Boston Herald

The Boston Herald occupies a singular place in Mary Antin's account of her Americanization, for it was the newspaper that first carried her name into the homes of thousands of Bostonians. When the paper with her Washington's Birthday poem in it arrived, the whole house pounced upon it at once. The poem was tucked away in the middle of the voluminous sheet, a little hard to find, but when the family located it, it looked wonderful, just like real poetry, not at all as if somebody they knew had written it. It occupied a gratifying amount of space and was introduced by a flattering biographical sketch of the author, the material for which the friendly editor had artfully drawn from her during their interview. And her name, as she had prophesied, was at the bottom.

The Path to the Herald

Mary Antin's journey to the Herald offices was itself an education in the workings of the American press. She had first been directed to the Boston Evening Transcript, where she was told to see Mr. Hurd, only to discover that he was away on a vacation. Referred from one editor to another, none proved to be the proper editor to take charge of a poem about George Washington. At last an elderly editor suggested that as Mr. Hurd would be away for some time, she would do well to give up the Transcript and try the Herald, across the way. A little tired by her wanderings and bewildered by the complexity of the editorial system, but still confident about her mission, she picked her way across Washington Street and found the Herald offices. Here she had instant good luck. The first editor she addressed took her paper and invited her to a seat. He read her poem much more quickly than she could herself, said it was very nice, asked her some questions, and made notes on a slip of paper which he pinned to her manuscript. He said he would have her piece printed very soon and would send her a copy of the issue in which it appeared. As she was going, she could not help giving the editor her hand, although she had not experienced any handshaking in Newspaper Row; she felt that as author and editor they were on a very pleasant footing, and she gave him her hand in token of comradeship.

The Poem and Its Author

The poem that the Herald published had been composed under considerable difficulty. The name Mary Antin wished to celebrate was the most difficult of all, for nothing but "Washington" rhymed with "Washington." It was a most ambitious undertaking, but her heart could find no rest till it had proclaimed itself to the world, so she wrestled with her difficulties and spared not ink till inspiration perched on her penpoint. When she had done, she was herself impressed with the length, gravity, and nobility of her poem. Her father was overcome with emotion as he read it, his hands trembling as he held the paper to the light and the mist gathering in his eyes. Her teacher, Miss Dwight, was plainly astonished at her performance and said many kind things. When Miss Dwight asked her to read the poem to the class on the day of celebration, she readily consented, for it was not in her to refuse a chance to tell her schoolmates what she thought of George Washington. Standing before twoscore Fellow Citizens in clean blouses and extra frills, thin, pale, and hollow, with a shadow of short black curls on her brow and the staring look of prominent eyes, she lifted up her voice in praise of George Washington, her heels clapped together and her hands glued to her sides. She could laugh afterward at the impossible metres, the grandiose phrases, the verbose repetitions of her poem, and she eventually threw her only copy into the wastebasket, but Miss Dwight faithfully preserved her own copy all those years.

The Father's Extravagant Pride

When the excitement in the house had subsided, Mary Antin's father took all the change out of the cash drawer and went to buy up the Herald. He did not count the pennies. He just bought Heralds, all he could lay his hands on, and distributed them gratis to all their friends, relatives, and acquaintances; to all who could read, and to some who could not. For weeks he carried a clipping from the Herald in his breast pocket, and few were the occasions when he did not manage to introduce it into the conversation. He treasured that clipping as for years he had treasured the letters she wrote him from Polotzk. Although he bought up most of the issue containing her poem, a few hundred copies were left to circulate among the general public, enough to spread the flame of her patriotic ardor and to enkindle a thousand sluggish hearts.

Public Recognition and Its Meaning

For Mary Antin herself, the Herald publication carried a significance beyond mere notoriety. She had regained her full stature and something over during the cordial interview with the editor, and when she stepped out into the street and saw the crowd intently studying the bulletin board she swelled out of all proportion. She told herself that she, Mary Antin, was one of the inspired brotherhood who made newspapers so interesting. She did not know whether her poem would be put upon the bulletin board, but at any rate it would be in the paper, with her name at the bottom, like her story about "Snow" in Miss Dillingham's school journal. And all these people in the streets, and more, thousands of people, all Boston, would read her poem and learn her name and wonder who she was. On the street, in the schoolyard, she was pointed out. The people said, "That's Mary Antin. She had her name in the paper." She thought they said, "This is she who loves her country and worships George Washington." There was something more solemn than vanity in her satisfaction. Pleased as she was with her notoriety, she had a sober feeling about it all. She enjoyed being praised and admired and envied, but what gave a divine flavor to her happiness was the idea that she had publicly borne testimony to the goodness of her exalted hero, to the greatness of her adopted country. She could not know that what made her great in the eyes of her neighbors was that there was a piece about her in the paper; it mattered very little to them what the piece was about.