modern Centaur, an American Cossack, a Western picaro—­into a stock figure who in a stock costume perpetually sits a bucking broncho, brandishes a six-shooter or swings a lariat, rounds up stampeding cattle, makes fierce war on Mexicans, Indians, and rival outfits, and ardently, humbly woos the ranchman’s gentle daughter or the timorous school-ma’am.  He still has no Homer, no Gogol, no Fenimore Cooper even, though he invites a master of some sort to take advantage of a thrilling opportunity.

The same fate of formula and tradition befell another type multiplied by the local novelists—­the bad boy.  His career may be said to have begun in New England, with Thomas Bailey Aldrich’s reaction from the priggish manikins who infested the older “juveniles”; but Mark Twain took him up with such mastery that his subsequent habitat has usually been the Middle West, where a recognized lineage connects Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn with Mitch Miller and Penrod Schofield and their fellow-conspirators against the peace of villages.  The bad boy, it must be noticed, is never really bad; he is simply mischievous.  He serves as a natural outlet for the imagination of communities which are respectable but which lack reverence for solemn dignity.  He can play the wildest pranks and still be innocent; he can have his adolescent fling and then settle down into a prudent maturity.  Both the influence of Mark Twain and the local color tendency toward uniformity in type have held the bad boy to a path which, in view of his character, seems singularly narrow.  In book after book he indulges in the same practical jokes upon parents, teachers, and all those in authority; brags, fibs, fights, plays truant, learns to swear and smoke, with the same devices and consequences; suffers from the same agonies of shyness, the same indifference to the female sex, the same awkward inclination toward particular little girls.  For the most part, thanks to the formulas, he has been examined from the angle of adult irritation or amusement; only very recently—­as by Edgar Lee Masters and Sherwood Anderson—­has he been credited with a life and passions more or less his own and therefore as fully rounded as his stage of development permits.

The American business man, with millions of imaginations daily turned upon him, rarely appears in that fiction which sprang from local color except as the canny trader of some small town or as the ruthless magnate of some glittering metropolis. David Harum remains his rural avatar and The Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son his most popular commentary.  Doubtless the existence of this type in every community tends to warn off the searchers after local figures, who have preferred, in their fashion, to be monopolists when they could.  Doubtless, also, the American business man has suffered from the critical light in which he has been studied by the reflective novelists.  But though the higher grades of literature have refused to pay unstinted tribute and honor to men of wealth, the lower grades have paid almost as lavishly as life itself.