Walking-Stick Papers — Context and Discussion
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There was (in the days before the war) a military man (friend of mine), a military man of the old school, in whom could be seen, shining like a flame, a man's great love of a cane. He had lived a portion of his life in South America, and he used to promenade every pleasant afternoon up and down the Avenue swinging a sharply pointed, steel-ferruled swagger-stick. "What's the use of carrying that ridiculous thing around town?" some one said to him one day.
"That!" he rumbled in reply (he was one of the roarers among men), "why, that's to stab scorpions with."
They've buried him, I heard, in Flanders; on his breast (I hope), his cane.
"When a Red Cross platoon," says a news despatch of the other day, "was advancing to the aid of scores of wounded men. Surgeon William J. McCracken of the British Medical Corps ordered all to take cover, and himself advanced through the enemy's fire, bearing a Red Cross flag on his walking-stick."
Indeed, the Great War is one of the most thrilling, momentous and colourful chapters in the history of canes. "The officers picked up their canes," says the newspaper, and so forth, and so forth. Captain A. Radclyffe Dugmore, in a spirited drawing of the Battle of the Somme, shows an officer leading a charge waving a light cane. As an emblem of rank the cane among our Allies has apparently supplanted the sword. Something of the dapper, cocky look of our brothers in arms on our streets undoubtedly is due to their canes. One never sees a British, French or Italian officer in the rotogravure sections without his cane. We should be as startled to see General Haig or the Prince of Wales without a cane as without a leg. With our own soldiers the cane does not seem to be so much the thing, at least over here. I have a friend, however, who went away a private with a rifle over his shoulder. The other day came news from him that he had become a sergeant, and, perhaps as proof of this, a photograph of himself wearing a tin hat and with a cane in his hand. It is also to be observed now and then that a lady in uniformed service appears to regard it as an added military touch to swing a cane.
Women as well as men play their part in the colourful story of the cane. The shepherdess's crook might be regarded as the precursor of canes for ladies. In Merrie England in the age when the May-pole flourished it was fashionable, we know from pictures, for comely misses and grandes dames to sport tall canes mounted with silver or gold and knotted with a bow of ribbon. The dowager duchess of romantic story has always appeared leaning upon her cane. Do not we so see the rich aunt of Hawden Crawley? And Mr. Walpole's Duchess of Wrexe, certainly, was supported in her domination of the old order of things by a cane. The historic old croons of our own early days smoked a clay or a corn-cob pipe and went bent upon a cane.
In England to-day it is swagger for women to carry sticks--in the country. And here the thoughtful spectator of the human scene notes a nice point. It is not etiquette, according to English manners, for a woman to carry a cane in town. Some American ladies who admire and would emulate English customs have not been made acquainted with this delicate nuance of taste, and so are very unfashionable when they would be ultra-fashionable.
Anybody returning from the Alps should bring back an Alpine stock with him; every one who has visited Ireland upon his return has presented some close friend with a blackthorn stick; nobody has made a walking tour of England without an ash stick. In London all adult males above the rank of costers carry "sticks"; in New York sticks are customary with many who would be ashamed to assume them did they live in the Middle West, where the infrequent sticks to be seen upon the city streets are in many cases the sign of transient mummers. And yet it is a curious fact that in communities where the stick is conspicuously absent from the streets it is commonly displayed in show-windows, in company with cheap suits and decidedly loud gloves. Another odd circumstance is this: trashy little canes hawked by sidewalk venders generally appear with the advent of toy balloons for sale on days of big parades.
Robert Cortes Holliday’s Walking-Stick Papers (1918) opens with a prologue on the philosophy of carrying a cane, immediately establishing the author’s fondness for the trivial as a lens on character. The collection gathers essays originally published in periodicals such as Vanity Fair, The Bellman, and the New York Evening Post, revised and arranged with a deliberate, almost architectural structure: a prologue and epilogue frame twenty-two papers. Holliday’s voice is that of a flâneur and a bookman, equally at ease dissecting the humours of the bookshop or the psychology of the female novelist’s hero. The essays are linked by a recurring persona—a genial, observant narrator who moves through New York and London, reporting on fish reporters, policemen, and celebrities with a mixture of sympathy and irony.
The Visiting Mind at Work
Holliday’s self-description as a “visiting mind” is key to the collection’s method. He does not claim authority but rather a roving curiosity, a stance that allows him to move from art exhibitions to the humours of the bookshop without strain. In “On Going to Art Exhibitions,” he expands an earlier Vanity Fair piece, suggesting a willingness to revise and deepen his observations. The essays often begin with a concrete detail—a cane, a hat, a policeman’s beat—and spiral outward into broader reflections. This technique gives the prose a conversational, almost rambling quality, but one that is carefully controlled. Holliday’s sentences are long and periodic, packed with parenthetical asides and qualifying clauses, as when he notes that “the total lack of large-hearted and intelligent ‘understanding’ of human nature” would sink a marriage. The effect is that of a thoughtful talker, one who values wit over system.
Satire and Sympathy in the Book World
Several essays take aim at literary and publishing conventions. “That Reviewer ‘Cuss’” (originally “The Hack Reviewer”) and “Why Men Can’t Read Novels by Women” are the most overtly satirical. In the latter, Holliday ventriloquizes a Colonel who delivers a mock-heroic attack on the “strong man” hero of women’s fiction, calling him a “whimsical caricature” and comparing him to a “ludicrously false comic Irishman.” The Colonel’s tirade is itself a performance, and Holliday undercuts it with a demoniac grin and a bandanna handkerchief. Yet the satire is not merely dismissive; it reveals a genuine interest in the gender dynamics of reading and writing. Similarly, “Humours of the Bookshop” and “Memories of a Manuscript” treat the book trade with affectionate irony, noting the gap between literary ideals and commercial realities. Holliday’s tone is rarely cruel; he prefers the wry observation to the polemic.
Urban Textures and Personal Rituals
The collection is rich in urban detail, especially of New York and London. “The Fish Reporter,” “My Friend, the Policeman,” and “A Town Constitutional” depict city life with a journalist’s eye for the peculiar. Holliday is drawn to marginal figures—the fish reporter who covers the Fulton Market, the policeman on his beat—and treats them with a respect that borders on the ethnographic. His own rituals, like the constitutional or the wearing of a hat, become occasions for meditation on habit and identity. The epilogue, “On Wearing a Hat,” mirrors the prologue’s concern with accessories as markers of self. Throughout, Holliday’s prose is studded with specific references: to Hilaire Belloc, Henry James, and W. C. Brownell, to whom the book is dedicated. These names anchor his observations in a particular literary culture, one that values the essay as a form of civilized conversation.
Readers approaching Walking-Stick Papers should expect not a unified argument but a series of excursions, each with its own mood and target. Holliday’s voice is consistent, but his subjects range widely, and the essays reward dipping in and out. The collection is best read as a companion to the urban and literary milieus of early twentieth-century America and England, filtered through a sensibility that is both amused and engaged. Pay attention to the framing devices—the prologue and epilogue—which hint at a deeper coherence beneath the apparent miscellany.
There’s something tender about Holliday’s wandering essays, that visiting mind of his settling nowhere yet feeling everything. I found myself thinking of The sexagenarian; or, the recollections of a literary life (Volume 2 of 2) — Reading Notes afterwards, another old soul turning memory over like a smooth stone. Both feel like quiet company on a long, unhurried afternoon.
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