256 | https://historysoa.com/items/show/256 | The Author, Vol. 02 Issue 05 (October 1891) | <a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=49&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Author%3C%2Fem%3E%2C+Vol.+02+Issue+05+%28October+1891%29"><em>The Author</em>, Vol. 02 Issue 05 (October 1891)</a> | | | <a href="https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015031017927&view=1up&seq=20" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015031017927</a> | | | | | | | | <a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Publication">Publication</a> | 1891-10-01-The-Author-2-5 | | | | | 129–160 | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | <a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=89&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=2">2</a> | | | | | | | | | | | <a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=76&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1891-10-01">1891-10-01</a> | | | | | | | 5 | | | 18911001 | The Author.<br />
(The Organ of the Incorporated Society of Authors. Monthly.)<br />
CONDUCTED BY WALTER BESANT..<br />
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Vol. II.—No. 5.]<br />
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OCTOBER 1, 1891.<br />
[PRICE SIXPENCE.<br />
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Notices<br />
The Authors' Club.. .<br />
A Ladies' Club .. .<br />
To an Author who complained of Neglect..<br />
My Brother Charles. An Extract<br />
Pegasus in Harness .. ..<br />
“Authors' Complaints and Publishers' Profits<br />
Popular Platitudinous Philosophy<br />
Notes and News ..<br />
Lists and Risks<br />
From America<br />
Reviewers and Reviews ..<br />
Magazines and Contributions ...<br />
Commission Books<br />
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CONTENTS.<br />
PAGE 1<br />
.. 133<br />
An Instructive Case<br />
.. 134 The Marlowe Memorial<br />
“Good Work, Sure Pay"<br />
.. 135 Correspondence-<br />
.. 135<br />
I. The Statute of Limitations ..<br />
II. Fiction and Reality<br />
1 38<br />
II. Slating .. .. ..<br />
IV. Words and Bricks<br />
140<br />
V. A Provident Society.<br />
VI. An Honourable Action<br />
146<br />
VII. Reviews and Reviewers<br />
147 Pages Cut or Uncut<br />
"At the Author's Head "<br />
.. 148 New Books .. .. ..<br />
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LONDON AND NEIGHBOURHOOD: Guide to the<br />
| MANUAL OF BIRDS OF NEW ZEALAND). By<br />
Geology of. By WILLIAM WHITAKER, B.A. 18.<br />
LONDON AND OF PART OF THE THAMES VALLEY,<br />
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The Ge Jogy of. By W. WAITAKER, B.A., F.R.S., F.G.S..<br />
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JOHN BUCHANAN. Full-page Illustrations. Imp. 4to. Half<br />
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KEW BULLETIN, 1890. Issued by the Director of Kew FOREST FLORA OF NEW ZEALAND. By T. KIRK,<br />
Gardens. 28. iod.<br />
F.L.S., late Chief Conservator of State Forests, N.Z., &c.<br />
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HANDBOOK OF NEW ZEALAND FISHES. By R.<br />
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DESCRIPTIVE CATALOGUE OF MUSICAL INSTRU.<br />
ORANGE CULTURE IN NEW ZEALAND. By G. C.<br />
MENTS recently exhibited at the Royal Military Exhibition.<br />
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executed Plates in Heliogravure, and with numerous Wood NEW ZEALAND DIPTERA, HYMENOPTERA, AND<br />
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PUBLIC RECORDS. A Guide to the Principal Classes<br />
POLYNESIAN MYTHOLOGY AND ANCIENT TRA-<br />
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ADVERTISEMENTS.<br />
Cl)f ^orietg of gutftors (fiiworporatrt)-<br />
The<br />
Sir Edwin Arnold, K.C.I.E.<br />
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COUNCIL.<br />
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^Ibe Hutbor.<br />
(The Organ of the Incorporated Society of Authors. Monthly.)<br />
CONDUCTED BY WALTER BESANT.<br />
Vol. II.—No. 5.] OCTOBER 1, 1891. [Pbice Sixpence.<br />
For the Opinions expressed in papers that are<br />
signed the Authors alone are responsible.<br />
NOTICES.<br />
MEMBERS and others who wish their MSS.<br />
read are requested not to send them to<br />
the Office without previously communi-<br />
cating with the Secretary. So large a number of<br />
MSS. are sometimes sent in, that it is impossible to<br />
guarantee that the Society's Readers will furnish<br />
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despatch is aimed at, and MSS. are read in the<br />
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The official directions for the securing of American<br />
copyright by English authors were given in the<br />
Author for June 1891. Members are earnestly<br />
entreated to take the trouble of reading those<br />
directions.<br />
In the Author for June 1890, and in "Methods<br />
of Publication," a brief statement is laid down for<br />
the guidance of authors in their agreements on the<br />
meaning of the different royalties proposed from<br />
time to time—what is given to either side by those<br />
royalties.<br />
Members are earnestly requested to forward<br />
agreements to the Society for inspection before<br />
they sign them. Once signed, the mischief is<br />
generally irreparable.<br />
The Honorary Secretary of the Syndicate Depart-<br />
ment will be glad to know the titles and lengths of<br />
any stories written, or to be written, by Members<br />
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ever, in no case be forwarded to the Office without<br />
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tary of the Syndicate Department.<br />
<br />
THE AUTHORS' CLUB.<br />
MR. Oswald Crawfurd, C.M.G., has accepted<br />
the post of chairman of committee of the<br />
proposed club. The form of approval sent<br />
round with the last number of the Author has<br />
resulted in a very good numl>er of names—quite<br />
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are earnestly begged to consider the Resolutions<br />
published in the August number of the Author.<br />
They are not final; they are tentative only, and<br />
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plate a club of men only, because so many ladies<br />
pointed out that they could not possibly pay so<br />
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Author is taken to include that large and impor-<br />
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the requisites of culture and of literary ambition<br />
and experience.<br />
—<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 134 (#538) ############################################<br />
<br />
'34<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
A LADIES' CLUE.<br />
APRELIMINARY meeting has been held at<br />
the Society's office of ladies engaged in lite-<br />
rature and journalism anxious to found a club<br />
themselves. The chair was taken by Mrs. Stannard<br />
(John Strange Winter). The meeting was nume-<br />
rously attended. It is understood that a resolution<br />
was unanimously passed iu favour of such a club. — •<br />
TO AN AUTHOR WHO COMPLAINED OP<br />
NECJLECT AND DEPRECIATION.<br />
Friend, l>c not fretful if the voice of fame,<br />
Along the narrow ways of hurrying men<br />
Where unto echo echo shouts again,<br />
Be all day long not noisy with your name.<br />
When dumb the noon-day din of praise and<br />
blame,<br />
And heavenly constellations hush the ken,<br />
If yours be light celestial, you will then<br />
Shine like a star, eternally the same.<br />
Nor in your upward journeying stoop to con<br />
The straining petulance of tethered spite,<br />
That still hath railed whenever Genius shone:<br />
As, when dogs bay the moon in midmost night,<br />
The moon nor looks nor listens, but sails on,<br />
Slowly ascending her predestined height.<br />
Alfred Austin.<br />
MY BROTHER CHARLES: An Extract.<br />
• •••••<br />
After these melancholy events, nothing remained<br />
but for the company to break up, and for every<br />
member of it to go his own way. I took a tender<br />
farewell of Dollie, with great sorrow on both sides,<br />
many promises of constancy, and some tears. But<br />
I felt sure—I had a presentiment—that I should<br />
never see her more. The dear girl proposed to<br />
return for the moment to her " Pop," who conducted<br />
a store at Syracuse, 111., and was a strict church<br />
meml>er. She thought tliat by burying in oblivion,<br />
or carefully editing, the history of the last three<br />
months, and by pretending that she had another en-<br />
gagement as a schoohnarm, she might get some<br />
dollars oiit of the old man, with the help of which<br />
she could try the stage again with better luck. Cer-<br />
tainly, one who has once l>eeii on the boards returns<br />
to them quite naturally, and can never again do<br />
anything else. My presentiment proved true, that<br />
is to sav, I have only seen her once since. I was<br />
tramping through the city of Detroit, when I saw a<br />
name—her name—on a poster with a picture. I<br />
went to the gallery in my rags. I saw her dressed<br />
in tights dancing a breakdown, singing saucy songs,<br />
looking so happy and lively, that it made me sick<br />
and ill just to think of her happiness and mr<br />
rags. And all through one thing. I suppose she<br />
had got the dollars out of her " Pop," and so got<br />
back to the boards with l>etter luck. Well, when I<br />
had taken her ticket and seen her off, I made the<br />
melancholy discovery that I was left absolutely<br />
penniless—stone broke. I returned to the hotel and<br />
spent the rest of that day and most of the night in<br />
trying to find a way out of the mess. What I wanted<br />
was money to carry me on to New York, and to<br />
keep me going there until 1 should find another<br />
engagement. When I fell asleep, I had fully<br />
resolved what to do. I do not defend the plan<br />
which I finally adopted. I am aware that it mav lie<br />
attacked, especially if a harsh and one-sided view<br />
is adopted; but I do declare that it was forced<br />
upon me, and that I fully intended, but for the<br />
accursed accidents which followed, to repay all<br />
the money I should make by my false pretences.<br />
I daresay I shall not l>e believed, but that was my<br />
honest intention.<br />
I was then six and twenty years of age, an<br />
Englishman by birth, and, as you have guessed,<br />
an actor—not as yet a very successful actor—by<br />
profession. I still think that if I had had the luck<br />
to light upon a really new part, and to make it my<br />
own, I had the touch and go, light comedy style,<br />
and might have made a reputation—ah ! equal to<br />
any. I've seen Charles Wyudham, and it is absurd<br />
to suppose that I could not . . . But it is too late.<br />
And all through the most extraordinary mis-<br />
fortune that ever befell any man. There I was, an<br />
honourable, scrupulous young man—I repeat, that<br />
I intended to pay back the money—and I was<br />
wrecked, ruined by one—just one—accident, which<br />
nobody could have foreseen. At the same time,<br />
I admit that I ought to have got away at once<br />
without an hour's delay. I might have guessed;<br />
and here I am, all in consequence of that accident,<br />
tramp, gaolbird, swindler, thief, and can't raise<br />
myself again as long as I live. Sometimes when I<br />
think of that accident I feel as if the top of my<br />
head was being lifted off.<br />
In the morning, my plan fully formed, I dressed<br />
myself as carefully as my slender wardrobe would<br />
allow, and after breakfast sallied out, thankful<br />
that it did not occur to the clerk as I passed him<br />
in the hall, to remind me of the hotel bill. The<br />
place was Philadelphia, which is full of rich people,<br />
and has some liu-niry people. I had procured<br />
from the directory certain names and addresses<br />
which I thought would be useful. There was a<br />
great Shakespearean scholar; there was a rich—ft<br />
very rich—editor; there was a poet of eminence;<br />
there were three or four clergymen; there W«*<br />
others—scholars and authors. I called upon all of<br />
them. The Shakespearean scholar lent me $icc; the<br />
rich editor, $125; the poet, $zo; the others, from §to<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 135 (#539) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
135<br />
to $20 each. I went l>ack to my hotel that morning<br />
richer than when I left it by about S3oo—say, £60<br />
in English money. This was very good business,<br />
so good that I ought to have cleared out at once<br />
without the least delay. I ought to have suspected<br />
that something was going to happen after such<br />
wonderful luck. For I had no dilliculty whatever<br />
with my little plan. It came off without a hitch.<br />
Such a plan generally does. It must be simple;<br />
it must be well and naturally told; there must be<br />
no hint or suggestion that the story could be<br />
suspected or disbelieved. What I did was this: I<br />
sent in my card, " Mr. Wilford Amhurst, Dramatic<br />
Authors' Club, London." I was taken to see my man<br />
—it was the Shakespearean scholar—in his study.<br />
Now I certainly looked very English, and I believe<br />
I had at that time an honest face and a frank<br />
manner. After all these prisons, and ups and<br />
downs, my face may be English still, but it is no<br />
longer honest, nor is my manner frank. I began<br />
by apologizing for intruding. I ventured to do so<br />
on account of his well known sympathy with letters.<br />
Then I paused a moment. He 1 rowed his head in<br />
silence. I went on to say that the name on my<br />
card, Wilford Amhurst," was not my real but<br />
my stage name, that I was really Wilford Ingledew,<br />
and that I was the youngest brother of Charles<br />
Ingledew, the well known novelist. The scholar<br />
started and looked suspicions. "Charles Ingle-<br />
dew," he said, " must be a good deal older than<br />
yourself." "Not so very much," I replied, putting<br />
something on my own age and taking something<br />
from his. "I am 36 and he is 46." He asked<br />
me, still in a doubtful kind of way, but open to<br />
conviction, to tell him a little more about myself.<br />
I said that I was at Rugby and afterwards at<br />
Pembroke, Cambridge, where I did not stay to<br />
take a degree, but left at the end of my second vear.<br />
It was rather a lucky guess about Pembroke, because<br />
I had once stayed with a man who was stage-struck,<br />
and I knew something about the College, a nil so<br />
did lie. He asked me if I had written anything.<br />
I gave him a long list of plays and poems, none of<br />
which I had with me. He then asked me if I had<br />
any letter or anything from my brother which<br />
would go to prove my statement. I pulled<br />
out of my pocket-lxx>k a letter written on some<br />
English note paper—fortunately rather soiled and<br />
dirty, which helped ine. It began "My dear<br />
Wilford." It lamented my bad luck, gently<br />
intimated that extravagance was partly the cause<br />
of it, and exhorted me to return to England,<br />
where, he said, he had little doubt that with my<br />
undoubted talent I should certainly succeed. He<br />
ended it with two or three purely family matters—<br />
a reference to my mother's health, and' another to<br />
a married sister who had recently been happily<br />
confined of twins, and he remained, hoping to<br />
sec me at home before long, my affectionate brother<br />
Charles Ingledew. I had written the letter myself<br />
that morning. As for the signature, I copied it<br />
from a magazine. "This," said my scholar, "is<br />
certainly Charles Ingledew's signature. I suppose<br />
there is no doubt that you are the person you repre-<br />
sent yourself to be; and, in that case, what do you<br />
want of me?" "Well, I am absolutely j>enniless.<br />
That is my case. I cannot beg or steal. I want to<br />
borrow. Only I want to borrow so that my brother<br />
should not know. He would l>c disgusted if he<br />
knew anything about it. He is always pitching<br />
into me about extravagance. Will you, on my<br />
word of honour only, lend me a hundred dollars?<br />
I am going back to London, and I shall send you<br />
the money as soon as I possibly can. If I don't<br />
get it by my own work, I shall have to borrow it of<br />
Charles." Without a word he opened a drawer<br />
and took out notes to that amount. "There," he<br />
said, "take these for your brother's sake."<br />
I wrung his hand, and I went away without<br />
another word. That was the best thing to do.<br />
Gratitude, chokes you see. You press the hand of<br />
your benefactor and yon go, with bowed shoulders,<br />
opening and closing the door with just a little<br />
demonstration and without noise.<br />
In all the other cases I was equally successful.<br />
Not a doubt was raised. Only I asked less of the<br />
clergymen, and wanted nothing more than to pay<br />
my hotel bill and to get on to New York, where I<br />
hail friends.<br />
Now, I .say again, had I possessed any sense at all,<br />
I ought to have been so astonished at my wonderful<br />
good luck that I should have made tracks at once. I<br />
should have gone on by the first train to New York.<br />
I should have made any further question, discussion,<br />
or difficulties impossible. I ought to have known<br />
that such ease in getting would have been followed<br />
by tremendous difficulty in keeping. It is always<br />
the way. The easier you get, the quicker you lose.<br />
Well, I had impressed upon every one the<br />
necessity of keeping my secret. They had all<br />
promised, and to this day I cannot tell who, if<br />
any, did betray me. I incline on the whole to<br />
the belief that the old scoundrel, villain, rogue who<br />
but there, you shall see.<br />
I dined pleasantly and had a small bottle of<br />
Burgundy—fancy a stone-broke player drinking<br />
Burgundy in Philadelphia! and I really felt quite<br />
happv, comfortable, and free from anxiety. As for<br />
baing found out, or anything, that did not enter into<br />
my imagination. After dinner I strolled into the<br />
saloon and s it d jwn with a cigar looking on at the<br />
p.;ople.<br />
They came and went in twos an J threes; they<br />
sat down and talked or they stood at the bar and<br />
drank. I watched and listened, sitting lazily in a<br />
corner under a gas light.<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 136 (#540) ############################################<br />
<br />
136<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
Presently two men came in, ami one had un<br />
evening paper. He began to run his eve down the<br />
columns, telling the news as he went on. One<br />
thing after the other lie noted. Then he came to u<br />
paragraph which he rend out at length. "There<br />
is staying at the Lone Star Hotel a young English-<br />
man who is at once actor, poet, and dramatist.<br />
His theatrical name is Wilt'ord Amhurst. His<br />
real name is Wilford Ingledew, and he is the<br />
youngest brother of diaries Ingledew, the English<br />
novelist. He has called upon one of the most<br />
prominent citizens and revealed his name. He is<br />
said to be a handsome Englishman of a thoroughly<br />
Britannic aspect, looking younger than he is—<br />
probably from wearing neither beard nor moustache.<br />
He is ten years younger than his brother, who is<br />
now forty-six, and he greatly resembles him in face<br />
and stature. He has been a member of a travelling<br />
variety company which has not been eminently<br />
successful." You sec that nothing here was said<br />
about begging and borrowing. Yet I felt uneasy.<br />
He read this out, and said, "Why, I remember<br />
Wilford Amhurst in the piece—what was it—the<br />
Criterion comedy piece. And ..." His<br />
voice stopped short, for he recognised me.<br />
Even then there was still time. I should have<br />
left the saloon immediately and taken the night<br />
train. Fool! double—treble Fool!<br />
The man advanced to me. "Mr. Wilford<br />
Ingledew," he said, " I have the pleasure of wish-<br />
ing you well. Your brother's works are so well<br />
known to me that I feel as if-no introduction was<br />
necessary to"<br />
This beautiful and trustful beginning was com-<br />
pletely spoiled, however, by a third person. He<br />
was, to look at, a Brute—a Brute and a Beast.<br />
He was clad in a filthy greasy gaberdine—the poor<br />
despised Jew in the middle ages always wore a<br />
gaberdine, therefore I use that word to describe the<br />
ragged old thing that hung on his shoulders. He<br />
was a man of short grey hair and long grey bristles<br />
—the former on his head, the latter on his chin.<br />
He had a swollen and pimply face, a swollen red<br />
nose, and blue lips. He looked as if he was half<br />
drunk. I never knew him afterwards or saw him<br />
but what he looked half drunk. He had been<br />
standing by, apparently taking no heed of what<br />
was said. Now he came lurching forward.<br />
"Wilford Ingledew? I believe it is. Good<br />
Lord! Here's a chance! Wilford—Wilford, I<br />
say. Wilford Ingledew—Ingledew—don't you<br />
know me? Look at me, man. Don't you know<br />
me now 'i Your eldest brother—Jack Ingledew—<br />
I am. Jack Ingledew. Him that went away<br />
3o years ago and never went home again. Boys,"<br />
—he turned to some loafing blackguards behind<br />
him,—" you all know Jack Ingledew—old Jack."<br />
They murmured with ono consent that they all<br />
knew Jack—old Jack. "Old Jack—that you<br />
thought dead—eh '< long since dead. And to think<br />
that we meet here after all these years. It makes<br />
me thirsty. Brother—brother Wilford—a little<br />
baby three years old when I went away—shake<br />
hands—shake hands with your eldest brother—<br />
long parted—grief as is felt—happy to part—<br />
happy to meet again. Joy demands a drink. We<br />
must celebrate this happy occasion with a drink.<br />
Come."<br />
This was the terrible accident. This was the<br />
cause of all the trouble. Through the accursed<br />
mischance of that eldest brother—if he was an<br />
eldest brother—Lord knows !—turning up at that<br />
juncture.<br />
The man who had first spotted ine stepped aside,<br />
leaving me to the Beast of the Greasy Gaberdine.<br />
What I ought to have done is perfectly plain<br />
and simple. 1 did not do it. In fact, I gave him<br />
a drink. I ought, of course, to have refused any<br />
knowledge of the Beast. I ought to have said that<br />
there was no John Ingledew—was there, in fact?<br />
Was this man really Charles Ingledew's elder<br />
brother? I don't know. I never could find out.<br />
But the knowledge of my own guilt made me weak.<br />
I accepted his filthy hand. I gave him another<br />
drink. I owned up to the eldest brother; I was<br />
civil to him. I pointed out that I could not very<br />
well remember a man whom I had not seen for so<br />
long. He then asked certain questions which I<br />
answered as well as I could. I incline to the belief<br />
that he was what he pretended, because at one point<br />
he stopped and looked suspicious. Then he caught<br />
me by the waistcoat button and he whispered,<br />
"Brother, Brother Wilford! They've telegraphed<br />
across to know if Charles Ingledew has got a<br />
brother Wilford."<br />
I started, I turned pale.<br />
"Brother—you'd better bolt. I knew you were<br />
a bunco-steerer at the go off. Now, you go in and<br />
make up your grip—quick. Else, to-morrow, you'll<br />
be laid by the heels. I'll wait here for you—I'll<br />
see you through. You rely on me."<br />
I was so knocked over with the thought of the<br />
telegraph that I curdled and curled up. I did what<br />
he told me. My grip took no time, because it was<br />
reduced to an empty box. I told him so.<br />
"Then," he said, "we'll leave it behind. Now,<br />
let's have one more drink and than catch a train.<br />
I'll see you through. Your eldest brother John—•<br />
old Jack—he'll stand by the family." Yet he had<br />
just before called me a bunco-steerer. But I was<br />
in such a fright about the telegraph that I hardly<br />
knew what he said, and I walked along beside hi in<br />
in a dream.<br />
"We'll take tickets to New York and we'll get<br />
out at a station I know," he said, " That will pre-<br />
vent your being nabbed as soon as you get out of<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 137 (#541) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE A UTHOR.<br />
i37<br />
the train. You'll have just to lie quiet for a day<br />
or two, and then you can go on."<br />
I thought that the first thing I would do was to<br />
get rid of him. That proved, as you will see, not<br />
quite so easy. We took a night train; it left<br />
Philadelphia at eleven. We sat down together—this<br />
evil-smelling l>east ami myself. He talked fami-<br />
liarly to the eonduetor—told him that I was his<br />
younger brother, and he grinned; said that younger<br />
brothers ought to look after the seniors, and that 1<br />
was a model younger brother. He said many<br />
more fncetious and pleasant things. You can<br />
suppose that I greatly enjoyed his society and his<br />
conversation.<br />
In aliout two hours or so we stopped at some<br />
small station. "Now," he whispered, "let's get<br />
down. I know where you can find a place to hide<br />
in for a bit—a snug quiet place, where the drink<br />
is good. Come along."<br />
We got down just as the train began to move<br />
on again. The night wits pitch dark; the petro-<br />
leum lamps of the station were extinguished<br />
directly after the train went on.<br />
"This way," the man took my arm and led<br />
me along in the darkness. I knew not what<br />
direction we took nor how long we walked. It<br />
seemed to me a walk of hours. Presently we<br />
stopped at a house in the midst, as it seemed, of a<br />
wood, where lights were shown in the windows.<br />
My man blew a whistle, and the door was thrown<br />
open. "Walk in, brother Wilford," he said,<br />
grinning, " Here you will l>c real welcome. Such<br />
a chance as this has never come to you before."<br />
Within, the place proved to be a kind of log<br />
house. It consisted of one large room with a stove.<br />
Along the walls were lynches, and on these benches<br />
were mattresses, on some of which men were<br />
sleeping. I saw that four were asleep; two more<br />
were playing cards at a table; there was a lire<br />
burning; anil there was the usual detestable smell<br />
of jx'troleum from the lamp. And I discovered at<br />
once that I was fallen among a den of thieves and<br />
rogues.<br />
"Gentlemen," said my eldest brother, "I have<br />
brought you my brother—my younger brother<br />
Wilford—Wilford Ingledew. He is in a little<br />
trouble just now, on account of certain alleged<br />
false pretences—people will say anything—we have<br />
all suffered from calumny—I've asked him here to<br />
share our hospitality for a bit. A clever fellow, I<br />
think, you will find my younger brother Wilford."<br />
The two men who were playing looked up<br />
anxiously. Then they threw down their cards,<br />
and stood up, feeling at their belts, and I began to<br />
perspire at the nose. "What does he know,<br />
Jack?"<br />
"Nothing. Leave that to me. Now, brother<br />
as we are all friends here and brothers, let us l>cgin<br />
VOL. II.<br />
by sharing. What did you make by the job?<br />
Come—don't look scared—you can't get out of<br />
this if you try—by . . ." He lugged out a re-<br />
volver. "So begin. Clear your pockets. You've<br />
got to do what you're told. You've got to—or—"<br />
he fingered the pistol. I had to turn every pocket<br />
out, and to show it empty. I had to take off my<br />
boots and coat and waistcoat to show that nothing<br />
was concealed. The whole now lay upon the<br />
table—three hundred dollars and more.<br />
"There are seven of us," said old Jatk. "You<br />
make eight. Every man's share is $40, odd. As for<br />
your share, we'll keep it for you. Oh! You shall<br />
not lose it. You are among men of honour. And<br />
now, brother, if you like to lie down and go to<br />
sleep, you can. If you like a drink, say so. If<br />
you like to cut in with the cards, say so. We're<br />
all friends here and all brothers. Them as<br />
are not brothers we make dead uns, which<br />
saves trouble." I stayed in that den for three<br />
weeks. I was never left alone. I was given<br />
to understand by old Jack and one or other<br />
of them that if I chose to throw in my lot<br />
with these miscreants I should be received as one<br />
of the gang. If not, I should not be allowed to<br />
escape, and in fact . . . you may guess.<br />
In a month's time, I was dressed like a gentle-<br />
man: I was an English nobleman, and I was<br />
living at a high-class New York hotel. I had a<br />
pocket-full of money, and I was working for a big<br />
thing.<br />
You see what I am now—a broken-down tramp,<br />
in rags and penniless. The gang is dispersed; we<br />
have all had sentences to work out. As for old<br />
Jack—my eldest brother—I don't know what has<br />
become of him, but I should like to murder him.<br />
If I were to meet him on a lonely road I believe I<br />
should murder him. And the moral of my story, I<br />
often think, is that when you have made a lucky<br />
hit you must get away as quick as you cati before<br />
some cussed accident sets things agee. Now, if I<br />
had gone straight away that very moment—think<br />
—I should now—who knows ?—be managing a<br />
London theatre. I might have married Dollie.<br />
Oh! it makes me mad only to think of it. Because<br />
I stayed I had to run awny at night and fell into a<br />
gang of rogues, and was compelled to l>ccome their<br />
confederate and got into prison and . . . there<br />
. you see.<br />
It's all very well to say that I shouldn't have<br />
pretended to be the brother of an English writer.<br />
I was stone-broke and I had to get some money<br />
somehow, and I meant to give that money back.<br />
The devil of it was that I stayed and went into<br />
that bar. I stayed. That way the lmd luck<br />
came in.<br />
♦••■»<br />
K<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 138 (#542) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
PEGASUS IN HARNESS.<br />
Put Pegasus in hnrness<br />
And tench him how to trot;<br />
Take him to the market<br />
With his wares piping hot,<br />
All fresh anil glowing<br />
From his owner's mind,<br />
Three a penny, four a penny,<br />
Best of their kind.<br />
Lord! here's a bother,<br />
The creature wants to fly!<br />
Quiet, there, my beauty,<br />
We'll loose you by-and-bye!<br />
Come now, it's useless,<br />
Customers don't soar;<br />
It won't pay, alack, to scorn<br />
Their muddy floor.<br />
Why, what a blessing<br />
The harness was so strong:<br />
What a task 'tis to get<br />
The chafing steed along!<br />
Fold your wings, do, now!<br />
Keep them for the sky;<br />
Men pay to touch their feathers, not<br />
To see them fly.<br />
Pegasus, when night comes<br />
We'll fly up to the stars,<br />
We'll soar above Venus,<br />
And we'll mount beyond Mars;<br />
Earth lies a ball lx»neath—<br />
Alx>ve, still there's blue—<br />
By day we must earn our bread;<br />
At night we'll be true.<br />
There—we endeavour,<br />
Here—we must win;<br />
There—lift up our hands,<br />
Here—stoop for a pin;<br />
Turn every penny<br />
Another to gain:<br />
Heaven bids—struggle!<br />
Earth bids—uttain!<br />
But oh ! when night comes<br />
To the earth-wearied man,<br />
To one master he's true,<br />
And he sleeps while he can—<br />
Swoop ! and a rushing,<br />
The great steed has gone:<br />
The Boundless receives him,<br />
His master sleeps on.<br />
I'mph! what's to do now?<br />
There's the bread winner's flown.<br />
Why—fetch up a mule, man,<br />
Put the gold trappings on;<br />
He'll give time to see them;<br />
He's safe, sure, and slow,<br />
If you speak still of " Pegasus"<br />
Xobody '11 know.<br />
Sidney Caxton.<br />
♦*••♦<br />
"AUTHORS' COMPLAINTS AND<br />
PUBLISHERS' PROFITS."<br />
IHAVE read with much interest Mr. George<br />
Putnam's paper on this subject in the Forum<br />
of September, the more so because I have lnul<br />
from time to time several conversations with the<br />
writer on the points raised in his paper, and I<br />
always found him willing to meet me half way on<br />
all essential points, and, to the best of my recollec-<br />
tion, perfectly ready to admit the useful functions<br />
of our Society, and the reasonableness of its aims.<br />
So much, indeed, he admits in this article when he<br />
says—the italics are my own—"Whatever shape<br />
the compensation of the author may take (excepting<br />
only that of a purchase outright of his copyright)<br />
he is of course entitled to precise information us to<br />
the publishing statistics of his boohs."<br />
Exactly. This concession covers nearly the<br />
whole ground. The chief grievance of the author<br />
is that he has been, and still is, called upon to<br />
surrender his property on terms the half of which<br />
are carefully concealed from him; tliat he is offered<br />
this and that without being informed what the<br />
arrangement gives to the other side. Let us know<br />
what the other side receives for himself as well<br />
as what he ijices the author. Then we shall<br />
understand what we are about. Now, the most<br />
important part of the work of the Society has been<br />
the publication—approximately only, for nothing is<br />
more elastic than a printer's bill—of the actual cost<br />
of production. With this in our hands, we have a<br />
very simple sum in arithmetic:—(i) The actual<br />
cost of production. (2) The royalty paid to the<br />
author. (3) The trade price of the book. The<br />
publisher's profit can be easily calculated. Now,<br />
Mr. Putnam in this article talks round and round<br />
the subject, but does not touch the real point at<br />
issue. For instance, he carefully enumerates the<br />
various methods of dealing with authors; he points<br />
out the increased cost of printing, and binding, and<br />
distribution; but he evades the main points, viz.,<br />
the actual profit made by the publishers on the<br />
various methods described and the proportion<br />
which, in his opinion, should be taken by the<br />
publisher.<br />
He complained that I consider only tin? question of<br />
books with a side of 10,000. I suppose he alludes to<br />
Mr. Sprigge's book—the " Methods of Publication"<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 139 (#543) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
*39<br />
—and to the "Cost of Production." But in those<br />
books, the sale of 1,000 copies, and even less, is<br />
carefully considered, as well as the sale of 10,000.<br />
He says in one place (p. 74.) that I am " inclined<br />
to contend that there are, as a matter of fact, no<br />
such things as publishing losses," and that I "claim<br />
that the publishers rarely take any risk in publish-<br />
ing, as they make a practice of putting their money<br />
only into books that an- sure to pay." On p. 7a he<br />
says, "It is the contention of the English Society<br />
of Authors that the publisher who understands his<br />
business must take, ami, as a matter of fact, does<br />
take, no risk in his undertakings." Now, there is<br />
a difference between "rarely" and "never"—a<br />
very great difference. What I have said, over and<br />
over again—what I am prepared to prove, by<br />
hundreds of cast's and agreements brought to our<br />
office—by verbal information from persons who<br />
have been employed in publishers' offices—and<br />
by examination of advertised publishers' lists, is<br />
this. There has grown up of late years a custom<br />
of making authors pay whenever there is any real<br />
risk. It is very seldom that publishers take any<br />
risk. I might go further and say that there are<br />
some houses which never will take any risk at all.<br />
Bv this I mean the simple meaning that the words<br />
convev. In other words, it is very seldom that a<br />
publisher will produce a l»ook unless he sees his<br />
way to the sale of at least as many copies as will<br />
pay the cost of production, with something for his<br />
services or the interest of his money.<br />
Over and over again has this proposition been<br />
stated. Nothing in the world could be more true—<br />
nothing more reasonable and probable. Over and<br />
over again interested or malicious persons have dis-<br />
torted the statement into quite a different one, and<br />
have virtuously argued themselves black in the face<br />
on the assumption that 1 have said that there are<br />
no risks in publishing.<br />
There may be plenty of risk in publishing.<br />
You may produce a lwok on a subject which no<br />
one wants; you may produce a bad book on any<br />
subject; vou may produce tot) large an edition of a<br />
l)ook; vou may spend more money in advertising a<br />
book than the l>ook will bear; you may bring out<br />
a book at a wrong time; many tilings of the kind<br />
may happen. But a skilled—or a well advised<br />
publisher—in this great world of English readers—<br />
with this immense market before him—with all<br />
the various branches of letters—with all the<br />
different audiences—with all the favourite leaders<br />
and authorities in all these branches—need never, I<br />
maintain, unless he pleases, run any risk at all.<br />
And he very seldom does.<br />
He may, it is true, l>c disappointed in the ulti-<br />
mate proceeds. But that is not risk. My con-<br />
tention is that he need never publish a book unless<br />
he knows that the minimum of the sales will cover<br />
his expenditure and something over. And I do<br />
not for a moment agree with Mr. Putnam that a<br />
man would be valuable to a publishing firm who<br />
would keep them from losses, because an educated<br />
man, brought up in the business, will easily, and<br />
does easily, learn for himself. Of course, I am not<br />
speaking of American risks,of which I know nothing.<br />
I agree with Mr. Putnam—and he with me—in<br />
so many points that I should like him to agree with<br />
ine in all. For instance, he is perfectly right when<br />
he says that authors cannot expect compensation—<br />
he means pay—for work which proves to have no<br />
marketable value. An author can only be paid out<br />
of the proceeds of his book. But that must be a<br />
very poor publisher who cannot tell beforehand<br />
whether a book has a marketable value or not. One<br />
publisher—de mes amis—has an eagle eye for the<br />
detection of marketable value in novels He never<br />
fails—at least, I think not—I hope not—in this in-<br />
stinct of his. He produces works by unknown<br />
writers, and they Income known and popular. He<br />
knows. With this and other examples before me,<br />
when a publisher writes complaining that he has lost<br />
by this book and by that book, I am inclined to say,<br />
"Friend, if that is true, you do not know your own<br />
business." But he never shows his books, remein-<br />
l>er. Mr. Putman makes a great ileal about the<br />
"generosity" of certain publishers. First of all,<br />
we do not want generosity. We do not want to<br />
keep up the old notion which caused a publisher<br />
to be considered as a (generally) malevolent old<br />
man (but sometimes benevolent), who sat upon a bag<br />
of gold—an enormous bag of untold gold—and dealt<br />
out capricious gifts, varying according to his<br />
temper. Nor do we want the other notion which<br />
made of the publisher the guardian angel of letters,<br />
thinking only how he could advance the holy<br />
cause of literature, and careless whether he ruined<br />
himself or not. Nor do we want the old sorry<br />
spectacle of the writing-man who goes humbly, hat<br />
in hand, body bent, voice hushed, to the man who<br />
pays, ami takes with tears of gratitude whatever he<br />
may offer or may chuck. What we now say is<br />
this, "What do you mean by your 4 generosity'?<br />
Hang your generosity! Keep it for the charity<br />
sermon. Give us plain and simple justice. You have<br />
graciously heretofore given this and tossed that;<br />
what have you kept for yourself? Show us your<br />
accounts before you talk of generosity."<br />
Then; are one or two other points in which Mr.<br />
Putnam unfortunately fails to understand the<br />
position. Thus, he girds at Canon Farrar, saying<br />
that he appealed to the public for sympathy, because<br />
his publishers had made more money than himself<br />
when he had signed a contract to do and work for<br />
so much. Canon Farrar did nothing of the kind.<br />
The grievance in his case was this: He did agree<br />
to do a certain piece of work for a certain sum of<br />
K S<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 140 (#544) ############################################<br />
<br />
140<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
money. The work proved enormously successful.<br />
He had no claim for anything more, and never set<br />
up any claim. But when the firm in question<br />
invited him to do another work, they did not let<br />
him understand how successful his first work had<br />
been. They said nothing about the proportion<br />
of profit they had made for themselves; they<br />
said nothing about what they knew they should<br />
make on the next work. This, no doubt,<br />
was what is called business. But the English<br />
publisher has always endeavoured to make the<br />
English author believe that he is his friend. My<br />
own contention in that matter is that Farrar should<br />
not have signed that second agreement until the<br />
firm had shown him by their books what it had<br />
made out of the first. The same remark applies to<br />
all cases of so-called "generosity." Let the<br />
accounts be produced. Then we shall see. We<br />
do not wish to rob the publisher by accepting his<br />
"generosity." We, do not wish him to rob us<br />
under the name of "generosity." I pass over all<br />
Mr. Putnam's remarks on American publishing for<br />
obvious reasons. I think, for the same reasons, he<br />
should not have entered the lists al>out English<br />
publishing. And I also wish very much that he<br />
had read what has l>een said and printed by my<br />
friends on the subject before committing himself to<br />
statements and charges which cannot be sustained.<br />
He says that we have made "sweeping charges"<br />
against publishers as a class. We have done no-<br />
thing of the kind. We have proved " up to the<br />
hilt," as the Spectator allowed, that fraudulent<br />
practices exist, and are, indeed, rife. The fact that<br />
many of us are on friendly terms with publishers is<br />
quite enough to disprove the assertion of " sweeping<br />
charges." It is also a fact that many of the prac-<br />
tices which we have proved to exist are now carried<br />
on in a much more secret and guarded fashion than<br />
prevailed four or five years ago. Meantime, I<br />
commend to Mr. Putnam the consideration of our<br />
great principle that in all business relations, part-<br />
nerships, joint adventures, and enterprises, it is<br />
right, just, and proper that the two parties should<br />
each and severally have a full knowledge of what<br />
the agreements give to either side. That once<br />
conceded, the rest, viz., an equitable understanding<br />
that shall safeguard both parties may be arrived at.<br />
Such an understanding is very much to be desired<br />
in the interests of publishers as well as of authors,<br />
and, indeed, cannot but Ixj desired by every honour-<br />
able publisher as well as by any honourable and<br />
self-respecting author.<br />
Walter Bksant.<br />
POPULAR PLATITUDINOUS PHILOSOPHY.<br />
1. The publisher risks dire poverty who pays a<br />
new author anything.<br />
2. Publishing is the most precarious form of<br />
"plunging."<br />
3. Every author should rest content with the<br />
honour of appearing in print.<br />
4. An artist should be above alimony: Art is<br />
degraded by any money.<br />
5. Publishing is a matter of favouritism, by<br />
which paper-makers, printers, lxx>kbinders, and<br />
booksellers all conspire against unknown genius<br />
6. Artists should Ik; angels—all soul: eating is<br />
merely animal, and therefore inartistically vulgar.<br />
7. The general public is divisible into those who<br />
buy books but do not read them, those who read<br />
but do not buy, and those who neither buy nor<br />
read.<br />
8. What we manufacture we should be jmid for;<br />
but what other people make they should give us for<br />
nothing.<br />
9. All best work is borrowed, and therefore<br />
belongs to someone else.<br />
1 o. The alphabet is public property, and whoso<br />
disarranges it into Iwoks only disturbs what belongs<br />
to everybody.<br />
11. Everything that was best contrived to live in<br />
the past.<br />
12. In the multitude of conventionalisms is to be<br />
found the highest wisdom.<br />
13. A publisher is a philanthropist who scorns<br />
coarse commerce.<br />
14. What is conscience in ourselves is only<br />
conceit in the other man.<br />
15. Civility is what the other people owe us.<br />
16. There is no fine art in fiction; it is just as<br />
easy as lying.<br />
Phinlay Olknelo.<br />
NOTES AND NEWS.<br />
fl^HE Spectator devotes an article to some<br />
I remarks made by me in another place on the<br />
distribution of national honours, orders anil<br />
titles. The editor, it appears, does not agree with<br />
these remarks. Now there is one thing for which<br />
I especially respect the Spectator. It always<br />
seeks to represent the views which it attacks,<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 141 (#545) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
141<br />
honourably and fuirly. This conceded, let me<br />
state my case again. The State confides to the<br />
Sovereign the task of recognising distinction and<br />
good service l>y the grant of certain orders and<br />
titles. The Spectator says that these decorations<br />
are part of the wages of the State for servants of<br />
the State. My position entirely. But I maintain<br />
that everything — every kind of service — that<br />
advances the happiness, the safety, the welfare,<br />
the moral and intellectual level of mankind, is a<br />
distinct service to the State, and should be recog-<br />
nised as such. The Spectator would narrow the<br />
service of the State, apparently, to service paid for<br />
by the State. The writer says that decorations and<br />
titles are "part of the wages of the State, outward<br />
and visible signs of good conduct." In that case<br />
why were Bass, Allsopp, and Guinness raised to<br />
the peerage? Why, again, is a plain country<br />
gentleman made a baronet? Why is the warden<br />
of a city company made a knight? That defini-<br />
tion clearly will not serve. There is, in fact, no<br />
rule whatever, no principle recognised in the dis-<br />
tribution of honours. Somebody advises the<br />
Queen. Is it the Prime Minister? I do not<br />
know. Whoever it is, he makes no reservation<br />
whatever about paid servants of the State. None<br />
whatever. He says that a soldier or a sailor, a<br />
lawyer, a politician, a rich man, if he is rich<br />
enough, a man in the Treasury, or the Foreign<br />
Office, or the Diplomatic Service, may look forward<br />
to receiving some kind of distinction. No one, he<br />
says, however distinguished in medicine, architec-<br />
ture, painting, literature, music, acting, sculpture,<br />
science, or teaching, must ever expect a peerage.<br />
If a physician were to discover a certain way of<br />
curing gout or rheumatism and abolishing that<br />
agony for ever, he would have no more than a<br />
baronetcy. If a man brews enough beer, of course,<br />
he shall lie raised to the Upper House, and sit<br />
apart—he and his—for ever, but not if he writes<br />
the most splendid play ever produced. In some<br />
of these branches they from time to time offer a<br />
very distinguished man—say a Huxley—the saine<br />
distinction—the smallest of all—that they give the<br />
mayor of a country town. Now, for all these<br />
branches—for every noble calling—I claim the<br />
right of national recognition, in whatever way<br />
tin? nation can or does exercise that recognition.<br />
Especially I claim it for literature, because of all<br />
noble callings it is the one which has lieen the<br />
least recognised.<br />
Observe that I do not ask, as the Spectator<br />
mistakenly asserts, that great authors should<br />
receive the honour of Knight Bachelor. The<br />
Spectator, you see, cannot conceive it possible<br />
that any great author in his wildest ambitions<br />
should look beyond a knighthood. I want a very<br />
great deal more for them. I want ■whatever<br />
honours the State has to bestow—the very highest.<br />
The Spectator mentions the peerage of the<br />
Laureate. I wonder if the Sjwctator rememliers<br />
that at the time when Lord Tennyson received an<br />
honour which recognised the very point I insist<br />
upon, some of the papers tried to make out that<br />
it was conferred upon him because he was of good<br />
birth. Others said that poets ought not to want<br />
peerages—the Spectator to-day says as much.<br />
The answer is clear; great poets do not want<br />
peerages; they confer services upon the State<br />
which cannot be measured; but, in whatever way<br />
the State chooses to recognise great services, it is<br />
bound in that way to recognise a great poet. It<br />
is no honour to Tennyson that he is a peer; it is<br />
the acknowledgment of his vast services to the<br />
State in the way open to a grateful nation. Such<br />
acknowledgments are due to literature as much as<br />
to any other profession. Not that writers will do<br />
better work, but that the world will liegin to think<br />
more highly of its writers and will begin to value<br />
their work more and will lie influenced more readily<br />
by them when it sees that they are recognised<br />
by the State. Now, here is a case in point. In<br />
the year 1887, when the nation rejoiced over an<br />
event of a most remarkable kind, cards of admission<br />
were sent to the most distinguished persons in the<br />
country for the great ceremony in Westminster<br />
Abliey. There were present men of every calling;<br />
it was a national representative gathering. For<br />
most of those who were present, the card was not<br />
so much an honour as a thing due to their position.<br />
Very well. Not one single man or woman of<br />
letters was invited as such. The whole of litera-<br />
ture was absolutely ignored and contemptuously<br />
passed over. Would that insult have been possible<br />
had men of letters lieen regarded, like soldiers, as<br />
servants of the State, and, like soldiers, to lie<br />
recognized in the distribution of honours?<br />
The Spectator sup]Kises the Prime Minister<br />
worried between the rival claims of half-a-dozen<br />
poets; well, why not? There is nothing so very<br />
absurd about that. I suppose he is now worried<br />
lietween the rival claims of Mr. Facing-both-Ways,<br />
politician, and Mr. Creeping Backstairs, professional<br />
Worm, both of whom ardently desire to be<br />
knighted. Then we are told dogmatically, "We<br />
have no business whatever to give titles and deco-<br />
rations to literary men. They are far lictter<br />
without them." Does this mean that they write<br />
lietter without them? If so, one might just as<br />
well say that they have no business with new coats<br />
—" they are far better without them." Or does<br />
it mean that they will feel better in their insides<br />
without titles and decorations? There is, in<br />
fact, absolutely nothing that can be said against<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 142 (#546) ############################################<br />
<br />
142<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
granting titles to one class any more than to any<br />
other class j the arguments of the Spectator apply-<br />
just as well to engineers as to poets. Do Millais<br />
and Leighton paint worse since they had titles?<br />
Can anyone in his senses believe that either Lecky<br />
or Meredith would write worse if he were made a<br />
Peer? Does anyone believe that Lord Lytton is a<br />
worse ambassador because he is a poet? Lastly,<br />
the Spectator asks what Browning would have done<br />
as an ambassador? Of one thing I am quite<br />
certain: If he was in other respects fitted for the<br />
post of ambassador, his poetry would have l>een no<br />
disqualification.<br />
The Victorian reign will be glorified in after<br />
ages mainly for three splendours. First, the<br />
enormous and unparalleled increase of the English-<br />
speaking race; so that they began with thirty<br />
millions, and, after fifty years, have grown to a<br />
hundred millions. Second, the wonderful ad-<br />
vancement of science, by means of which almost<br />
the elementary conditions of life have been revo-<br />
lutionized. Thirdly, the magnificence of the<br />
Victorian literature. When the future historian<br />
dwells upon these illustrations of the period, he<br />
will go on to remark that all of them flourished<br />
under the absolute neglect and contempt of the<br />
English Court and the English Government. The<br />
colonies owed nothing, except snubs, to the Colonial<br />
Office. No Government has ever attempted to<br />
organise, to control, to assist, to direct, or to advise<br />
emigration. The Government, without making an<br />
effort to divert the stream, allowed the half of the<br />
Irish ]>eople to go over bodily to the United States,<br />
and to lend their invaluable legs and arms to the<br />
material progress of that Republic. Until the<br />
latter years of the reign, no colonist, however<br />
great his services, was recognised even by the<br />
insignificant distinction of a Knight Bachelor. As<br />
for science, there have never been, since the world<br />
began, such giants as those of our century. Have<br />
any of these men of science been raised to the<br />
House of Lords? Not one. Has there ever been<br />
any national recognition of the best of them?<br />
Perhaps it may be replied that a knighthood was<br />
offered to one. A knighthood? In literature it<br />
is an age which has produced two or three; English<br />
writers of the first rank—the very first rank; it<br />
has also produced a great number of writers whose<br />
work is good, lasting, most useful, ami helpful,<br />
beyond anything of the sort ever seen lx>fore in any<br />
generation. Have these men received any national<br />
honours or recognition? None whatever. The<br />
House of Commons grants a little sum of £400 a<br />
year for distinguished service in literature, and the<br />
First Lord of the Treasury refuses to use it for<br />
that purpose—gives it to widows of officers<br />
instead. One simple distinction, or recognition,<br />
is the command to dine with the Sovereign. Do<br />
these men ever receive such a command. Never.<br />
My " grievance," as the Spectator calls it, is, in<br />
short, that national distinctions, which should<br />
belong to every intellectual calling, are limited to<br />
one or two, and are even bestowed without reference<br />
to distinction at all.<br />
I have received a paper—Hearth and Home—<br />
which contains an account of a little discussion<br />
between three persons—a Member of Parliament, a<br />
"Labour Leader," and a lady journalist. The dis-<br />
cussion turned on the influence of a certain novel<br />
on certain changes in opinion and reforms in<br />
action. The Member of Parliament and the Labour<br />
Leader maintained that the novel had nothing to do<br />
with any reform. The lady said that, the novel had<br />
everything to do with it. It was clear, from the<br />
remarks of the other two, that they were totally<br />
ignorant of the force of sentiment, or the power of<br />
the artist to create, arouse, and direct public<br />
opinion. They could not understand that senti-<br />
ment, of which they doubtless supposed themselves<br />
to have none, could possibly have anything to do<br />
with practical things. That is to say, they knew<br />
nothing of the history of popular opinion on popular<br />
movements, and nothing whatever of the part<br />
played by the poet, the dramatist, and the novelist.<br />
This is very interesting. The same men who, after<br />
reading " Uncle Tom's Cabin," would be maddened<br />
by the cruelty and the wickedness of slavery, and<br />
if the opportunity arose, would be spurred to action<br />
by that madness, stoutly maintain that sentiment<br />
plays no part in affairs; and that poet, artist, actor,<br />
and novelist can effect nothing. On the same day,<br />
as an illustration of the supposed powerlessness of<br />
sentiment, all the world reads that Mr. Hall Caine<br />
is going to Russia to study the question of the Jews<br />
with a view, if he sees his way, to write a novel about<br />
it. The English Jews who have proposed this task to<br />
him are wiser, you see, than the Member of Parlia-<br />
ment and the Labour Leader. The genius of the<br />
novelist, who concentrates the attention and the<br />
interest on a single group of the wretched, starving<br />
fugitives—perhaps on a single figure—will do more<br />
to bring home to our understanding the true,<br />
nature of their sufferings than a thousand telegrams<br />
and as many leading articles.<br />
The story which is going about the papers con-<br />
cerning French publishers is simply incredible. It<br />
is said that the enormous editions of novels adver-<br />
tised on the covers of the books are to a great<br />
extent fictitious, and that those magnificent figures<br />
—200th edition—5ooth edition, which fill the<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 143 (#547) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
*43<br />
breast of the British publisher—and, to a humbler<br />
extent, the British author—with envy, are simply<br />
trade lies. It is further stated that French authors<br />
have been receiving royalties on the fictitious<br />
numbers—in other words—that the publishers have<br />
been paying for thousands of books which have<br />
never been sold: in other words again that they<br />
are possessed of secret mines of gold. It is again<br />
stated that they have actually printed, though they<br />
have not sold, the numbers they advertise, and that<br />
their warehouses are bulging and bursting from top<br />
to bottom with unsold novels. Lastly, it is stated<br />
that certain firms are on the verge of bankruptcy<br />
in consequence of this practice. We are not sur-<br />
prised. There is, however, a way of explaining the<br />
story. The trick of advertising edition after edition<br />
of a book is not unknown in this country. The<br />
edition may be as small as you please—a single<br />
copy, perhaps—or fifty copies. It is a dirty trick;<br />
a fraudulent trick; it assures the public that the<br />
book is so much in demand that all these editions<br />
have been taken up; the public believes that a<br />
genuine edition is meant and is deceived ; the state-<br />
ment was issued with intent to deceive; it is therefore<br />
fraudulent. The trick is brother or sister of that<br />
other trick by which a publisher buys a whole<br />
edition of the author without stating the number<br />
and trades on the omission. Henceforth I shall<br />
accept the French novel in its 5ooth edition as<br />
having probably circulated to the extent of a thou-<br />
sand. Let us cease therefore to wish we had been<br />
born in a country so eager to possess new literature.<br />
The circular of a Society called the " British and<br />
Foreign Association" lies before me. It has about<br />
90 " Honorary Meml>ers," among whom are several<br />
very good names indeed. It lias a President, a<br />
Chief Secretary, General Councillors, and Repre-<br />
sentative Councillors. Its prospectus states that it<br />
has 4,000 members. Its objects are three-fold:<br />
(l) To promote fraternity among the nations.<br />
Very good indeed. (2) To encourage literary<br />
talent among the members by means of a monthly<br />
magazine. Hum! By means of a monthly maga-<br />
zine? But surely there are already dozens of<br />
monthly magazines which do that very same thing.<br />
And (3) to aid in popularising the works of the<br />
members. Surely that is done already by the<br />
reviews, and by the recommendation of readers one<br />
to the other. What other method has this<br />
Association?<br />
Turning to the "advantages of membership,"<br />
we find that the first advantage is social. Wrecked<br />
on a desert island, you find the other inhabitants<br />
also members—and there you are. The next<br />
advantage is that you can find persons with whom<br />
you will correspond—" exchange ideas "—says the<br />
prospectus. This opens up a new, broad, and<br />
hitherto unworked field of misery. Fancy belonging<br />
to a Society which will provide an endless supply<br />
of unknown correspondents anxious to exchange<br />
ideas!<br />
A third advantage is found in "the Literary<br />
Branch." This means the monthly magazine of<br />
which I have never yet seen a copy. If there are<br />
4,000 members all wanting to get their con-<br />
tributions in, where is the advantage? If the<br />
magazine is not known to the world, what is the<br />
good of appearing in it? If the contributions<br />
are worthy of publication, there are dozens of<br />
magazines which will gladly pay for them.<br />
Fourthly, there is a "Tutorial" department.<br />
This seems to be a bid at a tutorial agency. Do<br />
many of the 4,000 members join in the hope of<br />
getting a tutorship?<br />
Fifthly, there is the "Hotel Tariff." Members<br />
get a reduction at certain hotels—it is not stated<br />
which these are, or where they are, or why they<br />
make a reduction.<br />
Sixthly, the "Commercial" side. Valuable<br />
business connexions are said to have been formed<br />
by correspondence between members. This seems<br />
quite a new departure for a Literary, Peaceful,<br />
Popular Association.<br />
Here you have the Association—its objects and<br />
advantages—all drawn up by its own officers; the<br />
annual subscription is only half-a-guinea. What is<br />
that in return for the chance of getting into the<br />
magazine, and "exchanging ideas" with all kinds<br />
of wonderful people, and opening valuable business<br />
connexions, and getting tutorships? Meantime,<br />
one would like to know on what representations<br />
the 90 Honorary Members gave permission for<br />
their names to appear? We will inquire further<br />
into this very interesting "British and Foreign<br />
Association."<br />
The competitive columns of certain popular<br />
papers are producing very dangerous consequences<br />
in inducing young winners of prizes to l>elieve<br />
themselves born for literary fame. I fear that<br />
these lines will not fall into the hands of any<br />
such, but if they do, let me most earnestly implore,<br />
them not to attempt Editor or Publisher with<br />
original work without taking advice ns to the<br />
quality of their work, either of the Society or of<br />
some competent friend. We have been richly<br />
blessed, as they used to say, in our efforts at<br />
dissuasion. We have succeeded in leading out of<br />
the stony fields of unsuccessful Literature many<br />
who are now grazing sweetly in pastures of Clerk-<br />
land or Trade-land. Sometimes those who are thus<br />
turned aside kick and are restive. Then they<br />
answer the advertising publisher's letter that he<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 144 (#548) ############################################<br />
<br />
144<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
will moot all demands up to 5,ooo copies for £60,<br />
and proceed to learn the rest of the lesson which<br />
never fails to follow. After that they go hack<br />
into Clerk*land meekly, if somewhat bruised and<br />
battered.<br />
Some months ago I wrote a little paper called "A<br />
School for Novelists," in which I pointed out how,<br />
given the natural aptitude to begin with, the<br />
aspirant in Romance might rind his way greatly<br />
smoothed, and might be saved from many dis-<br />
appointments and humiliations, by learning the<br />
technique of the Art. There was the usual and<br />
expected kind of comment. Everybody who saw<br />
his way to a clever thing ignored my saving clause<br />
concerning the natural aptitude, and extended the<br />
finger of scorn at the man who could lie such a<br />
fool as to suppose that novelists can be made by<br />
schools and lectures. But the project still remains<br />
even when the clever things have all been said at<br />
the cost of truth, and by the suppression of the most<br />
important part of my contention. We shall see a<br />
School of Fiction yet. If I had the time I would<br />
start one myself, and I believe that I should do<br />
very well with it, both for myself and for my<br />
pupils. I now learn that there has been founded,<br />
or will soon be founded, a College for Journalists<br />
in the United States, out of which should come<br />
many good things, and especially that regard<br />
for truth which is surely the one thing most<br />
wanted in American Journalism. And I am re-<br />
minded that there has existed for some years a<br />
School of Journalism in this London Town. The<br />
school gives lectures and instruction in all the various<br />
duties of a journalist: among them, on paragraphs,<br />
reviewing, special and war correspondence, art and<br />
dramatic criticism, leaders, editing, sub-editing, &c.<br />
In other words, the school undertakes to turn out<br />
a practical journalist in 12 months. It is directed<br />
by Mr. David Anderson, himself a well-known<br />
leader writer on the best London Papers.<br />
Now, here comes in the reservation. The School<br />
of Journalism can no more make a journalist, than<br />
a School of Fiction could make a novelist; but it<br />
can prepare the way for one who has the natural<br />
aptitude. Many of those who pass through the<br />
course may fail afterwards in their profession; but<br />
that failure ought not to bring discredit, on the<br />
school, so long as some can be found who attribute<br />
their success mainly or in part to the work of the<br />
school. For my own part, I welcome such schools<br />
as additional proof, for the eyes of the world, that<br />
Literature is a profession, and one with many<br />
branches, of which journalism is one.<br />
Certain not unfriendly critics have questioned the<br />
use of my suggestion that authors should practise<br />
the art of public speaking. "Why," asks one,<br />
"should authors make public speeches at all?"<br />
Because they are sometimes very much wanted to<br />
do so in the interests of their own calling. Because<br />
they often know a great deal on special subjects on<br />
which their spoken judgment might be very useful<br />
indeed. Because authorship belongs to every pro-<br />
fession and (idling under the sun, and he who<br />
would teach or guide the world should lie able to<br />
do so by word of mouth as well as by pen. Cer-<br />
tainly there are men, as this critic points out, who<br />
could never become orators. Thackeray was one;<br />
Anthony Trollope was another; John Stuart Mill<br />
was a very ineffective, unattractive speaker. Yet,<br />
had one of those three studied and practised the.<br />
art, he might at least have been able to say the<br />
thing he wautcnl to say effectively and convincingly.<br />
The last named might certainly have increased his<br />
influence and power enormously. He did his best<br />
and the House emptied the moment he rose.<br />
Their desk, my critic goes on to say, is their<br />
proper place. If so, John Morley had lietter go<br />
liack te his desk; Mr. Arthur Balfour also, the<br />
author of one admirable book at least, had better<br />
go back to his; Mr. Gladstone to his; all the<br />
Divines and Theologians must go back to their<br />
desks. In fact, everylnxly who writes books must<br />
be forbidden to do anything else. Docs not this<br />
seem a little absurd? Behind the notion, you see, is<br />
concealed some of the old contempt of the literary<br />
man. He is still, as of old, held te be useless except<br />
with a pen in his hand, and not of much use then.<br />
I find a very apt illustration of my remarks con-<br />
cerning authors and oratory in a certain ceremony<br />
which took place at Canterbury the other day.<br />
The address of the occasion, which is given l>elow,<br />
was delivered by Mr. Henry Irving. Now, there<br />
is no iM'tter speaker than Mr. Irving — 'tis his<br />
vocation. Also, the address was everything that<br />
could lie desired. But I should have preferred<br />
seeing a poet—a dramatic poet—or a leading man<br />
of letters at least, deliver that address. And I take<br />
it that the reason why Mr. Henry Irving was<br />
invited to perform the task was the difficulty of<br />
finding an English author of eminence who can<br />
speak. It was not altogether because Mr. Lowell<br />
was an American that he was invited to deliver the<br />
address on the unveiling of Fielding's bust.<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 145 (#549) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
J45<br />
Vague reports are flying about concerning a<br />
monster pet ition about to be drawn up and presented<br />
to the Archbishop of Canterbury. It will be signed<br />
by millions, and it will bo a request that prayers<br />
should l>e put up in all the churches, and con-<br />
tinued for twelve months, that the heart of the<br />
young journalist may be inclined unto verifying his<br />
references, and that the heart of the editor may be<br />
inclined unto visiting the neglectful with stripes.<br />
My sympathy is entirely with that petition. I find,<br />
for instance, that at least a dozen paragraphs have<br />
appeared stating (i) that I myself have by myself<br />
decided against admitting ladies to the Authors'<br />
Club: (2) that my reason is that they write for<br />
religious periodicals, and therefore they cannot pay<br />
the five-guinea subscription. These statements are<br />
entirely false. "What happened was this. At the<br />
preliminary meeting of the Temporary Committee,<br />
July 23rd, a set of tentative Resolutions were<br />
drawn up and passed. These Resolutions con-<br />
templated a club of men only. One of the chief<br />
reasons for such a conclusion was the fact that<br />
so many ladies had written to say that they could<br />
not jwssibly pay a subscription of five guineas.<br />
Therefore, the Committee, and not I myself, passed<br />
Resolutions contemplating a club for men only.<br />
They inserted these Resolutions in the Author,<br />
and asked for opinions. Moreover, in the Sep-<br />
tember number of the Author I expressly called<br />
attention to these facts, so that it is pure invention<br />
to say that I have excluded ladies. Another<br />
ingenious inventor of copy has added that the reason<br />
why ladies cannot afford five guineas is that they<br />
work for religious periodicals. Another want of<br />
verification! What I said was this: "An ideal<br />
club of authors should admit women as well as men.<br />
Literature is, above all others, a profession open to<br />
both sexes. Yet literary women are even more<br />
mercilessly sweated than men, especially by religious<br />
societies, who pretend not to know that sweating<br />
was specially contemplated in the framing of the<br />
Eighth Commandment; and the number of ladies<br />
who live by their literary work, and can afford even<br />
so reasonable a subscription as five guineas is very<br />
small." It is, indeed, very small indeed. Some<br />
day I hope to show what the sweating of women in<br />
literature really means. In the case of one religious<br />
society I have already done something in tliat<br />
direction.<br />
Walter Besant. ♦■»■♦<br />
LISTS AND RISES.<br />
f |^HE long lists of announcements of new books<br />
I show no falling off in numbers, at least.<br />
Modern English literature appears to flourish<br />
in every branch. Those who think that nobody buys<br />
books may look at these lists and ask themselves for<br />
whom the new books are all printed and published?<br />
To lie on the shelves? To l>e given away? For the<br />
pride of the publisher? Nay, but to be sold. There<br />
is, again, we are expected to believe, an enormous risk<br />
in bringing out every one of these books. The very<br />
length of the lists shows the absurdity of the risk<br />
bogey. Looking through the lists one sees a book<br />
here and a l>ook there whose success seems doubt-<br />
ful—new poems, but these are always paid for by the<br />
author; novels by unknown hands, which are also<br />
paitl for by the author, unless they are so striking as<br />
to leave no doubt in the mind of the reader; books<br />
of essays, by unknown writers; biographies of<br />
unknown persons, and so forth, of which all that<br />
one can say is that if a publisher were to bring<br />
them out at his own risk he would l>e a very<br />
sanguine person and a very bad man of business.<br />
But the chief lesson to be learned by this enormous<br />
output is the enormous market. We who live in<br />
London are too apt to fall into the error of judging<br />
everything by a London standard; more than that,<br />
by the standard of a small piece of London. For<br />
instance, in Club land nolxxly buys Ixwks, news-<br />
papers, or magazines; but in the suburbs there are<br />
hundreds—thousands of houses—who buy both<br />
books and magazines, while in the country houses<br />
and country towns, though the circulating library<br />
goes for much it is not everything, and there are<br />
India and the Colonies. The inquiry which we con-<br />
ducted some months ago gave us some insight into<br />
the vastness of the book market. The autumn lists<br />
enlarge that view. To take nine publishers only out<br />
of the daily increasing number of firms, we find the<br />
following numbers of new lxx>ks announced re-<br />
spectively :—82, 57, 57, 5i, 43, 37, 36, 35, and 34,<br />
or an average of 43' 2 among the nine. Probably<br />
there are a thousand in all for the autumn output.<br />
This represents at an average of £100 a-piece, an<br />
outlay, or an investment, of £ioo,coo, and, of<br />
course, this is only a part of the whole year's<br />
enterprise. It is a large sum of money. Would it<br />
be embarked year after year—would new firms,<br />
some of them without any capital at all—come into<br />
the business if it were full of risks? Of course not.<br />
For my part I have never been able to understand<br />
why some publishers—not all—affect to be engaged<br />
in a kind of gambling business. It is not reputable<br />
to them as business men; it is not in the least<br />
true; and it damages literature by making authors<br />
believe that everything is a toss up. "Rider<br />
Haggard has succeeded," says some lunatic, who<br />
thinks he can write, "Why shouldn't I get a<br />
chance as well as he?" Literally, this notion is<br />
widespread. A great many people write to the<br />
Society in this sense and under this idea. And they<br />
are greatly helped by the absurd way in which some<br />
publishers wish risk to be considered as the first<br />
element in their work. You can hardly read a<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 146 (#550) ############################################<br />
<br />
146<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
leading article on the subject which does not start<br />
with the assumption that publishing is pure gamb-<br />
ling—speculation—a toss up. The bogey springs<br />
up like a jack-in-the-box in all kinds of unexpected<br />
places. The other day I bought Mr. Andrew<br />
Lang's "Hypnerotomachia," in a second-hand<br />
bookseller's, and carried it home. It is prefaced<br />
by an introduction which is both attractive and<br />
instructive. In the middle of it occurs this<br />
remarkable passage, "and there is risk in pub-<br />
lishing, though a hundred Mr. Besants say there<br />
is not." Where are these hundred? I only know<br />
one person of that name who has written upon the<br />
subject, and he most certainly has never said any-<br />
thing so foolish. There is risk, and plenty, as I<br />
have said elsewhere and everywhere, in publishing.<br />
But then publishers of the present day very seldom<br />
take any. If anybody takes upon himself to deny<br />
this statement he must do so only after he has care-<br />
fully examined publishers' books, with the aid of<br />
an accountant, if he is not skilled in accounts. If<br />
anyone will produce such proofs I am ready to<br />
modifv my statement. For my own part, I have<br />
been enabled to see, what nobodv else in the<br />
world has seen, except our secretaries, a very<br />
large and perfectly unique collection of pub-<br />
lishers' agreements and publishers' accounts, to<br />
which we have added a mass of information on<br />
the cost of production never l>efore possessed by<br />
anyone. And with this knowledge in my hands,<br />
I lx)ldly say that very few publishers ever take any<br />
risk in the production of new liooks. As to new<br />
magazines and such ventures I sav nothing, of<br />
course. I take only new books written by living<br />
authors. Meantime, this absurd sentence stands in<br />
the middle of Mr. Lang's Introduct ion to a mediaeval<br />
book like a bit of modern common earthenware<br />
on a shelf filled with Murano glass. The effect is<br />
very striking. There will not, I suppose, be<br />
another edition of the liook for a hundred years to<br />
come, and many a pleasant little controversy will<br />
arise when we are all forgotten as to this wonderful<br />
glimpse of a hundred all clamouring like one man,<br />
that there was no risk in publishing.—What hun-<br />
dred? Who were they? Where did they clamour?<br />
Why, in the nineteenth century it was notorious that<br />
every publisher quickly went to immortal smash,<br />
and the Court of Bankruptcy was filled with<br />
unhappy publishers who had failed, and on days<br />
"out," the streets were crammed with publishers<br />
dressed in the livery of their Union!<br />
W. B.<br />
FROM AMERICA.<br />
WE are certainly not going to interfere<br />
between American authors and American<br />
publishers. But the following seems to<br />
show that all is not complete happiness across the<br />
ocean. It is taken from the New York Critic:—<br />
"A publishing-house of old and high standing<br />
bought a MS. of 3o,ooo words at an agreed price,<br />
plus a share on sales. A year elapsed and then the<br />
author was asked if he would extend it to 60,000<br />
words, which he did, without asking that the<br />
original price should be doubled, but he drew<br />
the balance, which was not to have been paid until<br />
publication. At the end of 18 months it was<br />
found that the lxx>k could not l>e issued until<br />
two years had elapsed since the original sale.<br />
There was no stipulation as to date of publication.<br />
At this stage the author sent in proposals to the<br />
publisher asking that, in consideration of the<br />
unreasonable delay of two years, and also of his<br />
complacency in doubling the work at their sugges-<br />
tion, they should make a further payment, either<br />
in full purchase of author's interest, or as an<br />
advance. No sort of complaint had been made<br />
against the MS. from first to last. To this the<br />
representative of the firm replied with a flat refusal<br />
to submit the proposal, on the ground (to quote his<br />
letter) that ' it is absurd to claim that the delay in<br />
publication is either a matter for which we should<br />
be blamed or that has caused you loss.' As to the<br />
suggestion of reciprocity in goodwill based on<br />
the author's readiness in furnishing twice the<br />
quantity of matter specified in the contract,<br />
the reply is simply the remark 'you readily offered<br />
to enlarge it without charge.' From which it<br />
appears that time is not money to the author tribe,<br />
and the driving of a sharp bargain absolves the<br />
gainer from any obligation, to do a favour to the<br />
one who suffers through his lordly leisureliness."<br />
Thus far the correspondent, on which the editor<br />
remarks—<br />
"There seems in this case to have been some<br />
'reciprocity in goodwill,' as the writer admits<br />
having been paid 'the balance ' which was to have<br />
been paid on publication."<br />
True, Mr. Editor, but what were the respective<br />
values of the "reciprocity in goodwill"? The<br />
writer was to have received, say, £100 on<br />
publication. This was delayed for 18 months,<br />
although when the bargain was made, immediate<br />
publication was, in fact, contemplated. The writer,<br />
however, got paid his £100, so that the publisher<br />
clearly lost 18 months' interest on his money. But<br />
the writer doubled the length of the work, and<br />
should have received double the pay. Therefore<br />
the writer lost £100, while the publisher lost only<br />
£7 io«., reckoning 5 per cent, interest. But in<br />
what other profession in the world would an<br />
employer dare to propose that payment made for a<br />
stipulated piece of work should be made to serve<br />
for double that piece of work?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 147 (#551) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE A UTHOR.<br />
EEVIEWEES AND EEVIEWS.<br />
I.<br />
IT would appear, from certain papers which have<br />
at various times occupied your columns, that<br />
many writers believe that favourable notice<br />
from the various reviews is sufficient to secure a<br />
reasonable sale for most books. If such an impres-<br />
sion prevails, there may be some use in detailing my<br />
own experiences. Some years since, I made my first<br />
venture with a volume of verse. My reasons were<br />
various, the proverbial vanity of the verse-writer<br />
amongst them, but the hope of profit was not.<br />
My own knowledge, lmcked by competent advice,<br />
and the opinion of my publisher was sufficient, I<br />
think, to prevent any disappointment upon that<br />
head, when a publication which had cost me about<br />
£70 brought in a return of £|5 in sides. Yet, in<br />
one way, I was unfortunately very successful. The<br />
reviews, from which I had expected very mixed<br />
criticism, were uniformly in my favour, and some<br />
half-dozen proved enthusiastic. It may cut matters<br />
short if I say that, encouraged by their tone, I<br />
followed this first venture with two similar ones,<br />
the results, pecuniary and critical, being almost<br />
identical, so that I was the proud possessor of<br />
some 70 eulogiums of my work in print, besides<br />
letters from various writers, including our great poet,<br />
in return for which I had invested a capital of some-<br />
thing over £200. A wealthy man might consider<br />
this money well invested for such a result. I did<br />
not, and encouraged this time by the advice of<br />
friends, I set to work to recover my stake by<br />
publishing, at my own cost, a prose work. The<br />
reviews were even warmer in tone than they had<br />
been as regarded my verse, with a solitary ex-<br />
ception in a non-literary pa|X'r, and I ln-gan to<br />
feel confident of a return ; so that I was considerably<br />
mortified this time on receiving once more an<br />
account of the sale of about a hundred copies out<br />
of what I had hoped, from the tone of the critics,<br />
would prove to be merely a first edition. This<br />
time I thought that my publisher might be at<br />
fault, though I had no definite cause of dissatis-<br />
faction with him. Accordingly, I carried my<br />
fifth venture, a work of fiction, to another firm to<br />
which I had l>ccn recommended. With regard to<br />
the manner in which I was advised and treated by<br />
this firm, I may have something to say at a future<br />
date. Once again, all the papers which reviewed<br />
my tale praised it, and I lost something over £40.<br />
I returned to my old publishers, anil had a sixth<br />
book printed last year. Results were about the<br />
same: one unfavourable review in the Church<br />
Times; about a score of favourable notices in<br />
various well-known papers; side about ioo<br />
copies.<br />
Now, as many of the sales of my various works<br />
were made in quarters known to myself, I am able<br />
to state, with fair certainty, that from 100 to i5o<br />
favourable reviews have not averaged a return of<br />
more than three or four shillings apiece from sides<br />
obtained by their influence. How many sales the<br />
two unfavourable notices may have prevented is a<br />
doubtful question.<br />
It may possibly lx- of some interest if I set down,<br />
in conclusion, the course taken by the four chief<br />
weekly Metropolitan Reviews, as showing the risks<br />
which an author, otherwise favourably received,<br />
may have of being overlooked by them.<br />
The Saturday Review ignored my first two<br />
volumes, and published favourable notices of the<br />
last four with fair promptitude. No beginner<br />
need complain of such a course.<br />
The Spectator commenced with number two,<br />
and has fx-en extremely kind: however, the notices<br />
appeared at from three months to a year after<br />
publication, and my last work, published ten<br />
months since, is, I believe, still unnoticed by them.<br />
The Athcnrrum noticed number five only.<br />
The Academy noticed number one only.<br />
I may mention that both these last notices were<br />
favourable, and the notice in the Academy of my<br />
first volume of verse, coupled with those in the<br />
Scotsman, Graphic, <&c, was the chief inducement<br />
to the publication of my second and third volumes.<br />
Y. A. G.<br />
II.<br />
We have recently had a little talk about the<br />
reviews of novels. It may be interesting to some<br />
of our readers to see how an American paper, the<br />
New York Critic, reviews novels. First of all, the<br />
Critic gives to each work its own separate space<br />
and title. The notices are short, but they are<br />
detached. The author is treated as an individual,<br />
not as one of a herd. This is respectful and polite.<br />
The reviewer then gives a short account of the<br />
work—so far as one can judge, a fair account.<br />
In this account he tells something of the story.<br />
And it ends with a few words of appreciative<br />
approval or the reverse. This method is not pro-<br />
posed as a model, but it is suggested for considera-<br />
tion. The following, for instance, is the notice of<br />
Hardy's "Group of Noble Dames " :—<br />
"At a meeting of one of the Wessex Field and<br />
Antiquarian clubs, held in the museum of the town,<br />
certain stories were partly told, partly read from<br />
manuscript. The club was of an inclusive and<br />
intersocial character, the meeting was to extend<br />
over two days, the rain came down in an obstinate<br />
jwtter which revealed no sign of cessation, and the<br />
members agreed to let the stories do duty for the<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 148 (#552) ############################################<br />
<br />
148<br />
THE A UTHOR.<br />
regulation papers on deformed butterflies, fossil<br />
ox-horns, and other prehistoric relics. Some of<br />
them observed tlint a storm-bound club could not<br />
be selective, and they were much pleased to hear<br />
such curious chapters from the domestic histories<br />
of the country. There was no lack of material in<br />
Wessex. Many were the legends and traditions of<br />
gentle and noble dames, renowned in times past in<br />
that part of England, whose actions and passions<br />
were now, but for men's memories, buried under<br />
the brief inscription on a tomb or an entry of dates<br />
in a dry pedigree. The stories, once told, were too<br />
good to be lost, so they were gathered together and<br />
published in a volume called 'A Group of Noble<br />
Dames.' Truly fascinating tales they have proved<br />
to be, well calculated to while away the dreary and<br />
monotonous hours of many a club called together<br />
for more serious work. Their local colour is perfect,<br />
their interest is absorbing, and the style in which<br />
they are told is so simple and so natural that, in<br />
speaking of them, one drops unconsciously into the<br />
quaint old English expressions in vogue in those<br />
days. They are among the best things that<br />
Thomas Hardy has ever done, and are issued in a<br />
very attractive cover. (81.25. Harper & Bros.)"<br />
<br />
MAGAZINES AND CONTRIBUTIONS.<br />
AGliEAT many letters from time to time<br />
have reached the Society on the subject of<br />
prices paid for articles in magazines. There<br />
have been so many that the Society has now an<br />
actual knowledge of the ordinary rate of pay of<br />
every magazine, including certain organs whose<br />
editors (or proprietors) go on the principle of<br />
never paying anybody if they can possibly avoid<br />
it. The rates vary very largely, partly depend-<br />
ing on the name and reputation of the writer,<br />
partly on the circulation of the magazine, and,<br />
in some cases, on the sweating disposition of<br />
the proprietor. They vary, indeed, in an astonish-<br />
ing manner. One or two of the oldest and the best-<br />
known magazines are offering their contributors<br />
sums which would be thought contemptible by the<br />
new and cheaper organs, while some of the latter<br />
are offering prices for work by well-known men<br />
far above any dreamed of by their older contem-<br />
poraries. It would seem that there is, and can be,<br />
no fixed rate for contributions. Journals do not<br />
all have a wide circulation. When the circulation of<br />
a magazine has begun to go down, the effect upon<br />
payment of contributors must, sooner or later, be<br />
marked; in fact, at this moment certain magazines<br />
are proving their decline and impending fall<br />
by the decrease in the amount of the contributor's<br />
cheque. It is impossible, without loss; to pay the<br />
old scale for half the old subscription. On the other<br />
hand, these things get whispered abroad. Then<br />
good writers cease to send in work. Then the<br />
paper is no longer looked at, or inquired after; at<br />
the clubs it remains in its case ; no new subscribers<br />
take it in; it gradually fades into decay and<br />
forgetfulness. There are, besides, certain maga-<br />
zines—of which an example was given in last<br />
month's Author—which simply go on the broad<br />
and intelligible principle of never paying any<br />
contributor at all unless they are compelled. The<br />
Society is accumulating evidence on all these points.<br />
Other considerations affect tht question. Thus:<br />
(I) There are always a great many people who will<br />
willingly contribute papers for nothing, except the<br />
joy of seeing their names in print. If, therefore,<br />
there were enough of these writers to fill a magazine<br />
with papers attractive, pleasant, and popular, it<br />
could be run for nothing. Happily, the numlier<br />
of writers who are pleasant and popular is very<br />
limited; therefore, this resource is soon exhausted.<br />
Yet the number of articles offered to editors on<br />
all conceivable subjects is incredible. (2) It<br />
must be remembered that the question is, or should<br />
be, one of bargain only. The writer, for instance,<br />
who might possibly be accepted on some magazine<br />
if he offered his work for nothing, would be cer-<br />
tainly rejected if he demanded what he might<br />
himself consider a reasonable sum for his work;<br />
and, even in the higher-class magazines, if an editor<br />
chooses to offer only so much—a great deal less,<br />
perhaps, than the writer expected—it is oi>en for<br />
him to refuse or to accept the offer. Only, as said<br />
above, where such small offers are made, it is a<br />
proof of a falling circulation.<br />
It wotdd be, perhaps, as well if writers, before<br />
sending a paper to a magazine, were to ascertain<br />
at the Society's office the usual scale of pay. They<br />
could then decide whether it was worth while to<br />
send in their papers, and could stipulate beforehand<br />
what price they would be prepared to take.<br />
<br />
COMMISSION BOOKS.<br />
fl^HE Secretary is continually receiving letters<br />
I and requests on the subject of commission<br />
books; that is to say, books which the author<br />
pays for and the publisher sells on a commission of<br />
10 or 15 per cent, There are a great number of<br />
books published at the author's expense, and yet<br />
there are not many commission l>ooks. In other<br />
words, as we arc always insisting, a vast number<br />
of novels are issued every year by foolish and<br />
deluded people who pay in advance what they are<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 149 (#553) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
149<br />
informed is half the cost, and afterwards receive<br />
what they are informed is half the proceeds.<br />
They can then imitate Mr. Bob Sawyer by placing<br />
their profits in a wine-glass ami covering them<br />
with a gooseberry skin. Generally, however, they<br />
cannot even do that, for the profits turn out to<br />
be "nuppence." That is not commission pub-<br />
lishing. Yet, if a man has got a good book, there<br />
can be no better way of publishing, provided he<br />
can get a good house. It is said, and lielieved, that<br />
a house will not push a book on a 10 per eent.<br />
commission. That may be true. If it is, perhaps<br />
they would push it on a i5 per cent, commission.<br />
Let us see how this works out, taking the<br />
average six-shilling novel of about 17 sheets. The<br />
first edition of 1,000 copies costs about £90. The<br />
next edition of 3,ooo costs about £118. The price<br />
being 3s. ^d., the first edition, allowing for pre-<br />
sentation copies, realizes about £i5o, the next<br />
about £5oo. On the first edition the publisher, at<br />
15 per cent., takes £22 ios., and on the second<br />
edition £75. The author, on the other hand,<br />
makes on the first edition £37 10s., and on the<br />
next edition of 3,ooo he makes about £3oo. It<br />
certainly seems to me as if this was a very equitable<br />
arrangement. I suppose that all the trouble of<br />
printing the book is taken by the author.<br />
AN INSTRUCTIVE CASE.<br />
AN agreement and a bundle of accounts are<br />
l)efore us. The agreement contains as an<br />
integral part an "estimate" of the cost<br />
of production. Observe, that if the author, having<br />
signed the agreement, afterwards discovers that the<br />
"estimate" was fraudulent, he has no redress<br />
except by action in the High Court of Justice, and<br />
a very difficult business it is to prove by experts<br />
the fraud in such a case. In the Author we have<br />
repeatedly warned readers against signing any<br />
agreement containing an "estimate." Now the<br />
book before us being submitted to a printer, it is<br />
actually found that his "estimate" has been<br />
exactly doubled, i.e., that the printing and produc-<br />
tion of the book really cost exactly half of what<br />
was stated in the "estimate." The author in the<br />
agreement bound himself to pay half the " estimate,"<br />
i.e., he was made liable, really, for the whole of the<br />
cost. He did pay, in reality, half the sum in<br />
advance, and left the rest to come out of sides.<br />
At the close of the iirst edition the publisher<br />
having, in addition to the other fraud, and contrary<br />
to the agreement, charged a much larger sum for<br />
advertisements than was arranged, how does the<br />
account stand?<br />
1. According to the publisher's returns, the cost<br />
of the book exceeds the sales by about £70.<br />
Placing against this the sum actually paid<br />
by the author, he loses aliout £3o. Very<br />
bad business indeed.<br />
2. According to the reality of the case, the sales<br />
of the book exceed the cost by about £5.<br />
Add the sum paid by the author, and the<br />
publisher is in pocket to the tune of about<br />
£40. Not such IkkI business, after all,<br />
with quite a little book, and quite a little<br />
fraud.<br />
<br />
THE MARLOWE MEMORIAL.<br />
f|>HE following is the address of Mr. Henry<br />
I Irving on the unveiling of the Marlowe<br />
Memorial, as reported in the Times:—<br />
"We are here to-day to pay tribute to a<br />
great memory and to repair a great omission.<br />
England has always set much store by the men<br />
who helped to save the State in the supreme<br />
crisis of her history. The statesmen and<br />
warriors of the Elizabethan times have never<br />
lacked a grateful recognition from their descen-<br />
dants. The literature which was the flower and<br />
crown of that period of our national growth ban<br />
remained our chief glory to these days, and the<br />
works of its greatest representative are the most<br />
enduring possessions of all who speak the English<br />
tongue. Of Shakespeare there are memorials which<br />
attest at almost every turn in our daily lives our<br />
reverence for his surpassing genius. But till to-<br />
day we have presented to the world no conspicuous<br />
symbol of our enormous debt to a man who was<br />
contemporary with Shakespeare, and in one sense<br />
his tutor, antl who was the first to employ with<br />
a master hand the greatest instrument of our<br />
language. It was natural enough that the fame of<br />
Christopher Marlowe should be overshadowed by<br />
that of William Shakespeare, but it is surely some<br />
discredit to Englishmen that the fine sense of<br />
Marlowe's gifts and services to letters, which<br />
scholars have always had, have hitherto found no<br />
substantial shape in some trophy for the acclama-<br />
tion of the world. To-day this long oversight has<br />
been repaired. Here, in the birthplace of Marlowe,<br />
rich as it is in the commanding associations of our<br />
history, you have erected a monument which to<br />
future generations will speak with a voice no less<br />
potent than the. historic echoes of this city.<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 150 (#554) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE A UTHOR.<br />
(Hoar, hear.) What manner of man Marlowe<br />
was in outward seeming I suppose nobody knows.<br />
Even if it were fmniliar to us, the counterfeit<br />
presentment could not have the force and signifi-<br />
cance of the beautiful figure which we owe to the<br />
art of the sculptor; but it is not with Marlowe; the<br />
man that we need busy ourselves, even if there<br />
were more material than there is for judgment of<br />
his brief and sad career, for it is the ideal of the<br />
poet whose " raptures were all air and fire" that<br />
must constantly be present to our minds as we gaze<br />
on this image of his worship. It recalls some<br />
of his own Hues which are eloquent of this<br />
devotion :—<br />
"Our souls, whose faculties can comprehend<br />
The wondrous architecture of the world,<br />
And measure every wandering planet's course,<br />
Still climbing after knowledge infinite<br />
And always moving as the restless spheres,<br />
Will us to wear ourselves, anil never rest<br />
Until we reach the ripest fruit of all."<br />
The man who struck such chords as these is not<br />
unworthy of a monument in his native place.<br />
(Hear, hear.) It was Marlowe who first wedded<br />
the harmonies of the great organ of blank verse<br />
which peals through the centuries in the music of<br />
Shakespeare. It was Marlowe who first captured<br />
the majestic rhythms of our tongue, and whose<br />
"mighty line" is the most resounding note in<br />
England's literature. Whatever may be thought<br />
of his qualities as a dramatist, and whatever place<br />
he may hold amongst the great writers who framed<br />
the models of English tragedy, he stands foremost<br />
and apart as the poet who gave us, with a rare<br />
measure of richness, the literary form which is the<br />
highest achievement of poetic expression. I do not<br />
pretend to do justice to Marlowe in this very<br />
imperfect utterance of some thoughts which are in<br />
your minds. It has been a great privilege to me<br />
to come here to-day to perform an office which<br />
might have been placed in far worthier hands.<br />
But I am glad to have an opportunity of speaking<br />
as an Englishman of the claims of Marlowe's<br />
fame to be prized and cherished by his countrymen.<br />
His reputation should be an abiding element of our<br />
national pride. And, finally, as an actor, I am<br />
proud to remember that Marlowe's work, like<br />
Shakespeare's, was written primarily for the stage,<br />
that, if not an actor himself, Marlowe was intimately<br />
associated with the actor's calling, and that the<br />
Elizabethan dramatists, with Shakespeare, the<br />
actor, at their head, in employing the stage as the<br />
first medium of their appeal to posterity linked it<br />
for ever witli an imperishable glory." (Cheers.)<br />
GOOD WORE, SURE PAY.<br />
IN a paragraph which recently appeared in the<br />
Author, under the somewhat mystic headline<br />
"One Word from you. Sir," literary aspirants<br />
who are constantly having their overtures declined<br />
by editors and publishers were exhorted to produce<br />
'• (food Work "—a direct and perfectly intelligible<br />
proposition—as the one way out of their difficulties;<br />
and they were further assured that " Good Work,"<br />
of no matter what kind, had always its mercantile<br />
value, and could always (consequently or presum-<br />
ably) command its price. It seems almost a pity<br />
that so genteel and reputable a fallacy, the<br />
fostering of which may suit the interests of more<br />
than one faction in the literary state, should be<br />
doomed to fall beneath the slow cruel axe of Time,<br />
yet fall it must. No doubt editors and publishers<br />
are made the recipients of a vast deal of trash (for<br />
which commodity, by-the-bye, there is always a<br />
brisk and healthy demand at the bookstalls, which<br />
makes it a wonder why publishers should decline<br />
any of it); but these gentlemen, who have some-<br />
how l>een empowered to direct and regulate the<br />
reading of the nation, may be accredited with dis-<br />
crimination sufficient to enable them to know the<br />
true metal from the base. But, distinctly and<br />
emphatically, once and for all, the refusal of a<br />
manuscript by an editor or publisher, or by all the<br />
editors and publishers existent, is simply no<br />
criterion of its merit; a fact which it seems the<br />
object of certain (possibly interested) persons to<br />
deny, conceal, or disguise, while it should l>o<br />
proclaimed far and wide. Need I do more than<br />
name the historic cases of " The Vicar of Wake-<br />
field," "Vanity Fair," and "Sartor Resartus "?<br />
The other day a highly popular and (it must be<br />
concluded) able author, who made his name two or<br />
three decades since, told me that " every publisher<br />
wants a good work, and would not refuse one."<br />
He subjoined—as if he were making an unexpected<br />
and handsome concession—" Of course a publisher's<br />
judgment is not infallible." We are told on<br />
good authority that there is nothing either good<br />
or Imd but thinking makes it so, and we may be<br />
sure that in most cases the non-accepting publisher<br />
thinks he is doing right. The fallacy which I<br />
have defined and denounced is bolstered up in<br />
other quarters. One example: A certain pub-<br />
lishing house in London issues a printed circular<br />
for the guidance, or rather misguidance, of<br />
uninitiated writers, wherein the latter are treated<br />
to the statement (in effect) that if he, the publisher,<br />
does not entertain a work, it is practically useless<br />
to try it elsewhere. Of course, every author who<br />
has a right to the name merely chuckles at such<br />
audacious irrelevancies. Then as for the printing<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 151 (#555) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
one's book at one's own expense, when publishers<br />
will not take the risk, a course which is uniformly<br />
discouraged by this Society (of which I have the<br />
honour to l>e a Member, and in regard to which I<br />
hope and predict great things). This position implies<br />
that if (say) half-a-dozen publishers decline your<br />
book the book is probably worthless, and had<br />
letter therefore be left unpublished. In the<br />
majority of cases this may Ik- the fact; in certain<br />
others it is quite otherwise. The writer of con-<br />
scious individuality and power will not have his<br />
faculty explained away thus lightly, and small<br />
wonder if, despite probable loss, he prints and<br />
pays for it. The weakling or pretender, on the<br />
other hand, is easily discouraged—and very pro-<br />
perly so. If the man who, in English creative<br />
and realistic art, stands next to Shakespeare, had<br />
not possessed both the courage and the money<br />
to print at his own cost, in the teeth of at least<br />
20 head-shaking publishers, the world might this<br />
day l>e without "Vanity Fair." Here we may<br />
pause and tremble. This ease may be claimed as<br />
exceptional. I do not think it is. I think—I<br />
fear—that masterpieces have been lost to us owing<br />
to the pecuniary helplessness of their producers.<br />
We cannot too much insist on the hard-and-fast<br />
distinction between intrinsic value and marketable<br />
value. The two are sometimes associated—not<br />
always. Every true man of letters will seek (at<br />
least so far as his own work is concerned) to make<br />
the two identical. But there seems to linger some<br />
little doubt or confusion on this point in the public<br />
head, unless it is that the idea that the successful<br />
book is the good book—an idea which, strange? to<br />
say, even successful authors will not very warmly<br />
combat—is fixed immovably there.<br />
C. Davenport Jones.<br />
[Our correspondent is perfectly right in his<br />
position that a good book may be refused by pub-<br />
lishers, and that the refusal is not in itself a<br />
sufficient condemnation. At the same time, our<br />
contention was, and is, that publishers are always<br />
on the look out for go<xl work—especially saleable<br />
work—and that no publisher will let good work—<br />
i.e., saleable work—leave his house if he can keep<br />
it there. This is equivalent to saying that pub-<br />
lishers are men of business, and that they do not<br />
go to their offices for the sake of fooling away their<br />
money. To argue that good l>ooks —i.e., saleable<br />
l>ooks—are often refused is to argue that publishers<br />
do not know their own business, and that their<br />
readers are incompetent. Does not our correspon-<br />
dent confuse two things, good literary work and<br />
good saleable work? It is quite possible that a<br />
very good liook indeed might be produced—good<br />
from the literary point of view—which would, be<br />
quite unsaleable for some defects, or from its length,<br />
or from its subject? For instance, a mathematical<br />
treatise on elasticity, such as is announced, would<br />
not l>e sold on the bookstalls. If Browning<br />
were an unknown person offering a MS. called<br />
"The King and the Book," nobody, certainly, would<br />
publish it for him, and it has been suggested that<br />
the reason why "Vanity Fair " was sent round to<br />
so many houses was its very great length, twice the<br />
length of an ordinary novel. To be sure it was<br />
not an ordinary novel. The advice persistently<br />
given by the Society to an author, not to publish at<br />
his own expense a work refused by publishers, is<br />
based on the assumption that the latter know their<br />
business, and that the work is commercially<br />
worthless. It may not lie artistically worthless, but<br />
that is a very different thing. We seek to protect<br />
our profession in all questions that have to do with<br />
their property. If they believe that their work<br />
ought to appear, without consideration of its<br />
commercial value, we can still protect them by<br />
keeping them in honest hands.—Editor.]<br />
+~~~*<br />
CORRESPONDENCE.<br />
1.<br />
The Statute of Limitations.<br />
IN 1886 I suggested a subject for an article to a<br />
magazine editor. The article was ordered and<br />
written, delivery being made in November 1886.<br />
After a long delay and some correspondence a proof<br />
wits submitted, corrected, and returned; the article<br />
has not yet appeared, and of course has not been<br />
paid for. If I allow the matter to remain another<br />
12 months, shall I be barred, by the Statute of<br />
Limitations, of power to recover at law? If I<br />
am to be so barred, is it possible to recover now,<br />
i.e., prior to the publication of the article, by taking<br />
out a county court summons, or by any other means?<br />
G. W.<br />
II.<br />
Fiction and Reality.<br />
Some years ago a well-known novelist described,<br />
let us say, a Polish Count as occupying rooms<br />
in the Grand Hotel in London. The other day<br />
two less well-known writers of fiction described<br />
another noble Pole as occupying rooms in the same<br />
hotel. Then comes a critic who wisely says,<br />
"This is shocking; it is a mixture of fiction and<br />
reality." Query: Which of the two Polish Counts<br />
is the live man?<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 152 (#556) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
in.<br />
Slating.<br />
One must hesitate before challenging Professor<br />
Skeat on a point of etymology. But may I call<br />
attention to the fact that in "Books and Bookmen"<br />
Mr. Andrew Lang, in a note to his " Ballads of the<br />
Ileal and Ideal," says:—" Slate is a professional<br />
term for a severe criticism. Clearly the word is<br />
originally 'slat,' a narrow board of wood with<br />
which a person might Ik; l>eaten." Webster gives<br />
the verb " slat," and the quotation from Marston :—<br />
"How did you kill him?<br />
Slat[t]ed his brains out."<br />
Surely this "will serve."<br />
Jamks Nias.<br />
IV.<br />
Words and Biucks.<br />
The writer of the following letter is evidently of<br />
opinion that "the Editor" should recognise his<br />
initials, and arrive at his subject by intuition. He<br />
also seems to think that words, like bricks, arc sold<br />
by the thousand, and that one man's word is as good<br />
as another's.<br />
Andrew W. Tukr.<br />
The Leadenhall Press, E.C.<br />
[Copy.]<br />
To the Editor of the Leadenhall Press.<br />
Dear Sir,<br />
I shoold feel obliged if you would inform<br />
mc whether you have any opening for a MS.<br />
consisting of 11,000 words, the Copyright of which<br />
I am desirous of selling. I want an early reply.<br />
Yours truly,<br />
P. 11. R.<br />
V.<br />
A Provident Society.<br />
Whether or not Mr. Andrew Lang believes in<br />
the existence of a New 'Grub Street, it is certain<br />
that some of us writing-people have a perpetual<br />
struggle to keep above water. May I suggest to<br />
you the possibility of forming an "Authors'<br />
Provident Society?" What I propose is this. A<br />
graduated scale of subscriptions varying according<br />
to the income of the writer, aud entitling him to a<br />
weekly amount in time of sickness or nou-employ-<br />
ment. I do not think you would find a single poor<br />
author who would be so foolish or so reckless as<br />
not to take advantage of a club of this kind. The<br />
fees might lie as low as is. 6d. a week, and the<br />
scheme be started on precisely the same lines as<br />
working men's sick benefit clubs. As to the rich<br />
authors, let them subserilK', and be entitled to some<br />
advantage; in the way of recommending a poorer<br />
brother for the club's aid.<br />
Quill Driver.<br />
VI.<br />
An Honourable Action.<br />
When so many unjust editors and publishers are<br />
pilloried in the Author, it is only fair to give some-<br />
times an opposite instance.<br />
I lately sent a book to certain publishers, and in<br />
time received a letter stating they were willing to<br />
give me so much—about three-quarters of what I<br />
expected—as the book would make a certain size—<br />
which, like the sum offered, was about a quarter<br />
less than I bad calculated. Greatly puzzled tliat<br />
my MS. should prove so short, I still thought that<br />
they must be able lxjst to judge the length it<br />
would make in print, and so I accepted the sum<br />
offered, and signed the agreement of copyright.<br />
But when the proof came, I found I had l>ecn<br />
right. The book was even longer than I expected.<br />
When I pointed this out to the publishers, they<br />
honourably gave me the remainder of the price<br />
without a question.<br />
But this is a hint to me—and may be to others—<br />
in future to notice very carefully the length of<br />
my MS. Other publishers might not be so just to<br />
the unwary writer.<br />
RossiGNOL.<br />
VII.<br />
Reviews and Newspapers.<br />
Your note in reply to my letter printed in the<br />
Author this month, does not seem to me to contain<br />
such a strong objection to what I propose as at<br />
first sight appears.<br />
I do not for a moment advocate that copies of<br />
new books should not be supplied to newspaper<br />
proprietors or editors by the publishers, but that,<br />
after the books have been sent, the bill for them<br />
should follow. The reviewer would be at no more<br />
trouble than now in getting his copy, for it would<br />
l>e supplied to him either by the publisher direct,<br />
or by the editor.<br />
It is only just that the books should be paid for<br />
by the newspaper proprietors, for it is primarily<br />
for the benefit of the papers that reviews are<br />
inserted therein.<br />
H. Haes.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 153 (#557) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
PAGES CUT OR UNCUT?<br />
SHALL we have our books and magazines cut<br />
or uncut?<br />
For the cutting of the pages the following<br />
advantages are claimed :—<br />
1. The convenience.<br />
One receives the book ready for reading, as it<br />
ought to be. A book whose pages have to be cut<br />
is not ready for the reader. It still lacks some-<br />
thing which must be done to it. Suppose the<br />
reader had to number the pages before he could<br />
begin the book. Yet to cut them is no more<br />
trouble.<br />
2. The neatness.<br />
Very few men can cut abook properly. They grow<br />
impatient; they slip the paper-knife and carve into<br />
the page; they hold it loosely and tear the page;<br />
the only way to get a neat edge is to cut the pages<br />
with a machine.<br />
3. The saving of time.<br />
To cut the pages of a thick octavo takes at least<br />
half-an-hour of valuable time. We do not waste<br />
half-an-hour in sweeping the floor, dusting the<br />
table, or laying the tire. Why should we waste<br />
our time in doing any other perfectly menial act,<br />
such as cutting the leaves of our books?<br />
4. Its cheapness.<br />
The cost of cutting the leaves is estimated at<br />
something under io«. per 1,000 volumes. This<br />
is nothing.<br />
Against these arguments it is urged that the<br />
fashion of collectors is the book with rough and<br />
uncut leaves; that a book which has been cut will<br />
not sell so well as an uncut book.<br />
But we are considering the general convenience<br />
of readers, not the hobbies of collectors; and the<br />
the interest of readers, we think, will be best served<br />
by giving them their books ready cut.<br />
- •<br />
"AT THE AUTHOR'S HEAD."<br />
AMONG the announcements of the season, we<br />
can pick out an edition de luxe of a volume<br />
of Essays by Professor Huxley; the " Vision<br />
of Saints," by Lewis Moris; a novel by J. M.<br />
Barrie—" The Little Minister "; a " Dictionary of<br />
Religion," by the Rev. AVilliam Benham; Dr.<br />
Cunningham Geikie on the Holy Land, with<br />
illustrations by that most charming artist, Mi-.<br />
Henry A. Harper; a cheap illustrated Edition of<br />
Farrar's " Life of Christ"; the eighth volume of<br />
Professor Morley's "English Writers"; Sidney<br />
Colvin's" Letters of Keats" ; Buchheim's "Balladen<br />
mid Romanzen "; the publication of Mr. Henry<br />
A. Jones's "Saints and Sinners"; new tales by<br />
Marion Crawford, Rudvard Kipling, and Rolf<br />
Boldrewood; a book on the Elements of Polities<br />
by Henry Sedgwick; Sir William Muir's "History<br />
of the Caliphate "; new novels by George Manville<br />
Fenn and Algernon Gissing; verses by George<br />
Sand; "Hone Sabbatiea'," a collection of essays<br />
contributed to the Saturday lieview by Sir James<br />
F. Stephen; essays by E. A. Freeman; a novel by<br />
Mr. J. H. Shorthouse; a novel by Mrs. Oliphant;<br />
essays by Bishop Lightfoot; sermons by the late<br />
Dean of St. Paul's, by F. Denison Maurice, by<br />
Archdeacon Farrar, by Professor Kirkpatrick;<br />
two new volumes of " Men of Action "; "Rodney,"<br />
by Mr. Hannay; and " Montrose," by Mr. Mowbray<br />
Morris; two new volumes of " English Statesmen ";<br />
Mr. Churton Collins 011 the Study of English Lite-<br />
rature; a posthumous work of Gifford Palgrave;<br />
novels by Clark Russell, Miss Doudney, C. J.<br />
Wills, Florence Marryat, Norris, Rider Haggard,<br />
Baring Gould, L. T. Meade, Hall Caine, Jessie<br />
Fothergill, Robert Buchanan, Tasma, Maarten<br />
Maartens, Mrs. Chandler Moulton, and many<br />
others. It is, as said elsewhere, a truly wonderful<br />
list; but then it is addressed to a hundred millions<br />
of readers.<br />
An example of the growing curiosity on the<br />
continent about English contemporary literature is<br />
a translation of Mr. Swinburne's "Poems and<br />
Ballads," 1st Series, into French by Gabriel<br />
Mourey, with an introduction by M. Guv de Mau-<br />
passant, the greatest, perhaps, of living French<br />
novelists. As in all translations, the magic of Un-<br />
original has disappeared, but admirers of Mr.<br />
Swinburne (that is to say, all competent judges of<br />
poetry) should get this work, if only for the intro-<br />
duction. The "Poems and Ballads," though Mr.<br />
Swinburne calls them "Peches de Jennesse," are<br />
after all one of the milestones in our life of literary<br />
appreciation. Nothing can ever quite take their<br />
place, thoHgh we have become old, good, anil<br />
respectable.<br />
Everyone will have read with interest Mr.<br />
Archer's article on Maeterlinck, the new Belgian<br />
dramatist, in the September number of the<br />
Fortnightly Review. This is, however, by 110<br />
means the first account of his marvellous dramas<br />
that have been written in England. A review of<br />
"La Princesse Maleinc" appeared in the St.<br />
James' Gazette a long while ago, and in the June<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 154 (#558) ############################################<br />
<br />
154<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
number of the Author there was a critical estimate<br />
of Maeterlinck's dramatic and literary methods in<br />
"Les Avengles" anil "LTntruse." Mr. Archer<br />
writes as if he were the first in the field. Mr.<br />
Heinemann is about to publish a translation of "La<br />
Princesse Maleine," with an introduction by Mr.<br />
Oscar Wilde, and then everyone will have an<br />
opportunity of judging the merits of the Flemish<br />
Shakespeare.<br />
In the next Author there will be something<br />
more, it is hoped, about the i st issue of the Oriental<br />
Translation Fund (new series), edited bv Dr. F. F.<br />
Arbuthnot, M.R.A.S., printed and published under<br />
the auspices of the Royal Asiatic Society. The<br />
undertaking is due to the energetic and untiring<br />
efforts of the editor, who is a well-known expert<br />
in Oriental literature. Uninitiated readers should<br />
not be frightened by the name "Rawsat-Safa, or<br />
the Garden of Purity." Some of the Persian<br />
versions of the old familiar Biblical stories are<br />
delightful, being no less interesting to Christians<br />
than Moslems.<br />
Miss Frances Younghusband, the able trans-<br />
lator of the "Myths of Hellas" has again used her<br />
talents by a version of Witt's "Retreat of the<br />
Ten Thousand," which is based on Xenophon's<br />
"Anabasis." Xothing could possibly be better<br />
done, though Miss Younghusband might give us<br />
some original work for which she is so thoroughly<br />
capable. The illustrations are artistic and in-<br />
structive, and go far to enhance the value of this<br />
work. Many schoolboys would like to confine<br />
their knowledge of Xenophon to Miss Young-<br />
husband's version, but let us hope that it will<br />
regenerate them rather than spoil them for their<br />
Greek studies. The book is published by Messrs.<br />
Longman.<br />
"The Critic's exposure of the young man who<br />
passed himself off on credulous Americans as a<br />
brother of Mr. Walter Besant had the effect of<br />
stopping his depredations upon the literary guild,<br />
and turning him off to prey upon the represen-<br />
tatives of other professions. Sir Morell Mackenzie<br />
has receive:! a letter from Mr. A. P. Gordon<br />
Gumming, in which the latter informs the eminent<br />
'medicine man' of his son's appearance at<br />
Sykesville, en route to Xew York, after a disastrous<br />
experience on the stage in Australia. And one of<br />
Sir Morell's veritable sons, who is an actor and<br />
manager, and calls himself H. H. Morell, without<br />
the Mackenzie, writes to the Spirit of the Times<br />
from London that he himself is the only son of his<br />
father who is connected with the theatrical pro-<br />
fession, and that his only brother is a physician.<br />
Mr. Morell is Miss Fortescue's manager. The<br />
Dramatic Jfirror also has exposed his swindling<br />
double."—Xew York Critic.<br />
Miss Frances Armstrong, author of "Her Own<br />
Way," &c. has brought out a new novel called<br />
"Changed Lots." Griffith and Farran. 5*.<br />
Dr. L. A. Buchheim sends a copy of his<br />
"Balladen und Romanzen" (Macmillan & Co.).<br />
It is a selection of German ballads uniform with<br />
the "Golden Treasury," and belonging to the<br />
series so-called. It is a very beautiful collection,<br />
and ought most certainly to be in the jwssession of<br />
all who read and love German poetry. A portrait<br />
of Uhland adorns the title page. It is a pity<br />
that it was not taken before the poet's hair fell off.<br />
A lady sends me a little volume of verse called,<br />
simply, " Poems," bearing the initials "D. M. B."<br />
and with the names of "Young and Cooper,<br />
Maidstone," on the title page. It is a very little<br />
volume, and there are in it verses which are quite<br />
too simple for publication. On the other hand,<br />
there are sonnets which seem to have the true<br />
ring, and we may very well imagine this writer<br />
soaring high above these early rhymes, and be-<br />
coming ashamed of them. Then this copy in my<br />
hands would become rare and priceless. May this<br />
be so!<br />
William Westall is writing Christmas stories for<br />
the Manchester Weekly Times and the Glasgmc<br />
Herald. He has also written a short serial for the<br />
Traveller, a new magazine which is to appear<br />
in December, and a novel which is being syndicated<br />
by the Authors' Syndicate, and will "run" in<br />
sundry English and American newspapers next<br />
year.<br />
"It is said that there are three million volumes<br />
of unsold novels lying on the shelves of the Paris<br />
publishers, and that the number increases every<br />
dav. What to do with these unsold and apparently<br />
unsaleable b >oks is a problem. It was proposed by<br />
someone that they should be distributed at country<br />
fairs as prizes for children, instead of gingerbread<br />
or Scripture texts. The innocent country people<br />
were greatly pleased with this proposition, and<br />
quite e.iger to accept it; but the more knowing<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 155 (#559) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
i55<br />
prefect of police interfered and stopped the dis-<br />
tribution; not, however, until some volumes had<br />
been given away. It is hoped that the local<br />
Sunday schools will put in their best work in this<br />
neighbourhood l>efore the seed already sown has<br />
bourgeoned ami born fruit."—New York Critic.<br />
Miss Elizabeth Bisland is said to be now engaged<br />
on a romance and play in collaboration with Bhoda<br />
Broughton.<br />
Mrs. Bernhard Whishnw has disposed of the<br />
American rights of "Zephyr," and it will be produced<br />
before long in New York with Miss Loie Fuller in<br />
the title part. It will be remembered that this<br />
young actress made a decided hit its " Zephyrina"<br />
when the play was performed at the Opera Comique<br />
last May.<br />
A new volume by Mr. J. E. Gore, F.B.A.S.,<br />
entitled, " Star Groups: a Students Guide to the<br />
Constellations," is in the press, and will be published<br />
immediately by Messrs. Crosby, Lockwood, and<br />
Son, Stationers' Hall Court.<br />
The following books are about to be issued by<br />
Miss Bramstou, author of " Apples of Sodom " :—<br />
"Abby's Discoveries." Tale of child-life 5o years<br />
ago. National Society.<br />
"A Village Genius." Story of the Composer of<br />
the Passions music still sung at Ober<br />
Ammergau. National Society.<br />
"Neal Russell." One-volume tale, suitable for<br />
free and parish libraries. Swan, Sonnenschein<br />
Miss Jessie M. Barker's "Daisy's Dream: a<br />
Story of the Earth and its Sculptors," is to appear<br />
in the October, November, anil December parts of<br />
the Girls' Own Paper.<br />
"In Two Moods," by Stepniak and Westall,<br />
from the Russian of Korolenko, was published on<br />
September 18, in New York, by the American<br />
Book Company; and in London by Ward and<br />
Downey.<br />
Mrs. Alfred Baldwin has a one-volume novel in<br />
the press called "Where Town and Country meet."<br />
It will be published by Longmans and Co.<br />
Mr. Bertram Milford will publish in the middle<br />
of October a novel called "Golden Fan : A Tale of<br />
the Wild AVest." (Trischler and Co.)<br />
A new edition of "The Sandcliff Mystery," by<br />
Scott Graham, author of " The Golden Milestone,"<br />
"A Bolt from the Blue," &c, is published at 2s.<br />
and 2*. 6d. by Messrs. Oliphant, Anderson, and<br />
Ferrier.<br />
Mrs. Jenner's novel "Love or Money," which<br />
has been running in Temple Bar, will be issued in<br />
volume form on October the 19th. Bentley and<br />
Son are the publishers.<br />
Miss Selina Gaye's new book "From Advent to<br />
Advent " was published in the summer by Messrs.<br />
Griffith and Farran. 2i3pp. Price 3-v. bd.<br />
The forthcoming memoir of the late Watts<br />
Phillips, which is to be issued by Messrs. Cassell<br />
and Co., is written by Miss Emma Watts Phillips,<br />
the sister, not the daughter, of the subject.<br />
Mr. Walts Phillips had one daughter only, who is<br />
now in Australia.<br />
NEW BOOKS AND NEW EDITIONS.<br />
Theology.<br />
Drivf.u, S. R., I).I). An Introduction to the Literature of<br />
tlie (Jlil Testament. Clark, George Street, Edinburgh.<br />
Vol. of the International Theological Library. 12*.<br />
McEvilly, Most Rev. J., 1).I>. An Exposition of the<br />
Epistles of St. l'uul anil of the Catholic Epistles.<br />
With introductions, analyses, a paraphrase of the text,<br />
and a commentary, interspersed with moral reflections.<br />
Two vols. Fourth Edition, revised. Dublin: M. II.<br />
Gill.<br />
PiiKi-rs, Austin, LL.D., D.I). My Note Hook. Frag-<br />
mentary studies in theology and subjects adjacent<br />
thereto. With portrait. Fisher 1'uwiu. 6s.<br />
Thk Powkb of thk Phkskxck of God. Hy the Author of<br />
"Prayers and Responses for the Household." Skeffing-<br />
tou. Paper covers.<br />
Stkwart, Pkof. Alkxandkb. Handbook of Christian<br />
Evidences. A. and C. Black, (xl.<br />
Tkmperaxtia. Ity the Kev. H. H. Gowen. Six Short<br />
Sermons on the Apostles Creed. By the Kev. J. J.<br />
Soden, M.A. Short Sermons for Children. By the<br />
Kev. H. J. Wilmot Buxton, M.A. Third Edition. On<br />
the Way Home. Sixty Short Sermons for Life's<br />
Travellers. By the Kev. W. H. Jones. Sermon Out-<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 156 (#560) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE AUTHOR.<br />
lines. By the Bev. V. St. John Corbett, M.A. The<br />
Master's Message. A Series of Plain Sermons, By<br />
the Rev. H. .1. Wilmot Buxton, M.A. Sermons for the<br />
Christian Year. Two vols. By the Rev. A. Noel<br />
Hunt, B.A. Skeffington, Piccadilly.<br />
History and Biography.<br />
Belcher, T. W., D.l). Robert Brett (of Stoke Newington),<br />
his Life and Work. Griffith, Furruii. 3s. bd.<br />
Brown, James. The History of Sanquhar. Burgh Asses-<br />
sor. To which is added the Flora and Fauna of the<br />
district. By Dr. Anatruthcr Davidson. Anderson,<br />
Dumfries.<br />
Crump, C. G. Imaginary Conversations. By Walter<br />
Savage Landor. With biographical and explanatory<br />
notes. In Six vols. Vol. II. J. M. Dent, Great<br />
Kastern Street. 3s. bd. net.<br />
Dictionary of National Biography. Kdited by Sidney<br />
Lee. Vol. XXVIII. Howard—Inglethorp. Smith,<br />
Elder.<br />
Evkbard, Major H. History of the 29th (Worcestershire)<br />
Foot, Thos. Farrington's Regiment. (1694 to 1891.)<br />
Worcester: Littlebury & Co.<br />
Fitzgerald, Percy, F.S.A. Life of James Boswcll (of<br />
Auchinleck), with an account of his sayings, doings,<br />
and writings. Two vols., with four portraits. Chatto<br />
and Windus.<br />
Historic Houses ok the United Kingdom. Descriptive,<br />
Historical, Pictorial. Part I. Cassell. Paper, jd.<br />
Hoddkr, Kdwin. George Fife Angas, Father and Founder<br />
of South Australia. With portrait. Hodder and<br />
Stoughton. 11 at.<br />
Hume, Martin A. S. Chronicle of King Henry VIII. of<br />
England: being a Contemporary Record of some of<br />
the Principal Events of the Reigns of Henry VIII. and<br />
Edward VI. Written in Spanish by an unknown<br />
hand. Translated, with notes and introduction, by.<br />
George Bell. is. bd.<br />
Law, George, B.A. History of Hampton Court Palace.<br />
Vol. III. Orange and Guelph times. George Bell.<br />
Lewis, J. G. Christopher Marlowe: Outlines of his Life<br />
and Works. Gibbings, Bury Street, W.C.<br />
Muir, Sir W. The Caliphate, its Rise, Decline, and Fall.<br />
8vo. 1 os. 6'/., cloth.<br />
Sydney, W. Connor. England and the English in the 18th<br />
Century; Chapters in the Social History of the Times.<br />
Two vols. Ward and Downey.<br />
Educational.<br />
Bebesford-Webb, H. S. German Military and Naval<br />
Reading Book: For the use of Candidates for Army<br />
and other Examinations. Percival, Covent Garden.<br />
Ss.<br />
Fletcher, Banister. Dilapidations; A Text-book for<br />
Architects and Surveyors, in tabulated form, corrected<br />
to the present Time, with all the most recent legal<br />
cases. With the Conveyancing and Law of Property<br />
Act and the Agricultural Holdings (England) Act.<br />
Fourth Edition. B. T. Batsford, 5z, High Holboru.<br />
6s. 6d.<br />
Kingsbury, G. C, M.A., M.D. The practice of Hypnotic<br />
Suggestion, an Elementary Handbook for the use of<br />
the Medical Profession. Siutpkiu.<br />
Marshall, A. Milnes, M.D. The Frog: An Introduction<br />
to Anatomy, Histology, and Embryology. Fourth<br />
Edition, revised and illustrated. Smith, Elder.<br />
Martinkau, G. A Village Class for Drawing and<br />
Wood Carving, is. 6d., cloth.<br />
Nisbet, H. Lessons in Art. Crown 8vo. is. 6d., cloth.<br />
Ostwale, W. Solutions. Being the Fourth Book, with<br />
some additions, of the Second Edition of Ostwald's<br />
"Lehrbuch der Allgemeineu Chemie," translated by<br />
M. M. Pattison Muir, Fellow of Gouville and Cains<br />
College, Cambridge. Longmans. 10s. bd.<br />
Philip's New Series of Travelling Maps: South Ame-<br />
rica, with Index. George Philip, Fleet Street.<br />
Solly, J. Raymond. Acting and the Art of Speech at the<br />
Paris Conservatoire. Hints on reading, reciting, acting,<br />
and the cure of stammering. Elliot Stock.<br />
Solms-Laubach, H. Graf. Fossil Botany, being an Intro-<br />
duction to Palffophytology from the Standpoint of the<br />
Botanist. The authorised Kuglish translation by Henry<br />
E. F. Garnsey, M A., Fellow of Magdalen College,<br />
Oxford, revised by Isaac Bayley Balfour, M.A., M.D.,<br />
F. R.S. With illustrations. Clarendon Press. 18s.<br />
A Text Book of Musical Knowledge. Part II., Inter-<br />
mediate. Part III., Senior. Also Questions and<br />
Exercises intended for practical use during the study<br />
of the foregoing. Prepared for the use of Students,<br />
more especially for the local examinations in musical<br />
knowledge of Trinity College, London. Hammond,<br />
Vigo Street, is. each.<br />
General Literature.<br />
Adams, F. John Webb's End. 2*.<br />
Alexander, Mrs. A Woman's Heart. A Novel in 3 vols.<br />
F. V. White.<br />
Well Won. In 1 vol. F. V. White. Paper<br />
covers, is.<br />
Bali.axtyne, R. M. The Buffalo Runners. A Tale of the<br />
Red River Plains. Illustrated by the author. James<br />
Nisbet. Ss.<br />
Behnke, Emil. Stammering: its Nature and Treatment.<br />
Second thousand. Fisher Unwiu.<br />
Besant, W. Armorel of Lyonesse. 3s. bd.<br />
Burton, Mina E. Ruling the Planets. 3 vols. Richard<br />
Bentley.<br />
Carey, R. N. Our Bessie. 3s.<br />
Colvills, H. E. Wafted Seeds. Nisbet. is.<br />
Cook, W. The Horse: its Keep and Management, is.bd.<br />
Craik, Georoina M. (Mrs. A. W. May). Patience Holt:<br />
a Novel. 3 vols. Bentley.<br />
Davenport-Adams, W. With Poet and Player. Essays<br />
on Literature and the Stage. Elliot Stock,<br />
Dawson, W. J. The Redemption of Edward Stratum: a<br />
Social Story. Hodder and Stoughton. 3s. bd.<br />
Donovan, Dick. A Detective's Triumphs. Chatto and<br />
Windus.<br />
Edgar, Matilda. Ten Years of Upper Canada in Peace<br />
and War—i8o5-i8i5—being the Ridout Letters, with<br />
annotations. Fisher Unwin. 10s. bd.<br />
Fenn, G. M. Mahine Nousie. 2 vols. 21s.<br />
<br />
<br />
## p. 157 (#561) ############################################<br />
<br />
THE A<br />
UTHOR.<br />
Ford, James L. Hypnotic and Other Tales. Illustrated.<br />
Brentano's, West Strand.<br />
Fotheroill, Jessie. Aldyth: or, Let the Knd Try the<br />
Man. A Story. Rentier.<br />
Frederic, Harold. In the Valley: a Novel. Popular<br />
edition. Heinemann. 3s. 6d.<br />
Gaskell, Mrs. Mary Barton. With biographical intro-<br />
duction. Volume of the Minerva Library. Ward,<br />
Lock, Bowden. IS.<br />
Gellie, M. K. (M.K.B.). Raffan's Folk: a Story of a High-<br />
land Parish. I lines, Bedford Street.<br />
Green, K. E. Fir Tree Farm. 5«.<br />
Haggard, H. Bider. Maiwa's Revenge: or, The War of<br />
the Little Hand. Illustrated. Longmans. is.<br />
Henty, G. A. Tliose Other Animals. With portrait of<br />
the author, and illustrations by Harrison Weir. Volume<br />
of the Whitefriars Library of Wit and Humour.<br />
Henry, Bouverie Street. 3s. 6</.<br />
Herman, Henry. Scarlet Fortune: a Story of the New<br />
World and the Old. Trischler. Coloured boards, is.<br />
Hudson, W. C. The Man with a Thumb. Cassell. is.<br />
Huefher, F. H. Madox. The Brown Owl: a Fairy<br />
Story. With two illustrations by F. Madox Browne.<br />
Volume of the Children's Library. Fisher I'nwin.<br />
is. 6d.<br />
Hughes, Josiah. Australia Revisited in 1890: being<br />
Kxtracts from the Diary of a Trip Bound the World.<br />
Simpkin, Marshall.<br />
Johnston, H. H., C.B., &c. Livingstone and the Explora-<br />
tion of Central Africa. With illustrations and maps<br />
by E. G. Bavenstein, F.B.G.S. George Philip.<br />
4*. 6d.<br />
Kenton, F. G., M.A. Classical Texts from Papyri in the<br />
British Museum; including the newly-discovered poems<br />
of Herodas. With autotype facsimiles of MSS.<br />
Clarendon Press.<br />
K.NEirp, Sebastian. My Water Cure, as tested through<br />
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Hopkins. Methuen.<br />
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Molesworth, Mrs. The Red Grange: a Tale. Illus-<br />
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Phillpotts, Edex. Folly and Fresh Air. Trischler.<br />
Potter, G. W., M.I). Ministering Women: the Story of<br />
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Walford, L. B. The Mischief of Monica: a Novel.<br />
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Watson, H. Marriott. The Web of the Spider: a Talc<br />
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Witt, Emilie de. Sinner or Scientist: a Novel. Tallis,<br />
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Poetry and the Drama.<br />
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Chambers, R. The Life and Works of Robert Hurns.<br />
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is.<br />
Williamson, J. K. A Ballad of a Jester and other Poems.<br />
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