushion, it gives forth noises that can be better imagined than described." There was the Elec-Trick Push Button ("Gives a smart 'shock' as soon as the Button is pressed ... can be better imagined than described"). There was the bar of Surprise Soap which contained a chemical that acted like a dye upon coming into contact with water: "The result," Smith apprised his readers, "can be better imagined than described." The Whoopee Cushion sold for 25¢, the other two items for 15¢ each, and all were delivered postpaid. Nearly everything was delivered postpaid by the generous Mr. Smith, with the exception of "a few special articles" "such as Revolver, Firearms, Stink Bombs, Sneezing Powder, Itching Powder, Fireworks, Explosives."

A revolver of more than routine interest, perhaps, was the Young America Revolver (A Good Pocket Gun), which was let go for $7.50 to any and all interested parties. "The 'Young America' weighs approximately 9 ounces, and is one of the lightest weight revolvers of its type on the market," young Americans were assured. For a dollar less, Americans young or old might procure The Baby Double Action Hammerless Revolver, which was "produced to meet the ever increasing demand for a revolver that would combine small size and light weight with the essential features of Efficiency and Practicability." Mr. Smith was of the opinion that "Every lady should have a revolver and should know how to use it." Ladies with tender eardrums, however, probably turned to the Silent Defender, or Aluminum Gloves, which went for two bits each ("You should buy one for each hand") and which were more popularly known as brass knuckles.

Of the "curiosities in seeds and plants" offered by Johnson Smith, surely among the most curious were the Gigantic New Guinea Butter Beans, the New Edible Vegetable Wonder. "Grows to an astonishing size, the Beans measuring from 3 to 6 feet long, and weighting anything from 10 to 16 lbs. and even more. One Bean is sufficient for a family for several meals." A package of seeds, "with full directions for cultivating and cooking," could be had for a quarter. It was my boyhood dream to grow one of these six-footer beans, place it in a huge crate, and label the crate World's Largest Wind Instrument, but somebody talked me out of it every time I scraped together 25 coppers.

The prosodiac powers of the postpaid poet were nowhere more evident than in his Get Acquainted Cards. "Say, Boys!" he enthused: "Why don't you make up to the girls? They come out to meet you and look nice to please you. They are only waiting for you to speak. Get some of these Acquaintance Cards and give one to that jolly girl. She will love you for it." A set of cards cost a dime and included such diametrically opposed messages as:

How about a little kiss? For both it'll be bliss. Just one you'll never miss, and I won't make you do that or this.

Dear Miss, I feel lonesome and dejected. I fear my heart you have affected, and if I don't get rejected, I'll take you home and you'll get everything you expected.

When it came to books, no library could hold a candle to Johnson Smith. The Tragedies of the White Slaves, for instance, was a collection of true stories, "each one dealing with a different method by which white slavers have lured their victims to destruction." Perhaps to allay any suspicions that this was a handbook of hints for budding white slavers, the catalog was quick to add, "If one mother or father may be warned in time, if one single life be saved from the traps men make and the lures they bait for the enslavement of the flower and the innocence of the nation, this book will not have been in vain." From Dance Hall to White Slavery offered more in the same juicy genre: "The schemes to lure are devilish and the experiences of girls ensnared and held prisoners and what they are forced to endure is heartrending. Your heart will burn [I've often wondered if this phrase did not properly belong with the Gigantic New Guinea Butter Beans] and you will wonder how such awful things can be and you will want to become a crusader and go out and warn others against the dangers." These books sold for 25¢ each. Johnson Smith, though he faced the more profane aspects of life squarely and without flinching, was not insensitive to the gentler manifestations of the age-old urge: "Every normal being is at some period of his or her existence susceptible to love's tender passion. When love's young dream comes to youth or maid the lovers in despair realize how inadequate is the language at their command to express the depths of the consuming passion that is gnawing at their hearts. It is at such ecstatic periods that lovers crave for some book that will put them in touch with all that the world's great men have sung, said and written. It is to soothe the souls of the lovelorn that this work [How to Love and Be Loved, 10¢] has been compiled." Beats there a heart so calloused as to remain untouched by lofty sentiments thus eloquently expressed? Not one, I trow!

But to me the most intriguing of the books Johnson Smith had to offer -- more intriguing, even, than The Confessions of Maria Monk and The Sixth & Seventh Books of Moses; or Moses, Magic, Spirits, Art ("Published for the Trade") -- was Old Secrets and New Discoveries, "containing information of rare value for all classes, in all conditions of society" -- in other words, not published for the trade. On its cover, which was reproduced faithfully in the catalog, was one of the mustachioed gentlemen previously mentioned: he was gesturing dramatically with his right hand while a pompadoured Gibson Girl grew glassy-eyed under his spell. This probably illustrated the process called "Electrical Psychology," by which it was possible "to hypnotize any person, and make him, while under the influence, do anything you may wish him to do...." On the other hand, it may have illustrated '"How to Mesmerize," another chapter in the book: "Knowing this you can place any person in a mesmeric sleep, and then be able to do with him as you will. This secret has been sold over and over again for $10." The entire book sold (over and over again, I have no doubt) for 10¢, so if any carpers or cavillers were tempted to point out that Electrical Psychology and the mesmeric sleep had points of similarity, not to say complete duplication, surely the fairness of the asking price would seal their lips. And Old Secrets and New Discoveries offered more:

"... How to make a person at a distance think of you -- something that all lovers should know.... How to charm those you meet and make them love you, whether they will or not.... How to plate and gild without a battery; how to make a clock for 25¢; how to banish and prevent mosquitoes from biting; how to make cologne water; artificial honey; how to make large noses small...."

But don't go 'way. Cast your eye on the extensiveness of the book's equine lore alone: "It tells how to make a horse appear as though he were badly foundered; to make a horse temporarily lame; how to make him stand by his food and not eat it; how to cure a horse from crib or sucking wind; how to make a young countenance on a horse; how to cover up the heaves; how to make him appear as if he had the glanders; how to make a true-pulling horse balk; how to nerve a horse that is lame, etc. These horse secrets are being continually sold at $1 each." Let's see: nine horse secrets, even without the "etc.," at a dollar each, plus the mesmeric sleep which was worth $10 on the open market ... it begins to become apparent why Smith is no longer as omnipresent as once he was. Anybody who would let $19 worth of secrets go for a dime could not, with accuracy, be described as the world's best businessman.

Perhaps Johnson Smith did not look upon himself as a businessman, however. I certainly never did. I looked upon him as a creator of evocative words. a stylist with a broad and vivid spectrum; and his catalog was not a catalog to me -- indeed, I seldom ordered any of its items -- but, rather, a book of marvels, each page of which was a magic carpet to a world of daring assumptions, fantastic claims and ancient secrets that could be had for the asking (postpaid).

Even though I considered Smith's magnum opus as a literary work and not a mail-order list, recent years have frequently given me pause to reflect on the powers I let slip through my grasp. There is a tide in the affairs of men, spake Brutus, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Had I but acted, heeded destiny's call, answered the knock of opportunity, struck while the iron was hot, what greatness might not be mine today?

What towered cities might I not sway; what men and maidens hold in thrall? What eyes might I not have in the back of my head? What six-foot beans might I not grow; what mosquitoes banish; what heaves cover up; what large noses make small? Prince, healer, lover, seer ...

But why go on? The results can be better imagined than described.