[Pg 63]
THE WRITER:
A MONTHLY MAGAZINE TO INTEREST AND HELP ALL LITERARY WORKERS.
| VOL. VI. |
BOSTON, APRIL, 1892. |
No. 4. |
Copyright, 1892, by William H. Hills. All rights reserved.
Entered at the Boston Post-office as Second-class mail matter.
CONTENTS
WALT WHITMAN IN EUROPE.
SHALL WRITERS COMBINE?
NEWSPAPER COOKERY.
DO THE BEST WRITERS WRITE?
FASHIONS IN LITERATURE.
SNEAK REPORTING.
A PLEA FOR THE NOM DE PLUME.
TO WRITE OR NOT TO WRITE.
THE DELUGE OF VERSE.
CONCERNING SONNETS.
THE SCRAP BASKET.
THE USE AND MISUSE OF WORDS.
BOOK REVIEWS.
BOOKS RECEIVED.
HELPFUL HINTS AND SUGGESTIONS.
LITERARY ARTICLES IN PERIODICALS.
NEWS AND NOTES.
WALT WHITMAN IN EUROPE.
With the death and burial of Walt Whitman passes away the most
picturesque figure of contemporary literature.
It is true that in England the name of the poet is more familiar than
his poetry, and that students of literature are more conversant with the
nature of his writings than are the mass of general readers; yet the
character of the man and the spirit of his compositions were rapidly
beginning to be appreciated by, and to sway an influence over, the whole
higher intelligence of the country.
Considering the man and his works, it is almost surprising to find how
easily he did conquer for himself an audience, and even admirers, in
England. He was par excellence a contemporary American. Not that
American who clings to the Puritanic traditions of his English
ancestors, but that characteristic product of the New World who looks
more with eagerness to the future than with satisfaction on the past,
and whose pre-eminent optimism is inspired by his ardent appreciation of
the living present. Walt Whitman stood forth as an innovator into such
realms, where the rigor of conditions demanded an abstract compliance
with rules which were based on absolute truths, and where a swerving
from them was evidence of impotence. His unconventional forms, the
rhymeless rhythm of his verses, which, in appearance, resembled more a
careless prosody than a delicately attuned poesy,—this alone was enough
to provoke, at first, an incredulous smile, even among those whose
tastes were endowed with more penetration. But Walt Whitman stood forth,
besides, as the representative of a principle which, as yet, is looked
upon with suspicion by the old world,—of the principle of a broad,
grand, all-embracing democracy, which elevates manhood above all forms,
all conditions, and all limitations.
The question where metre comes in in poetry, whether it is simply a
means of accentuating rhythm, and is not the rhythm itself, and whether
it is legitimate to do as Whitman did, to prolong the rhythmic phrase at
the expense of metre, until the sense is completed,—all this was a
problem for the professors and the critics to decide, and they might
wrangle as they pleased. But here was Walt Whitman, recognizing no
beauty higher than creative nature, recognizing no law greater than the
spontaneous dictates of the moral personality; here was Walt Whitman, a
pagan, a pantheist, who recognized more divinity in an outcast human[Pg 64]
being than in a grandly ordained king, who acknowledged nothing higher
than the dignity of the human individuality,—all this was enough to
make sober people pause and think, if not shudder.
'Tis true that some, almost all the representative men of literature in
England, recognized in Walt Whitman, from the first, a beauty, a
grandeur, which appealed to and captivated their higher susceptibilities
and mental appreciation. Such critics as George Eliot, Dowden, and even
Matthew Arnold, and such poets as Tennyson, Swinburne, and even William
Morris, have uttered expressions of the warmest appreciation of his
great talent; but the class of general readers are not endowed with such
discrimination, and his works, till very recently, were excluded from
the shelves of libraries which were catholic enough to embrace the
writings of the earliest saints and the latest productions of Zola—on
the ground that his poetry was too demoralizing for the general public.
This is not a general statement. I have a specific instance in view,
when, in 1886, I went to the Leinster House in Dublin—the public
library of the place—and asked for Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass." On
being informed that they had no copy of it in the library, I put down
the book in the suggestion list. A number of Trinity students did the
same. The matter was brought before the directors at their monthly
meeting, and it appears it was strenuously objected to by the librarian,
who pleaded the exclusion of the book on the ground of its being
immoral, indecent! We carried the fight from private discussion to
correspondence in the press; the editor of the Dublin University
Review put the pages of the magazine at our disposal, and it was not
until a year afterwards, and until considerable pressure was brought on
the directors, that "Leaves of Grass" was admitted into the catalogues
of the Dublin library.
But the genuine merit of Walt Whitman's works, as the true inspiration
of individualistic genius is always destined to do, is rapidly
conquering the opposition and prejudice even of those whose obtuse minds
seldom discover the intrinsic good motive frequently underlying an
indifferent form. Those whose objections rested on their incapacity of
penetrating further than the surface of the headline are rapidly
beginning to discern in Walt Whitman's writings a force, a sentiment, a
moral passion, and a natural grandeur that is amply compensating for the
occasional roughness or looseness of the expressions he mirrors them in.
Before his death the good old poet had not only the satisfaction of
knowing that his writings have been widely read and universally
commented on, but he had the pleasure of seeing his "Leaves of Grass"
translated into German by T. W. Rolleston, of Dublin, and Professor
Schwartz, of Dresden, of having parts of it translated into French, and
a few years ago Mr. Lee consulted me as to the advisability of rendering
them into Russian, parts of the book having already been published in
the periodicals of the Russian emigrés in Switzerland. Not only this,
but his innovations, his genius, have even founded a school, and has a
following. The little volume published some time ago in England, under
the title "Toward Democracy," by Ed. Carpenter, written in the same
style as "The Leaves of Grass," is also gradually finding its way to the
surface of the highest consideration. And such passages as this, when
Nature is calling to man:—
"I, Nature, stand and call to you, though you heed not:
"Have courage, come forth, O child of mine, that you may see me."
"As a nymph of the invisible air before her mortal beloved, so I glance
before you. I dart and stand in your path, and turn away from your
heedless eyes like one in pain. I am the ground; I listen to the sound
of your feet. They come nearer. I shut my eyes and feel their tread over
my face," etc. etc.; or such an outburst as this: "Ireland—liberty's
deathless flame leaping on her Atlantic shore,"—are enough to convince
the human mind that men who write them can be actuated only by impulses
of which genius alone is capable!
It is this impulse—this sober, solemn love pervading the writings of
Walt Whitman which has invested his compositions with a property far
transcending in genuine beauty the effusions of those poets whose object
in writing is more the display of a capacity for finished manipulation[Pg 65]
of delicate form, than the manifestation of a free conception of a grand
spirit. Walt Whitman is spontaneous without being careless. His style is
unhesitating, his diction is flowing, smooth, without being searching or
verbose! It seems as if his soul were responsive—not plaintively, but
appreciatively responsive—to all the chords, influences, and objects of
nature; and that his imagination were absorptive enough to embrace and
love, and reflect all changes and transitions of light and shadow in
nature and life, particularly in the inner human life,—for Walt
Whitman's love for humanity, permeating all his writings, has more
grandeur than the most heroic of classic epics!
Roman I. Zubof.
Boston, Mass.
SHALL WRITERS COMBINE?
Things in this world are often the precise opposite of what we should
expect. The shoemaker's wife and the blacksmith's horse frequently go
poorly shod. The man who makes his sole living from the product of his
brains does not use them in disposing of his wares. He remains the slave
of publishers who have enriched themselves from his labor, while he
thoughtlessly plods on, apparently content with a few crumbs from the
feast which he has provided for them.
One striking difference between the two halves of the nineteenth century
is the gigantic combination which the shuttle of these latter years is
weaving. The wealth of no single man was found sufficient to place a
railroad across the continent. Men combined their capital, and to-day we
can ride from New York to San Francisco in a car as luxuriously
furnished as a drawing-room. Had it not been for this union of dollars,
we should to-day be forced to use the stage coach or to walk. When the
railroads were once built, their owners found combination necessary to
keep them from cutting each other's throats and to maintain a good rate
of profit.
By combination the working man has reduced his hours of toil, obtained a
fairer share of the profits coming to capital from his labor, and made
his own life better worth the living. These concessions did not come
voluntarily: combination wrung them from capital, and then stood guard
over them.
The author stands almost alone with no union among his craft. The
refiners of sugar and coal oil, the makers of matches, lead-pencils,
screws,—in short, almost all other interests,—have some sort of
combination. The brewers stand by each other in fixing the price of
beer, and if a saloon keeper fails to pay one brewer, the others will
not furnish him with the product of their vats.
There is plenty of freemasonry among publishers. Their contracts read
very much alike. They resort to the same subterfuges to get the lion's
share of the profits. They care nothing for the logic of the situation.
What did a grasping palm ever care for logic which told against itself?
An American author has just shown by indisputable figures that many of
our publishers treat the writers of books as badly as the worst Hebrew
sweating shops do their employees. An author in one instance worked for
years upon a book which had every prospect of not being ephemeral. He
signed a contract with a firm of publishers to receive a ten-percent.
royalty only after the first thousand copies were sold. The work had
much free advertising and sold well, as many booksellers testified. More
than two years have elapsed since it appeared, and though clerks in book
stores still say it sells well, the author has never received a cent for
those weary years of labor. He knows there is an Indian lurking
somewhere in the forest, but one author is not powerful enough to enter
and dislodge the enemy.[Pg 66]
It may do us good to know that the English Society of Authors protects
writers from dishonest publishers; but why should not our authors form a
union of their own and enjoy the same advantages? It has been shown that
our literary men have been repeatedly imposed upon; that the publisher
in many cases takes all the profits; that his accounts are not open to
the verifiable inspection of authors; and that this is one of the few
exceptions of the kind in all business, that one of two interested
partners is alone allowed to audit the accounts.
Mr. Besant has shown that in England the perfectly honest publisher is a
rare exception. Are Englishmen less honest than Americans? Or is it true
that human nature is very much alike everywhere and easily warped to
look at things only in the line of its own advantage, wherever that can
be done without coming to the knowledge of the world?
There will, of course, be strong opposition on the part of publishers to
the formation of any protective authors' association, which would insist
that the writer know the exact facts in those cases in which he is to be
a partner in the share of the profits from his own work. If only a few
authors joined the movement, publishers would undoubtedly combine to
boycott them; but here, as in England, safety will be found in numbers.
There is not a railroad in the United States that dares select any
special engineer and treat him unjustly. The Brotherhood of Locomotive
Engineers is too strong to admit that for one week.
Some hysterical publisher may exclaim, "If you think we are rascals, you
had better not deal with us." Ask him what he would think of the
president and the cashier of a national bank if they said to the
examiner, "You have come here to insult us by implying that we would
steal the depositors' money. We resent such treatment; we are honest."
"Why, then, do you object to a careful inspection of your methods?" asks
the examiner.
"Because it throws suspicion on us," is the reply.
"Are you aware that officials with reputations quite as good as yours
are now embezzlers in foreign lands? I want to remove from you the
temptation of making money in that way, so that nothing may rest heavily
on your consciences in the great hereafter."
"Nevertheless, we object to an examination."
"Then I had better at once go over your accounts thoroughly. I shall
probably be here several days."
History tells us that for a long time the English Parliament forbade any
newspaper to publish a line of what was said there. A disobedient editor
was speedily imprisoned. The members desired to receive bribes for their
votes in as many cases as possible. If a member could keep his
constituents in ignorance of the way he voted, he could often make money
by voting in opposition to their interests. Of course, he dreaded to
have the newspapers turn the light on his record, and he developed many
remarkable arguments against such privileges on the part of the press.
When more light streams in on certain publishers' methods, authors may
then be able to select better men to represent them.
It has been said that the jealousy of authors is such as to keep them
from working in harmony; that authors who have won their spurs have a
supreme contempt for one who has not; that they omit no opportunity of
indulging in sarcasm at his expense; that they would not throw him a
plank if he were drowning, unless they could so throw it as to strike
him on the head. If this were so, they would not differ much from the
world in general, for it will not give quarter to any man who cannot
claim it by his own might. But the case of Mr. Besant, the president of
the English Society, disproves these sweeping statements against
authors. He stands among the foremost of living novelists, and yet he is
willing to spend a great deal of his valuable time to assist a writer
just beginning to climb the tiresome ladder. This pure and undefiled
religion of being willing to help a fellow-toiler is far more common
than cynics will allow. It prevails among engineers, factory hands, and
miners. With the exception of a few cads, it is doubtful if authors have
sunk so low in the scale of humanity as to be unwilling to assist each
other, when by so doing they will help themselves.
Some authors have been dreaming of a time when they could control the
entire literary output[Pg 67] of the United States in the same way that the
Standard Oil Company controls kerosene, or the chief of the Brotherhood
of Locomotive Engineers directs his men. He can tie up any railroad with
a snap of his finger if his men are not treated squarely. In such a
literary dreamland an author might do one-third of his present work and
get far more pay than now. Publishers and editors would not then have a
superfluity of matter. They would then have to bow to the authors' trust
before the desired material could be obtained.
It might be claimed that if writers would pool their issues, put their
manuscripts into a common stock, allow the publisher to select from them
at a good round figure, and after a certain lapse of time burn all the
rejected ones,—there would be less work and more money for all authors.
Of course, it would be necessary to have a committee to decide when an
author wrote well enough to be admitted to the pool, and also to
determine what greater portion of the common fund the authors of
specially meritorious work should receive.
Such a scheme certainly does work with sugar, kerosene, starch, and
numberless other articles; but it is more than doubtful if it would
prevail in literature. Some authors would be too desirous of seeing
themselves constantly before the public. They could not be prevailed
upon to limit the output of their brain, and they would be conceited
enough to demand that everything appear in print.
It is well to lay aside thoughts of such a Utopia until we have secured
an authors' protective association of wide membership, with permanent
headquarters, legal counsel, and agents to learn the publishing business
and expose unfair methods.
Let writers remember that Greece, in spite of her Æschylus, Sophocles,
Xenophon, Thucydides, Demosthenes, Plato, and Aristotle, perished
because her independent states would not combine against a common foe.
John Braincraft.
Louisville, Ky.
NEWSPAPER COOKERY.
In a late number of a popular periodical, Mrs. Amelia E. Barr, while
telling of her childhood a half-century ago, incidentally remarks: "I
should have as soon thought of smoking my father's pipe as of reading
his newspaper. There were no papers at all for women and children, if I
except the Court Journal for women of rank."
Just when cookery and household affairs became a part of the newspaper's
province, I do not know, nor is it my purpose to give its history. My
earliest recollection of anything in this line is connected with Hearth
and Home, an illustrated paper, the forerunner of the many household
periodicals of to-day. A leading feature was "Mrs. Hunnibee's Diary,"
furnished by Mrs. Lyman, afterward on the staff of the New York
Tribune. Her work was a worthy model for us to follow. Let us look at
the work as it is, and as it ought to be.
Count Rumford—one of the pioneers in the study of foods—has said: "The
number of inhabitants who may be supported in any country upon its
internal produce depends about as much upon the state of the art of
cookery as upon that of agriculture—these are the arts of civilized
nations; savages understand neither of them." Naturally, therefore, the
agricultural papers were the first to give space to cookery, and have
ever been generous in that way.
Newspaper cookery is not an inappropriate phrase, since too often the
"Home Column" in[Pg 68] half our papers is simply a rehash of what has
appeared in the other papers of the country. The results of warming over
in the kitchen are very diverse, and they are equally so in newspaper
cookery; a rechauffé may be very sloppy or very dry, and give no hint of
its original components, when it should be a savory combination, the
ingredients of which have suffered no loss of flavor.
This does not include the class of articles which are made by careful
study of books of reference and form a new setting for fragmentary
information, such as is often lost if not rearranged; but what can be
said in favor of the sort of work where a standard recipe forms the
basis for a wishy-washy story?
Another variety of newspaper cookery to be avoided is the reporting of
demonstration lectures by those who know nothing of the subject and have
no conception of the lecturer's methods, or by those having a
superficial knowledge who attempt to interlard their own opinions
throughout the report.
Reporters having little or no knowledge of the literature of the kitchen
are apt to make rash claims for their favorite lecturers or for
themselves. In a recent paper an evident neophyte—in cookery at
least—claims to set right in a new and original way the curdling of a
mayonnaise dressing. She claims that none of the directions given in the
cook-books tell what should be done if it goes wrong, yet in at least
two standard works the whole thing is fully explained.
There are undoubtedly many recipes which belong to the whole world, and
have been in use for generations, yet some teachers may claim original
methods of combining these ingredients. Has a reporter any right to make
such ideas appear as her own, without due credit to the authors? Whether
this sort of work is done in newspapers, or appears in book form, or
whether it is in direct violation of copyright laws or not, it is at
least discourteous. Poems are sometimes stolen, but the literature of
the kitchen oftener suffers.
In these days of specialties, when one man devotes himself to politics,
another to finance, or music, or art, it would not seem that a woman,
because she is a woman, is therefore fitted to care for the household
department of a paper; yet this is usually the first work given into her
hands. Probably there are many teachers of cookery who could not write a
catchy newspaper article, but it may be questioned whether such writing
is desirable upon this subject.
The time is coming when the cooking-school graduate will be called for
to teach this art and science through the columns of the newspaper, as
well as in the schoolroom.
The religious papers choose graduates of the theological seminaries for
their editors, and medical journalism is conducted by physicians. If a
sporting editor is essential, why should not special training be
required for the cooking department?
Under present conditions, the best teachers can afford to do little
newspaper work; a demonstration requires little more time and effort
than the preparation of a newspaper column, and the compensation is
double or quadruple, and is promptly paid.
Some of the advertising agents of patent medicines have been wiser in
their generation than the newspaper men, and from the days of Mrs.
——'s Soothing Syrup until now their cook-books have been passports for
their medicines into many a home, not that a call for medicine was the
natural result of the use of these recipes, but that the name of the
medicine became a household word through the use of the cookbook, and
hence was the first thought when any panacea was required. Such good
prices have been paid by manufacturers that they have been able to
obtain the best writers, and the books distributed by various salves,
sarsaparillas, meat choppers, baking powders, etc., contain many
valuable recipes and suggestions. As a whole, they are far safer guides
than the average newspaper column of recipes.
Furnished by untrained hands, the newspaper recipe has become a synonym
for something utterly unreliable, and, therefore, a byword among those
so old-fashioned as to believe that a woman who holds a pen is, of
course, a poor housekeeper.
True, much of the blame for the uncertainty of the newspaper recipe must
be laid at the door of the typesetter and proof-reader—who else would
make a demonstrator whose programme included[Pg 69] a "Frozen Rice Pudding"
responsible for a "Dozen Nice Puddings" in a single lecture.
Often the column headed "Dainty Dishes," "Hints for the Cuisine," etc.,
appears to be made up from recipes taken at random from the clippings of
the year before—so we have strawberry shortcake and asparagus omelet in
October, cauliflower in August, and blueberries in December. Without a
hint concerning the proper method of combining the ingredients, a string
of recipes are worthless, and mean as little as a column from the
dictionary.
So accustomed has the public vision become to this artificial,
improbable, housekeeping that it fails to recognize veritable facts and
pronounces them impossible.
Food is a subject which demands the careful consideration of every human
being daily, and therefore claims ample space in the newspapers. The
wise man of the Old Testament has said: "All the labor of man is for his
mouth, and yet the appetite is not filled."
We are not all interested in the success of either political party, nor
are we all thirsty for items of society gossip, nor are the details of
every murder or railroad accident more important than our daily bread.
Our physical natures and our food are not so ignoble as some would have
us think. We need only look at the thousand allusions to food in classic
writings to realize that it is our attitude toward an object, not the
thing itself, which makes it common and unclean.
Does it not seem strange that the art of cookery, which first
distinguished man from beasts, has been so underrated and neglected?
"The art of cookery drew us gently forth
From the ferocious light, when, void of faith,
The Anthropophaginian ate his brother;
To cookery we owe well-ordered states,
Assembling men in dear society."
Surely no one better than a newspaper reporter, who must snatch a bite
here and there of whatever is at hand, can appreciate the force of the
words of an old physician: "The faculty the stomach has of communicating
the impressions made by the various substances that are put into it is
such that it seems more like a nervous expansion of the brain, than a
mere receptacle for food."
Many a newspaper woman has found a safety-valve in doing her
housekeeping with her own hands, the needed reaction after prolonged
mental effort, and by the divine law of compensation has thus worked out
with her hands something of which the brain alone was not capable.
Michelet says that "A man always clears his head by doing something with
his hands." Can we not all bear testimony that some of our brightest
ideas have come when our hands were busy with rolling-pin or dish-pan?
The newspaper woman is expected to act as leader in many directions.
Though not always competent to do special newspaper cookery in the best
way, she may help mould public opinion in the right way on the great
questions of temperance, domestic economy, coöperative housekeeping,
and, above all, help to change the prevailing belief that work with the
hands is degrading.
The great social questions of the day are largely dependent upon the
food supply. Show the working men and women how to obtain attractive,
palatable, and nourishing food at less cost than that which is
unsatisfying, and their wages will really be doubled.
The temperance question is so closely connected with the food supply
that it is astonishing that more attention has not been given to this
side of it. We often ascribe the intemperance of the poor man to poor
food; but are not the excesses of the rich also due to food, poor
because it is too highly seasoned and improperly cooked?
Rev. T. De Witt Talmage has said: "The kitchen is the most important end
of the household. If that goes wrong, the whole establishment is wrong.
It decides the health of the household, and health settles almost
everything."
May we all live to see the day when every town shall have a food
experiment station, which shall do for the cook and the kitchen what the
agricultural stations do for the farmer and farm. The cooking schools
are a step in the right direction, but their work should be broadened
and put upon a more scientific basis.[Pg 70]
Such an experimental kitchen should analyze and test food products as to
best methods of preparation; it should try new utensils; it should fit
young women for their own home life. Perhaps something in this line will
grow out of the New England Kitchen, so successfully started in Boston.
To bring about such a state of things, public opinion must be educated
in every direction, through the home, school, and newspapers, as well as
by individual effort.
The newspaper's cooking, like its editorials, must not be so narrow and
partisan but that it may command the respect of those who do not wholly
agree with it.
We must strive to separate the essentials from the non-essentials in our
housekeeping; to recognize the various conditions of life among those to
whom we are writing.
We do not want to copy the food fashions of any other land in a servile
manner; no French, Italian, or English teacher can best instruct us in
methods of cooking.
But, following our national motto, let us select the best from all, and
unite these principles to develop an American system of cooking that
shall produce a race so well proportioned physically that their mental
and moral natures cannot fail to be well balanced.
Anna Barrows.
Boston, Mass.
DO THE BEST WRITERS WRITE?
A few years ago my attention was attracted by an article in one of the
leading magazines. It was an article of more than ordinary merit,
possessing that rarity, even then, a plot dramatically conceived and
executed. The scene was laid in a part of the world the truthful
picturing of which showed the writer to be a person who had travelled
much and observed keenly; the diction was "English pure and undefiled."
There was but one drawback, that the author's name was withheld, and I
was obliged to lay my offering of approval and admiration at an unknown
shrine.
Lately, in conversation with a man who forms one of the great majority
of those who gain a moderate competence in business life, his days spent
in the wearisome routine of mercantile life, his nights in painful
figurings about that delusive "deal" which is to settle satisfactorily
all questions of financial perplexity, our talk turned on books,
literary celebrities, the chat of the profession of letters. My friend
suddenly became communicative and reminiscent—rare expressions in him.
"A few years ago," he said. "I, too, had the literary craze. I wrote a
little—stray articles, stories, poems, the usual repertoire."
I wondered what kind of material this suave, cynical, reserved man could
have produced—in other words, what was his undercurrent. I
interrogated. To my surprise and consternation I had found at last the
author of my pedestal-placed masterpiece.
"But why," I said, "did you not keep on; why hide, deface, forget, a
talent like yours?"
"Allowing, for the sake of argument," he answered, "that I possessed
talent to the degree you imply, I should still have been forced to my
present attitude. I am not alone in this. I am convinced that the best
writers (of course, with notable exceptions) are the people who never
write, who could bring to the field varied experience, the results of
travel, thought, and cultivation, but who are driven away by the
knowledge that the wolf will have them if they attempt it.
Notwithstanding the fact that there has never been a time when
literature has been produced so prolifically, a man can only make a
moderate competence, and that after years of weary uncertainty and a
constant strain on the[Pg 71] waiting nerves, and, even at the end, he gets
but a meagre reward: lots of newspaper notoriety and a scanty bank
account. I am not complaining; I looked the facts squarely in the face,
and chose what I regarded as the only sensible solution. I could not
conscientiously use literature as a safety-valve or time-passer, giving
to the world the result of tired brain and over-wrought nerves;
consequently, I sacrificed inclination to necessity, and have left my
muse alone. However,"—and he was once more the worldling,—"I have
reserved to myself the right to criticise; and when I see a young man of
talent enter the field of letters, I conclude he is like a man about to
marry, either a great hero or a great fool."
Gertrude F. Lynch.
New York, N. Y.
FASHIONS IN LITERATURE.
A veteran novel reader has learned to detect a plot in its early stages;
to see from afar the marriage, the forgery, the hidden will; to him (or
should I rather say to her?) the true inwardness of the different
characters is manifest; no disguise, no blandishments, avail to conceal
from his piercing vision the true heir, the disguised villain, the timid
lover.
It has been stated by careful students that the original stories in the
world number but two hundred and fifty; but we have not forgotten our
arithmetic, and we have learned chess, so we know something of the
manifold combinations of numbers, and we take courage.
But the veteran novel reader finds little variety in incident and
machinery; there are fashions in fiction as in everything else, and the
prevailing "style" of the time is followed apparently without question.
The heroines of an earlier generation differed from those of the
present. They were slender creatures, living on delicate fare, and
fainting at every or no provocation. When these lovely beings died it
was usually of a broken heart, developing into consumption. They were
depicted clad in white and holding flowers, reclining at open windows,
regardless of draughts, and they lectured heart-broken friends and
faithless lovers with a command of language and strength of lung rare in
every-day life. For bringing about some needed explanation sprained
ankles have played a conspicuous part, and a strong-armed hero or
stalwart rival was ready to carry the fair sufferer
"Over hill, over dale,
Through bush, through briar,"
to some place of shelter, where friends and reader alike watched the
progress of recovery. Runaway horses have been vastly useful in bringing
matters to a crisis, and in New England stories a fierce bull is always
ready to threaten the life of the heroine.
These casualties were especially the lot of the heroines, but fevers
were open to all without distinction of "sex, race, or color." In the
wanderings of delirium the cleverly-disguised villain betrayed his dark
designs—the self-distrusting lover sighed his woes into the sympathetic
ear of the damsel of whom in his "normal state" he had said—
"'Twere all as one
That I should love some bright particular star
And seek to wed it."
With the modern dissemination of knowledge and of sanitary science, the
former ailments have become less fashionable; there has been a run of
diphtheria, and heart complaints are slaying their thousands.
Athletics are restricted to no sex,—the hero is less frequently called
to rescue his beloved from a watery grave. Indeed, her skill may be
superior to his,—witness Armorel, one of the fairest of modern
creations.
Now and then a leader has appeared,—an[Pg 72] inventor,—but the new style is
imitated with no respect for patent right. Jane Eyre was new; here was
a heroine with neither wealth nor beauty, and forthwith appeared a long
train of ugly girls, and dark, middle-aged men promising henceforth "to
forswear sack and live cleanly," yet in confidential moments giving
glimpses of a past which caused all virtuous folks to shiver.
We have now the "novel of every-day life," wherein we are called to
"assist" at commonplace incidents; to listen to inane talk, where
adverbs, liberally bestowed, help our comprehension, as we are told that
certain things were "coarsely," "suggestively," "tentatively," said. It
is, indeed, "reading made easy."
Stuart Mill, lamenting the changes in the tendency of modern fiction,
wrote: "For the first time perhaps in history, the youth of both sexes
of the educated classes are universally growing up unromantic. What will
come in mature age from such a youth the world has not yet had time to
see."
These words were written half a century ago, the generation referred to
has reached "mature age," and the world has read its novels.
Pamela McArthur Cole.
East Bridgewater, Mass.
SNEAK REPORTING.
I do not beg the reader's pardon for the apparent egotism of this
article, for, though I use the first person throughout, I feel that I do
so as the spokesman of a large (if not an important) class.
To begin at the beginning, I have always believed that in time I could
succeed as a journalist, if I could but secure a position on a live
newspaper, where I could gain practical knowledge. In pursuance of this
idea, I haunted the doors of an afternoon paper, and finally, by dint of
perseverance, fairly worried the city editor into giving me an
assignment.
Naturally, a beginner was not given an important task, but it proved to
be a very embarrassing one. I was required, in the line of my duty, to
stick my impertinent nose into another man's business, and elicit from
him facts that he did not want published. I did not feel the least
curiosity about the matter, and, I am sure, looked as guilty as if I had
been a dog engaged in the sheep-stealing industry, and had been caught
with the wool in my teeth. I approached him with inward fear and
trembling, and requested information on a subject in connection with
which he had been held up before the public in an unenviable light. He
refused to talk, and when I persisted, as per orders, told me to go to
the residence of a personage whom I do not like to hear mentioned,
except by authority and by gentlemen who have the legal right to wear a
handle to their names.
I did not resent this as ordinarily I should have done. I was so humbled
and ashamed by my consciousness of the impudence of my errand, that if
he had pulled my nose, I am sure I should have commended the spirit with
which he did it.
It was in vain I represented to him that to withhold this matter of
public interest was to show an unpardonable disregard of the rights of
others, which, as contrary to public policy, could easily be construed
into an act of overt disloyalty. He did not seem to be interested in the
rights of others, and entirely refused to see the matter in the proper
light. He was not a rational man. When I attempted to argue the case
with him, he became violent, and roared at me until, I am sure, had the
bulls of Bashan heard him, they would have been tempted to "hide their
diminished heads." I decided that discretion was the better part of
valor, and left him to fight it out alone. I returned to the office,
rendered an account of the manner in[Pg 73] which I had failed, and was the
recipient of a scathing rebuke from the city editor. It was in vain I
tried to get angry. Even to myself I could not simulate proper
indignation, so thoroughly had the starch been taken out of me by my
seance with an excusably irritated man, knowing the while that I was
trespassing on the bounds of courtesy.
That experience was enough for me. While I might become a successful
reporter, in doing so I fear I should lose that regard for the rights of
others, the petty conscience of every-day life, that is conspicuously
absent in so many of the men we meet.
While this incident has not altered my liking for newspaper work, it has
very materially modified my ideas concerning certain branches of it.
From the reporter's desk to the editor's chair is a natural and easy
transition; and the outsider, unless he possesses the genius of George
Kennan and his companions, must go through this stage of preliminary
training. Those of us who have no influence, no startling genius, and a
decided dislike to becoming inquisitive nuisances feel that we are
overweighted in the journalistic handicap.
What course shall we pursue, that what few merits we possess shall not
be overshadowed by the lack of one quality, which may be a useful one to
the reporter, but is usually known and avoided in the ordinary man under
the vulgar name of "gall"?
Herbert Corey.
Cincinnati, Ohio.
A PLEA FOR THE NOM DE PLUME.
Once upon a time there lived a good little girl whom everybody loved.
She had six aunts, four uncles, and twenty-seven cousins, besides a
brother and two sisters. All these relatives, of course, especially
loved her, for that was only natural. And they were all very glad,
indeed, to help her in every way possible.
She was a bright little thing as well as good, and by and by she thought
she would see whether any of the papers and magazines cared to know of
the things she thought, and she wrote a morsel of an article and timidly
sent it off.
But before she sent it to the editor she read it to her sisters, each of
whom had some slight correction to make; and she showed it to Aunt Emma,
who was quite of a literary turn of mind, and Aunt Emma read it to her
daughter Mabel, who had just left college.
These ladies so marked up the carefully written manuscript that the good
little girl had to copy it all before it was fit to be sent.
After it had been gone eight days the article was returned. This made
the little girl very sad, and she wept.
The other five aunts, and the uncles, and all the cousins were by this
time interested, and they comforted her with many words, and censured
her with a great many more, and gave her a great deal of good advice.
But the little girl finally got so confused by the many conflicting
opinions offered that she hardly knew what to do or say. One moment she
would think she would write this and another that, and some of the time
she declared that she would never write another line at all.
But one day a very pretty idea came into her mind all at once, and she
did think it too sweet to be lost. So she wrote it down just as it came
to her, and sent it away, and never told a soul a word about it.
By and by it was printed, and how happy the little girl was! She told
nobody but her parents and her sisters this time, but all her friends
saw her name in the paper, and they came running to her to talk about
it.[Pg 74]
"I saw your name in the paper," said Cousin Ada.
"Did you?" said the good little girl, pleasantly.
"Yes; an' Bert an' I know who you meant by 'The Old Bad Man.'"
"But I didn't mean anybody," explained she; "that was only a little
story."
"Oh, we know you did. Mamma says it isn't a nice story at all, an'
Mabelle says, 'Ugh!'"
It was no wonder that the little girl felt hurt at these words. And it
was queer, but every time that any of the friends had any fault to find,
or any help to give her, which was the same thing, of course, they began
it by saying, "I saw your name in the paper."
At last the good little girl could endure it no longer, and she said to
herself, "They sha'n't see my name in the paper any more"; and she sat
down on the green grass and thought of a nice new name that pleased her,
and she called herself by that name always when she wrote for the
papers. And as she never got famous so that she wanted to tell people
what her pen-name was, her friends never found it out, and she lived and
died in peace.
Hæc fabula docet—Don't be made to feel it's cowardly to use a nom de
plume if you want to. It isn't likely to do any harm, and it may save
you lots of bother.
Persis E. Darrow.
Wentworth, N. H.
TO WRITE OR NOT TO WRITE.
When any one living in this age of the world feels that he has thoughts
clamoring for utterance, he seeks advice from some one who has attained
success in the profession of literature. In most instances he receives
no satisfactory criticism, and is compelled to act on innate conviction
of his right to enter the "thorny path" and fight his way up to the top,
where, we are told, there is always room.
There seem to be two literary factions pitted against each other. Those
of one class employ their best effort in dissuading young writers from
writing; those of another set forth an author's life in glowing colors.
One faction will tell you that half the manuscripts sent to editors are
not even accorded the courtesy of an examination unless signed by a
well-known name. Another says that editors are keenly on the outlook for
original matter, seizing with avidity anything that promises to make a
new element in current literature.
A noted author writes to a young aspirant: "Sweet and natural though
your utterance seems to be, let me ask you in the friendliest spirit not
to write at all. The toil is great, the pursuit incessant, the reward
not outward." To the same young woman writes another equally well-known
writer: "Your work is excellent; you can and will succeed."
The fact is obvious that there is a literary aristocracy in America.
Born in an intellectual atmosphere, with inherited talent, wrapped in
their own dreams, knowing little of the struggle and toil of their less
fortunate co-workers, its members stand aloof, saying: Thou shalt not
enter therein. The old Italian poet quaintly puts it:—
"For singing loudly is not singing well;
But ever by the song that's soft and low
The master singer's voice is plain to tell.
Few have it, and yet all are masters now,
And each of them can trill out what he calls
His ballads, canzonets, and madrigals.
The world with masters is so covered o'er
There is no room for pupils any more."
Therefore, the individual who contemplates becoming an author must be a
law unto himself. If he finds his truest expression, his greatest
delight in literary work, let him[Pg 75] persevere, all the world to the
contrary notwithstanding.
"There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,
Can circumvent, can hinder, or control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great."
An editor, noted for his gentleness and courtesy, tells us that all
writers must go through an evolutionary process of rejected manuscripts,
and cites the instance of Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford, who awoke one
morning to find herself famous. She had written "The Amber Gods." When
congratulated as the first author who had attained reputation by a
single effort, she replied:—
"No, that is not true. I have been writing for years under an assumed
name."
Susan Andrews Rice.
Washington, D. C.
THE DELUGE OF VERSE.
A fragment of a conversation overheard the other evening, when the
writer, half-buried with the daily proof-sheets from which he knows no
escape, was hurrying westward on an afternoon train, is the raison
d'être of this communication. The participants were two young and
pleasant-looking girls: they discussed matters feminine, of which only
the words "toque," "a bewitching little thing," and "pink velvet" had
reached my ears; but when I heard the question, "What became of your
last poem, Clara?"—and the reply, "Youth's Companion, came back with
a printed slip; Independent, ditto; then I tried the Waverley
Magazine, who accepted it, but did not pay young contributors"; I
became unthinkingly an interested eavesdropper, and just then, with
creak and clatter, the train stopped, the station, "Wellesley," was
called, and the fair ones departed, taking my thoughts (and all power of
concentration on work in hand) with them.
I mused in this wise: "Just why does the average young person give him
(or her) self out in verse, good, bad, and indifferent?" The Youth's
Companion does not want a Wellesley girl's lucubrations; it has verse
on hand from many of the most skilled and charming writers in that line.
But it does, I know, want good stories for boys, for girls,—and where
can be a better "locale," materials for plot, sketches of life and
character, etc., than at a girls' college? One could surely range "from
grave to gay, from lively to severe," in such a field.
The editor of the Atlantic, dear young people, accepts
articles—well-written, of course—on questions relating to higher
education, university extension, matters of historical research. Harper
& Brothers are glad to get character sketches (not New England
particularly,—you cannot outdo, quite yet, Miss Jewett and Mary
Wilkins,—but there are many other bits of humanity, quaint, odd, or
pathetic). Scribner's and the Cosmopolitan like travels, but they
must be bright and varied; and mechanical articles, young men, but these
must be a direct and forcible presentation of their subjects, and not
rehashes from old books; while the Century will pay you well for some
dainty comic bit for its "Bric-à-brac." Friends of the Golden Rule,
Cottage Hearth, and Christian Register have assured me that
good—not goody-goody—juvenile literature is very hard to get. I know
a young woman who is paid well by the page for all the children's
stories she can write, and her[Pg 76] pages are fresh and good, with new
themes and unhackneyed incidents; and a young man who is taking up
themes of interest in our history,—the unprecedented message of a
president which gave no report to Congress of financial or diplomatic
matters for the preceding two years, and the three presidential protests
against action taken in Congress (how many of you know about these state
papers?),—there are a hundred other things, too, which might be told
about in this line,—and he finds no difficulty in getting his matter
accepted. There is an assistant editor not far from Beacon Hill who
keeps track of the clergymen, the prominent families, and individuals in
a certain large religious denomination. Every week she furnishes her
quota of items to an eight-page paper, and she is a pearl of great price
to her chief. The Marthas of the household, "careful and troubled,"
there is a place for in many journals to-day, whether their specialty be
cooking, scrubbing, or lace-work. There is also a chance for those who
possess a large fund of miscellaneous information, in Notes and
Queries and like journals.
"The bearing of which lies in the application of it." Perhaps you may
think, discouragingly, that there is no chance for you in these or any
other specialties, but take my advice and try something awhile—get into
a class and work to become at the head of that class; then, even if you
do not attain the full measure of success you had hoped, you will
certainly have the proud consciousness of having striven, and can
contemplate with pity
Those green and salad days: Can I rehearse
What sweets I ate and what I put In verse?
Douglas Dane.
Boston, Mass.
CONCERNING SONNETS.
A few months ago the pages of The Writer contained some interesting
suggestions as to the advisability of a uniform indentation for sonnets
when printed; the writer favoring a New York method, which would bring
out even the first, fifth, ninth, and twelfth lines, setting all the
other lines an equal space to the right of these. I give a quatrain for
example:—
"The early star, soft mirrored in the stream,
Dim vistas of the dewy forest-road,
Yea, even the solemn, high-walled glen, abode
Of mortal dust long quit of deed and dream."
The writer's chief argument for this style was, I believe, that it was
used by a good printing house, and also made a neat appearance on the
page; but the question at once occurred to me, What is indentation in
verse for? Is it not a guide to the eye, to enhance the proper
recurrence of the rhyme (and in the ode to show as well rhythm)? If we
are to have a mere arbitrary arrangement of the sonnet, why not the same
in a poem of regular or inverted quatrains, or of the Persian quatrain,
which is now always given in this form:—
"I sometimes think that never blows so red
The rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;
That every flower the fragrant garden wears
Dropped in her lap from some once lovely head."
Or imagine an édition de luxe of Gray's "Elegy" with every stanza
printed in this style:—
"Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, their destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor."
[Pg 77]
I could not take much pleasure in a book of sonnets where each page was
thus stiffly arranged, but should greatly prefer the indenting of lines
according to rhyme, the first, fourth, fifth, and eighth to be in line,
and the second, third, sixth, and seventh to be set somewhat to the
right of these; should there come, however, a Shakespearian sonnet to be
provided for,—lines rhyming alternately,—or any of those monstrosities
of fourteen lines, which have no regularity of rhyme, let the lines then
be brought to a uniform indentation, and the reader disentangle the plan
of the verse as best he may.
In editing copy or reading proof for a poet, I always follow the
author's preference, if indicated, or if copy submitted is consistent;
but having the matter to determine, I would first look to see if the
sonnets were generally regular; and second, if the sextet (the last six
lines) followed the Italian or the best accepted English forms: this
done, it is easy to determine upon a style,—which would be the one
adopted at the present time by the best English and American printers
(as far as recent books of both countries give any clue), as follows:—
"What we miscall our life is Memory:
We walk upon a narrow path between
Two gulfs—what is to be, and what has been,
Led by a guide whose name is Destiny;
Beyond is sightless gloom and mystery,
From whose unfathomable depths we glean
Chaotic hopes and terrors, dimly-seen
Reflections of a past reality.
"Behind, pursuing through the twilight haze,
The phantom people of the past appear;
Hope, happiness and sorrow, fruitless strife,
And all the loved and lost of other days;
They crowd upon us closer year by year,
Till we as phantoms haunt some other life."
The octet, in the regular form of a sonnet, should stand as above; if
the sextet varies, but is not too irregular, vary the indentation of the
latter, as—
... "the great World-builder has designed
The wondrous plans which Nature's works disclose.
A child who scans the philosophic page
Of some profoundly meditative sage
May see familiar phrases,—then he knows
That his own simple thoughts and childish lore
Are part of the great scholar's mental store."
Should the sextet read as given below, instead of trying to follow the
seemingly hap-hazard rhymes with the setting in or out of lines, it
would be better to print the first eight lines uniformly even and the
sextet at the end to correspond with them:—
"Then human Grief found out her human heart,
And she was fain to go where pain is dumb;
So thou wert welcome, Angel dread to see,
And she fares onward with thee, willingly,
To dwell where no man loves, no lovers part,—
Thus Grief that is makes welcome Death to come."
In like manner, let any irregularity of the eight lines settle the
question of indentation, even though the latter portion of the sonnet
should happen to be according to the best forms.
There are many other questions of style and appearance in getting up a
collection of sonnets, a few of which may be referred to here. A little
English book which I have at hand has the best of all the recent work in
that line, and even runs back, in some cases, fifty years; from a
literary point of view, it is unexcelled. But look at a few of the
mechanical defects: it is printed as a very small 18mo.—all the long
lines of the sonnets with a word or two "turned down," as the printers
say. It is a "red-line" book, which means a large enclosed white space
above and below the sonnet, and very little margin on each side. It has
running titles standing in a lonesome way at the head of each page, and
a folio in the page corner instead of being centred at the foot of each
sonnet; and, to make a bad matter worse, each of these running titles
has a rule beneath it, making the separation more obvious. These are
only a few of the defects. Not the less displeasing to me is another
book of sonnets, printed in octavo form. Not that one objects to a large
margin, but the duodecimo, it seems to me, is much the best size and
shape of volume for the proper display upon a printed page of this
miniature poem, and a handsome old-style or Elzevir letter is the
fittest type, instead of the sombre modern cut, so often used.
F. D. Stickney.
Cambridge, Mass.
[Pg 78]
THE WRITER.
| WM. H. HILLS. |
Editor and Publisher. |
⁂ The Writer is published the first day of every month. It will be
sent, post-paid, One Year for One Dollar.
⁂ All drafts and money orders should be made payable to William H.
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⁂ The Writer will be sent only to those who have paid for it in
advance. Accounts cannot be opened for subscriptions, and names will not
be entered on the list unless the subscription order is accompanied by a
remittance. When subscriptions expire the names of subscribers will be
taken off the list unless an order for renewal, accompanied by
remittance, is received. Due notice will be given to every subscriber of
the expiration of his subscription.
⁂ No sample copies of The Writer will be sent free.
⁂ The American News Company, of New York, and the New England News
Company, of Boston, are wholesale agents for The Writer. It may be
ordered from any newsdealer, or directly, by mail, from the publisher.
⁂ The Writer is kept on sale by Damrell & Upham (Old Corner
Bookstore), Boston; Brentano Bros., New York, Washington, and Chicago;
George F. Wharton, New Orleans; John Wanamaker, Philadelphia; and the
principal newsdealers in other cities.
⁂ Everything printed in the magazine will be written expressly for it.
⁂ Not one line of paid advertisement will be printed in The Writer
outside of the advertising pages.
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⁂ Contributions not used will be returned, if a stamped and addressed
envelope is enclosed.
Address:—
THE WRITER,
(P. O. Box 1905.) Boston, Mass.
| VOL. VI. |
April, 1892. |
No. 4. |
It is hard to believe that Dr. Edward Everett Hale will be seventy years
old April 3, but it will not do to contradict the birth record and the
arithmetic, in spite of all his unfailing energy and youthful activity
in many different undertakings. Dr. Hale is one of the men who will be
always young, and it may be in consequence of this that he has written
so many things that will never lose their freshness. One of the best of
them is the chapter in "How to Do It" on "How to Write," which is full
of crisp and practical suggestions. Dr. Hale's rules for writing are
evidently those which have always governed his own literary work; and
while others may not be able to follow them with equal success, they are
worth remembering by every writer. The rules are:
First, Know what you want to say; second, Say it; third, Use your
own language; fourth, Leave out all the fine passages; fifth, A
short word is better than a long one; sixth, The fewer words, other
things being equal, the better; finally, Cut it to pieces. Any writer
who will make these rules his guide in daily work will find in them an
important help to literary success.
W. H. H.
THE SCRAP BASKET.
It was proposed by a recent contributor to The Writer that authors
should advertise their wares, like other manufacturers. In case the idea
should meet with favor, I would suggest that the practice be carried a
step further in the line of business methods. During the "Robert
Elsmere" craze, a few years ago, a certain soap manufacturing company
advertised a copy of the book with every quarter's worth of soap sold.
It is unfortunate that Mrs. Humphry Ward, whose "History of David
Grieve," it is reported, is not meeting with great success in this
country, did not profit by the hint of the soap company and advertise a
cake of soap to be given as an inducement with every copy of her book.
A. L. A.
Windham, N. H.
THE USE AND MISUSE OF WORDS.
[Brief, pointed, practical paragraphs discussing the use and misuse
of words and phrases will be printed in this department. All
readers of The Writer are invited to contribute to it.
Contributions are limited to 400 words; the briefer they are, the
better.]
"Cenotaph."—We are told that a cenotaph is a monument "in memory of one
buried elsewhere"—otherwise, "an empty tomb." A recent number of a
popular magazine contains an article on "Memorials of Edgar Allen Poe."
When the author asked to be directed to the grave of the poet, the
sexton pointed to the cenotaph of white marble in the corner at the
intersection of two streets, and we are told that "the remains" were
"transferred to this more conspicuous spot from the family lot in the
rear of the church." Are not "high-sounding" words too often used
without reference to their[Pg 79] suitableness? Mr. Pecksniff called his
daughter "a playful warbler,"—not that she was, we are told, "at all
vocal," but that Mr. Pecksniff was in the habit of using a word that
rounded a sentence well.
P. MCA. C.
East Bridgewater, Mass.
BOOK REVIEWS.
Letters of Charles Dickens to Wilkie Collins. Edited by Lawrence
Hutton. With Portraits and Fac-similes. 171 pp. Cloth, $1.00. New
York: Harper & Brothers. 1892.
The friendship between Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins began when
Dickens was nearly forty, and Collins about twenty-five years of age.
Ten years later the marriage of the daughter of Dickens to the brother
of Collins cemented the intimacy then begun, and it continued unbroken
until the death of Dickens, in 1870. Part of the familiar correspondence
between the two men was printed in "The Letters of Charles Dickens"; but
many more letters from Dickens were found after the death of Collins,
and from these Miss Hogarth selected the specimens that make up the
present volume. As Mr. Hutton says in his introduction: "They not only
show their writer as he was willing to show himself to the man whom he
loved, but they give an excellent idea of his methods of collaboration
with the man whom he had selected from all others as an active partner
in certain of his creative works." The replies from Collins cannot be
printed, since it was Dickens' rule to destroy every letter he received,
not on actual business. It is fortunate that his correspondents did not
do the same with his letters, so great is the interest of everything
that he put on paper: as Mr. Hutton happily puts it: "It is greatly to
be regretted that he did not write letters to himself—like his own Mr.
Toots—and preserve them all."
The letters included in the present volume are so interesting that the
temptation is strong to reprint many extracts from them. They give
charming glimpses of Dickens' personality, and illustrate the literary
ideas and methods of work of two famous story-writers. Mr. Hutton
connects the letters with all necessary explanations, and has performed
his work as editor with admirable skill. A good portrait of Dickens, a
better one of Collins, and some interesting fac-similes illustrate the
book.
W. H. H.
Everybody's Writing-desk Book. By Charles Nisbet and Don Lemon.
Revised and Edited by James Baldwin, Ph. D. 310 pp. Cloth, $1.00.
New York: Harper & Brothers. 1892.
In this handy little volume are combined instruction regarding
composition, English grammar, and punctuation; a list of synonyms and
antonyms; a list of forms of addresses; information about writing for
the press, proof-reading, writing and printing papers and books; rules
for pronunciation and spelling; rates of postage, etc. The book is a
compilation rather than an original work, and its chief merit is that it
puts together in a single volume a good deal of information of different
kinds, not elsewhere to be found in one book. Its spelling list and its
list of synonyms and antonyms are the parts most valuable for reference;
while the parts devoted to composition and grammar may be studied with
profit by those in need of such instruction. The chapter on "Writing for
the Press" is short and weak, and the book generally is adapted for use
rather by non-professional than by professional writers.
W. H. H.
Christopher Columbus; and How He Received and Imparted the Spirit
of Discovery. By Justin Winsor. 674 pp. Cloth, $4.00. Boston:
Houghton, Mifflin, & Company. 1892.
Mr. Winsor's rank as an historian is so high that whatever he writes is
read with respectful attention. Especially regarding the early history
of America he is an authority, and probably no one in this country is
better fitted than he to write the story of Columbus. The view he takes
of the life and character of the admiral in this exhaustive study of his
career will surprise those who have looked on Columbus as a hero, with
ideas far in advance of the age in which he lived, and with no blemishes
upon his reputation. Mr. Winsor presents facts, so far as they can be
ascertained, rather than the romantic notions of traditions, and his
picture of Columbus is not flattering to the explorer. In the opening
chapter of the work he gives a review of all the sources of information
about the admiral's life, and shows a respect for the investigations of
Harisse that is undoubtedly justified. Irving's well-known "Life of
Columbus" he treats with scant reverence as an historical work. "The
genuine Columbus," he says, "evaporates under the warmth of the writer's
genius, and we have nothing left but the refinement of his clay."
According to Mr. Winsor's estimate, Columbus was a pitiable man, who
deserved his pitiable end. His discovery was a blunder, and he became
the despoiler of the new world he had unwittingly found. A rabid seeker
of gold and a vice-royalty, he left to the new continent a legacy of
devastation and crime. Finding America, he thought he had discovered the
Indies, and maintained that belief until his death. Claiming to desire
the conversion of the Indians to Christianity, he did what he could to
establish a slave trade with Spain. Slitting the noses and tearing off
the ears of naked heathen are cruelties with which he is charged. In his
early life he deserted his lawful wife and became the father of an
illegitimate[Pg 80] son. In his last years his mind weakened, and he became
the victim of wild hallucinations. Such is the man as Mr. Winsor
describes him, in contrast to the demi-god of whom Prescott says:
"Whether we contemplate his character in its public or private
relations, in all its features it wears the same noble aspects." As a
bold navigator Columbus won the fame of a world-discoverer; but he never
knew himself what he had found; and if Mr. Winsor's estimate is just, it
is not altogether unfitting that the name of a more clear-sighted
voyager than he should be given to the world that he discovered.
W. H. H.
Picturesque Hampshire. Edited by Charles F. Warner, 120 pp. Large
Quarto. Paper, 75 cents. Northampton, Mass.: Picturesque Publishing
Company. 1890.
Picturesque Franklin. Edited by Charles F. Warner. 123 pp. Large
Quarto. Paper, 75 cents. Northampton. Mass.: Picturesque Publishing
Company. 1891.
At first sight it seems astonishing that such handsome books as these,
with their lavish wealth of costly half-tone pictures, can be profitably
sold at so low a price. They are exceedingly attractive volumes, and
together they make a delightful picture-gallery of New England country
life. "Picturesque Hampshire" was published in November, 1890, as a
supplement to the quarter-centennial issue of the Hampshire County
Journal, and its success was so great as to lead to the publication of
"Picturesque Franklin," and to the preparation of "Picturesque Hampden,"
which will be issued in two parts next fall. Not only the residents of
the counties illustrated, and of Western Massachusetts generally, but
every cultivated person will be interested in these books. The
illustrations are so numerous that each volume is really a picture book
of New England life. The illustrations have been reproduced from
photographs by the half-tone process, and they retain all the accuracy
and sharpness of the original photographs. The text explains them
sufficiently, and is generally well written.
W. H. H.
In Foreign Lands. By Barbara N. Galpin. 156 pp. Cloth, $1.00.
Boston: New England Publishing Company. 1892.
"In Foreign Lands" is a pleasantly-written volume descriptive of
European travel, and tells, in an interesting way, the experiences of a
delightful summer journey.
W. H. H.
New Harvard Songbook. Compiled by R. T. Whitehouse, '91, and
Frederick Bruegger, '92. Revised Edition. 92 pp. Flexible Covers.
Boston: Oliver Ditson Company. 1892.
This new compilation of college songs contains many of the new songs
which have been sung by the Harvard Glee Club during the last three
years. Many of the songs are the compositions of Harvard undergraduates,
and have never before been published. Some of the best-known among them
are: "Boreen," "Holsteiner's Band," "The Hoodoo," "Jay Bird," "The Man
in the Moon's Ball," "Mrs. Craigin's Daughter," "O'Grady's Goat," "The
Party at Odd Fellows' Hall," "The Phantom Band," "Romeo and Juliette,"
"Schneider's Band," and "The Versatile Baby." The book is full of the
rollicking college spirit, and college men and their sweethearts will
find it an unfailing source of delight. It is adapted either for glee
club or home use, and is exquisitely gotten up.
W. H. H.
Brunhilde; or, The Last Act of Norma. By Pedro A. De Alarcon.
Translated by Mrs. Francis J. A. Darr. With Portrait of the Author.
311 pp. Cloth, $1.00. New York: A. Lovell & Company. 1891.
Mrs. Darr has translated this work of the Spanish novelist with fidelity
and skill. It is an interesting story, with an unusual plot and a
dramatic climax, and it is told in a peculiar style, which gives to it a
distinctive charm. A good portrait of the author is given as a
frontispiece.
W. H. H.
Trifet's Harmonized Melodies. Arranged by Charles D. Blake. 256 pp.
Paper, 60 cents. Boston: F. Trifet. 1892.
Four hundred songs, sacred and secular, comic and sentimental, pathetic
and humorous, are given in this collection, so harmonized and arranged
that they may be played upon the piano or organ or sung with or without
accompaniment. Every variety of song is given, and every one will find
in the book something suited to his taste. The arranger has done his
work well, and the music printer has made the book an attractive one.
The selections range from "Old Folks at Home" and the "Sweet By and By"
to "Comrades" and "Annie Rooney," and the price of the book, considering
the quantity of music it contains, is remarkably low. It will
undoubtedly have an extensive sale.
W. H. H.
A First Family of Tasajara. By Bret Harte. 301 pp. Cloth, $1.25.
Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. 1892.
The charm of Bret Harte's stories lies in their originality of
conception, their well-defined local color, and the chaste richness of
their literary style. The power to pique one's interest to the last page
belongs to Mr. Harte above all other writers of stories of American
life. His latest book has all the good qualities of its predecessors. It
tells a perfectly natural story of life in California. The hero is a
newspaper man; the other characters are a man who makes a big "strike"
in land, and becomes suddenly rich, his two daughters, a newspaper
proprietor with an axe to grind and a secret love, a beautiful and rich
Boston widow, and a civil engineer. The denouement is startling, being
none other than the wiping out by a flood of the town which made the
rich man's fortune, and the lesson of the story is the suddenness[Pg 81] with
which in the West riches have been made, and also lost.
L. F.
BOOKS RECEIVED.
[All books sent to the editor of The Writer will be acknowledged
under this heading. They will receive such further notice as may be
warranted by their importance to readers of the magazine.]
Paragraph-writing, With Appendices on Newspaper Style and
Proof-reading. By Fred N. Scott, Ph. D., and Joseph V. Denney, A. B.
107 pp. Stiff paper. Ann Arbor, Michigan: Register Publishing
Company. 1891.
The Principles of Style. By Fred N. Scott, Ph. D. 51 pp. Stiff
paper. Ann Arbor, Michigan: Register Publishing Company. 1891.
Æsthetics, Its Problems and Literature. By Fred N. Scott, Ph. D. 32
pp. Paper. Ann Arbor, Michigan: Register Publishing Company. 1891.
Helen Young. By Paul Lindau. Translated from the German by P. J.
McFadden. 183 pp. Paper, 25 cents. Chicago: Rand, McNally, &
Company. 1892.
The Treasure Tower. A Story of Malta. By Virginia W. Johnson. 223
pp. Paper, 25 cents. New York: Rand, McNally, & Company. 1892.
The Light of Asia. By Sir Edwin Arnold. With Notes by Mrs. I. L.
Hauser. 309 pp. Paper, 50 cents. Chicago: Rand, McNally, & Company.
1892.
The Book of Ruth. A novel. By P. L. Gray. 219 pp. Paper. Bendena,
Kan.: P. L. Gray. 1892.
The Blue Scarab. By David Graham Adee. 348 pp. Paper, 50 cents.
Chicago: Laird & Lee. 1892.
A Loyal Lover. By E. Lovett Cameron. 294 pp. Paper, 50 cents. New
York: John A. Taylor & Company. 1892.
Mrs. Lygon. A Domestic Detective Story. By Shirley Brooks. 385 pp.
Paper, 50 cents. St. Paul, Minn.: Price, McGill Company. 1892.
A Moral Inheritance. By Lydia Hoyt Farmer. 240 pp. New York: J. S.
Ogilvie. 1890.
How to Get Married, although a Woman. By a Young Widow. 144 pp.
Paper, 25 cents. New York: J. S. Ogilvie. 1892.
Classical Poems. By William Entriken Bailey. 108 pp. Cloth.
Cincinnati: Robert Clarke & Company. 1892.
The Parson. A Satire. By Charles J. Bayne. Twelfth Edition. 19 pp.
Paper. Augusta, Ga.: Chronicle Office. 1892.
HELPFUL HINTS AND SUGGESTIONS.
Envelope Pigeon-holes.—One of the most useful appliances that I use in
daily work is the row of envelopes in the front compartment of the upper
left-hand drawer of my desk. The envelopes are made of stout manila
paper, almost as high as the drawer is deep, and eight and one-half
inches long. They are arranged in the drawer at right angles with the
front, so that as I sit at the desk the face of each envelope is toward
me. The flaps are turned inside, and each envelope has an inscription on
the upper left-hand corner. They are used for filing material wanted for
early reference, and they keep such material classified, within
immediate reach, and in much smaller space than if pigeon-holes were
used. The first twenty-six envelopes are inscribed with the letters of
the alphabet, and are used for filing material alphabetically. Those
beyond are labelled with subjects, also arranged alphabetically, the
subjects being those in which I have an immediate special interest. For
instance, if I am preparing an article on "Misprints," any examples
noted are filed away in an envelope so marked, and when I get ready to
write the article the material is ready at hand. "Bills Unpaid,"
"Receipted Bills," "Ideas and Suggestions," "Postage Stamps,"
"Addresses," "Cards and Circulars," may be marked on other envelopes. If
a drawer is not available, the envelopes may be kept in a box within
easy reach, but the drawer is best. The scheme is easily adapted to any
special needs. In the case of a writer collecting material, when an
envelope bulges too much, it suggests profitable action.
W. H. H.
Somerville, Mass.
LITERARY ARTICLES IN PERIODICALS.
[Readers who send to the publishers of the periodicals indexed for
copies containing the articles mentioned in the following list,
will confer a favor if they will mention The Writer when they
write.]
Writings of W. H. H. Murray. George Stewart, Jr. Belford's
Magazine for March.
Reporters and Their Trials. Inland Printer for March.
Theory of the Comma. American Bookmaker for March.
Characteristics of Magic in Eastern and Western Literature. Talcott
Williams. Poet-Lore for March 15.
What a Bibliography Should Be. Victor Chauvin. Library Journal
for March.
Some Newspaper Bad Habits. With Portrait of E. W. Howe. E. W. Howe.
Newspaperdom for March.
The Danbury News Man. George Watson Hallock. Newspaperdom for
March.
A Complete Reference System. I. D. Marshall. Newspaperdom for
March.
The Complete and Authentic History of a News Despatch. Samuel
Merrill. Engraver and Printer (Boston) for March.
Edward Augustus Freeman. Critic for March 26.
Count Leon Tolstoi. Madame Dovidoff. Cosmopolitan for April.
Goodridge Bliss Roberts. With Portrait. Charles G. Abbott.
Dominion Illustrated Monthly (Montreal) for April.
Literature and the Ministry. Leverett W. Spring. Atlantic Monthly
for April.[Pg 82]
George Eliot and Mrs. Humphry Ward. Charles T. Copeland. North
American Review for April.
Charles Keene, of Punch. George Somes Layard. Scribner's Magazine
for April.
Isaac Judson Potter, Publisher of the Yankee Blade. With Portrait.
Weekly Journalist (Boston) for March 24.
Fiction in the Court Room. George Stewart. Toronto Week for March
11.
T. W. Higginson. With Portrait. Weekly Journalist (Boston) for
March 31.
Why Books Succeed. Duffield Osborne. American Bookseller for
April 1.
Eugene Field. Inland Printer for April.
What Is Poetry. Edmund Clarence Stedman. Century for April.
Wolcott Balestier. Edmund Gosse. Century for April.
The Wife of Eugene Field. John Ballantyne. Ladies' Home Journal
for April.
Mistaken Literary Success. Wolstan Dixey. Ladies' Home Journal
for April.
Poetry and Eloquence. John Burroughs. Chautauquan for April.
NEWS AND NOTES.
D. Appleton & Co. announce a Holland Fiction Series, introducing to
American readers the best literature of modern Holland. They have been
led to do this by the interest shown in Maarten Maartens' "Joost
Avelingh," which they published some time ago. A new novel by Maarten
Maartens will be included in the series.
Mrs. James T. Field is abroad with Miss Sarah Orne Jewett.
Daniel Lothrop, head of the D. Lothrop Company, of Boston, died February
18. He was born August 11, 1831.
Edward Augustus Freeman, the English historian, died of smallpox
February 16, at Alicante, Spain, aged sixty-nine years.
With the issue of March 11 the Epoch ceased to exist as a separate
publication, having been merged with Munsey's Magazine.
Edward Everett Hale will be seventy years old April 3.
Rev. George Thomas Dowling, D. D., who has been pastor of the
Madison-avenue Reformed Church in Albany for nearly three years, has
offered his resignation, to take effect July 1. It is his intention, he
says, to devote himself for a few years to rest and literary pursuits,
probably in Boston. Dr. Dowling's salary is $6,500.
In the New York Herald for March 13 were printed the opening lines of
a story, entitled "The Way Out," which American writers have been
invited to complete. The opening lines are by John Habberton. The entire
tale, inclusive of the opening, should not exceed eight thousand words,
nor contain less than seven thousand words. No limitations are imposed
as to scenes, characters, or incidents. The decision will be left to Mr.
Charles Ledyard Norton. For the best story offered the Herald will pay
$100, the story to become the property of the Herald, and be published
in full Sunday, May 1. Manuscripts must be typewritten, and must reach
the Herald office not later than Saturday, April 16.
The frontispiece of the Magazine of Art (New York) for April is an
etching by Chauvel from Troyon's "The Watering-place."
The Chautauquan (Meadville, Penn.) for April contains an excellent
portrait of John Vance Cheney, the popular poet and critic.
Charles Keene, the famous caricaturist of Punch, who died about a year
ago, is the subject of an article in Scribner's for April, illustrated
with many pictures from his original drawings.
A portrait of Walt Whitman, from the painting by J. W. Alexander, forms
the frontispiece to Harper's Magazine for April. Guido Biagi writes of
"The Last Days of Percy Bysshe Shelley."
A society of American authors, on lines similar to the British and
French societies of the same name, is proposed by Charles Burr Todd, who
has set forth the grievances of American authors in a paper in the March
Forum. The first meeting is to be held privately in New York on or
before May 1, and when one hundred members are enrolled the society will
be organized at once. Its objects are extension of copyright, abolition
of letter-rate postage on manuscripts, amendment of international
copyright law, and the adoption in America of the French statutes in
regard to literary property. All persons who have written a book, or are
engaged in writing for the press, are eligible to membership.
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