mother almost entirely dependent on her daughter's efforts for a maintenance. Edith found it incumbent on her to break off her engagement to a certain good-hearted but by no means prosperous young man. They had parted as she believed for ever, and he had gone abroad; Edith devoted herself to the care of her mother, whose failing health caused her much anxiety. She had a daily teaching engagement, and when this was over she gave her spare time to the literary efforts which she had pursued with some slight success ere her father's death, and the consequent struggle for life, converted what had been a pure pleasure into a feverish attempt to produce that which would bring in money.

The new motive did not yield the highest inspiration. Heartbroken at the loss of her lover, harassed by a thousand petty and humiliating cares, and depressed by her growing anxiety on her mother's account, Edith was not in a condition to conceive the bright fresh stories which delight editors. Yet never had she been more wishful for success. So much depended on her earning money. "Dead Violets " had been written with the eager hope that it might bring in a sum sufficient to afford her mother the fortnight at the sea-side which the doctor declared would do her more good than any medicine. Edith had written as her heart dictated, embodying in the tale somewhat of her own sad experience. She believed she had written it well. Certainly it was true to life. And now it appeared that it was too true to life! People must be amused with false pictures of impossible happiness. "Dead Violets" "morbid" and "depressing."

was

It was a grievous disappointment; but happily Edith had not confided her hopes to her mother, so she alone was disappointed. For a few days she looked for the return of her MS.; it did not come, and she soon forgot to expect it. She had no hope that the story would find acceptance in any other quarter. She regarded the sentence passed upon it by the editor of the Weekly Adviser, in which several of her stories had previously appeared, as final. Had the MS. come back into her hands they would have committed it to the flames.

So there was no summer holiday for Edith and her mother that year. Mrs. Carlisle's health failed rapidly in the hot close days, and ere the cooler weather set in she died. Edith's life was painfully lonely after her mother's death. She had lost all knowledge of her lover, and she had few friends. She sought relief in work. She worked harder than ever with her pen, and she worked to good purpose. She began to attain some literary success. Ten years passed by, and her position had considerably improved.

She

was on the staff of a popular magazine, and she had written one or two books for girls which found a good sale. She had ceased to write for the Weekly Adviser. The cheery editor who did not like melancholy stories had gone over to the majority; she knew nothing of the man who had succeeded him. Great was her surprise, therefore, when she one day received through the post a roll of proofs in a wrapper bearing the name of that well-known weekly. "This is a mistake," she said to herself, as she unfolded the sheets; but as she glanced over the printing a name here and there caught her eye which struck her as strangely familiar. The thing was not new, though it seemed as vague and distant as a dream. What could it mean? She turned to look for the title. "Dead Violets" met her eye. The story pronounced "too depressing," more than ten years before, had lain in the office of the Weekly Adviser ever since, and now, unearthed by some chance, had found favour with the new editor, and was set up in type.

With strangely mingled feelings Edith read the story written so long before. Her heart was painfully thrilled by the memories it invoked. It seemed at once better and worse than she had deemed it in the old days. There were crudities of style, and a youthful exuberance of expression which jarred on her more cultured taste; but the story was alive. It was very sad-depressing, no doubt-but yet a bit of real life, written with a throbbing heart, from the depths of her own experience. Her first impulse had been to write and forbid its publication; but on second thoughts she decided to let it appear with such slight improvements as she could make on the proofs.

The revision was painful work. She could not but think how much it would have meant to her had the story found acceptance when it was first submitted to an editor. Who could say? Her mother's life might have been prolonged-even saved, perhaps-had she been able at that time. to command the sum which this story would bring her. bring her. But it was vain to dwell on that now. The story had been written for her mother's sake, and to her loved memory should its price be devoted Edith had never yet been able to place a suitable memorial above her mother's grave in the crowded London cemetery. For some time she had been slowly saving with this object in view; now this story would supply what was needed to make the amount sufficient.

So, when the editor of the Weekly Adviser sent his cheque for six guineas, the money went to complete this fund, and in due time a simple granite cross marked the mound of earth so sacred to the author of " 'Dead Violets." The associations of that title were full of sadness for

Edith, but she never blamed the editor who had rejected the story when fresh from her pen. He had acted for the best. He was bound to consult the pleasure of his readers and the interests of his paper. It was doubtless by accident that the MS. had never been returned to her. She could have had it had she cared to apply for it. The fact of her story's attaining publication after so many years was just one of those strange chances which continually attend the fortunes of a literary

career.

AFTER PUBLICATION-THE FATE OF A BOOK.

N the March number of The Author I found

a paragraph relating the troubles of

member of the Society whose reviews, although excellent, have failed to circulate his books; and (2) a sentence, cited from an article in the Fortnightly:-"I know one bookseller who, when he finds a eulogistic review of a new book, instantly cuts it out and displays it in a conspicuous manner. He tells me the system is a gratifying success."

We have, in the foregoing, some suggestions and experiences which may help to throw some light on that mysterious period of a book's career-the period when, just hot from the press, it is as yet undetermined whether it will be a failure or success.

Let us consider this subject under four heads: (1) The book and the reviewer, (2) the review and the public, (3) the book and the bookseller, (4) the book and the public.

1. The Book and the Reviewer.-It is evident

In

that there must exist a great disparity between the careful and exhaustive, if not always unprejudiced criticisms of the great quarterlies in their palmy days, and the hasty rule-of-thumb "notices" of the thousand and one journals wedging in a weekly or fortnightly "literary article amongst columns of sporting, commercial, fashionable, and other "intelligence." the latter case, literature is treated as one only, and by no means an exceedingly important one, of the many interests which a daily journal reflects, and the object is, no doubt, to give the reader an idea of what is "doing" in the world of letters, rather than to attempt seriously the work of instructive and discriminating criticism.

It is of course true, and every author will admit it, that the views taken by reviewers are as various and as many as the actual number of minds concerned in writing the notices in question. The demerits cited by one, are considered "characteristic touches" by another. What one

" another will

critic describes as "cheap sarcasm call "profound psychological analysis," and so forth. There may be more than one reason for this. It is no doubt true, as the Editor of The Author has repeatedly pointed out, that no critic can afford to exercise reflective judgment on a work when the result of that judgment has to be condensed into a few lines, and remunerated accordingly. But, with every respect to reviewers as a class, it may be suggested that a great review can only proceed from a mind specially qualified by nature and by training for this particular work, and that to sum up the results of superior constructive ability intelligently, requires critical ability of no common order.

These considerations lead us to inquire whether the function of the reviewer as now exercised does not require modification-whether, in fact, the whole system of literary notices might not be organised on an entirely different basis with advantage to all concerned.

Granted that it is the object of the literary column in the great provincial journals and in the more important weeklies, to reflect the current, activity in the world of letters to give, as we have said, an idea of what is "doing in the way of book production-it is clear that this end might be quite as effectually attained by making these columns the channels of a flowing stream of criticism derived from one or more deep artesian fountains, rather than, as at present, by attempting an outpouring of not too drinkable water derived from more shallow wells, sunk on the premises.

Less metaphorically, why should not the literary column, instead of attempting to reflect the whole world of books, confine itself to a summary, intelligently commented upon, of the said world as seen through the spectacles of the great critical journals?

To the ordinary cultivated reader it would be far more provocative of interest in a particular book if, in his local journal, say the North of England Mercury, he should find short summaries of criticism on, say, "The Three Fishes, a Tale of Grammarye," culled from the Athenæum, the Spectator, Literature, &c., &c., instead of merely the less valuable lucubrations of the local gentleman who "does" the reviews for that influential county organ. Possibly in nine cases out of ten the local gentleman in question would be by no means averse to the change himself. If he felt moved to dissent from the opinions of the greater lights, it would be open to him to prove them in the wrong. It would also be a light and pleasing exercise for him to discriminate between and enlarge upon the spectacle of the Olympians themselves, utterly at loggerheads over the moral

If this change were brought about there would, of course, still remain the burning question of the canons of criticism"-those canons by which the Olympians themselves are to be guided, first, in determining if a new book be worthy of their attention; secondly, in weighing-up the statements, theories, or positions of the writer. Mr. Hannigan, in the March Author, has made a courageous attempt to formulate some of these, but as by his own admission the Waverley novels (including "Ivanhoe "?) fall short of his particular standard, it is to be feared that his formula needs considerable amendment.

Having regard to the complexity of human life, and in particular to the fact that progress in every department of human activity is the final result of a number of concurrent, heterogeneous, often conflicting influences, it is evident that no canon of criticism can hope to include all possible cases. In modern and present day matters it is probable that, even were such canon recognised, it would pass the limits of "the wit of man to dispassionately apply it. We must, therefore, as heretofore, trust to the human element to the reflections and judgments of the recognised critical authorities; and even these will assuredly often prove to be all wrong, because the human anind is not an infallible machine.

For the present, at any rate, we will not attempt to penetrate the mists that surround Olympus. We will imagine the review written, disseminated by means of the " literary column to the half

million interested in such matters, and served up with the coffee at the breakfast table. The question now becomes, "What is the effect?"

2. The Review and the Public.-Each one of us has, no doubt, in his remembrance an instance, when, having read the "notice" of a book, a consuming desire to have and handle that book has for a few hours possessed us. Our enthusiasm and curiosity during this brief phase has been raised, it may be, to a 10s. 6d. level, or it may be only to a 6s. pitch. But we have felt tolerably certain that, if the much-desired volume were within reach, we should purchase it at all hazards, and in defiance of the whispers of prudence and economy.

This is the first psychological moment in the history of the review.' When it has died away, unsatisfied, the review has passed stage one in its

career of usefulness, and has entered on stage two, in which it is only fit for abstract, and reproduction along with others.

The later stage is perhaps a more lasting one. From a number of "notices" the juice or essence, not the bitter essence, but the sweet, is extracted, and the cumulative effect of pithy sentence upon pithy sentence, each followed by the name of some great piece amongst the heavy ordnance of literature, is no doubt very great. The wavering mind remembering its past and momentary enthusiasm over this particular work of genius, greedily responds to the tickling, the gentle stimulus of so many laudatory phrases, and arrives at a fixed determination, not necessarily to buy, but to "look out" for this book. This is psychological moment No. 2. Whether it bears fruit depends upon the accessibility of the work, and this brings us to

3. The Book and the Bookseller.—The “publication" of a book is a very vague expression. Too often it means the languishing of the majority of the so-published volumes in the state of "quires upon the shelves of an unromantic warehouse. Now, it is very clear that a book stands very much in the same light as any other manufactured article from the point of view of the person who has to sell it to the public. The first cry of the would-be purchaser is "samples"; the second," samples"; the third, "samples.' It is, of course, obvious that a book, however large, cannot very well be distributed in small gratis doses like, for instance, X.'s celebrated And though it is no doubt true that the whole office of the "review" and the "notice" is to guide the public taste, yet we must not forget that X., too, has his "Press notices," his "testimonials," and other printed matter descriptive of the merits of his cocoa, and, in addition, does not disregard the uses of advertisement, but after all he relies upon the gratis sample.

cocoa.

In the opinion of the writer it is not so much the producing as the distributing system of the book trade that is out of gear. Publishers themselves, those keen business men, seem helpless. They blame the author, they blame the bookseller, they groan over the discount system, they cry out at the burden of the review copy, they prophesy, they menace, but the end of all the stir is "much cry and little wool." The unsold "quires" lie limp and lonely upon the warehouse shelves, the bookseller puts a few copies of standard authors in his windows, and the purchaser bursting into his shop with enthusiasm, red-hot from a perusal of the " essence of review" above mentioned, is met with the cold and damping remark that "We haven't the

book in stock, but we can get it." And, in not a few cases, out he goes again, never to return.

This is not business; it is not even common sense. It is not encouraging trade, it is stifling its nascent struggles. And the result is perpetual recrimination and unrest. Let us now look at the whole matter from another standpoint.

4. The Book and the Public.-Ah, this dear Public! How noble he is. So unlike a reviewer, unlike even a publisher. We may bully him to our heart's content, and he will like us all the better for it. Each of us feels that, could we but stand face to face with him, and gain his ear, he would extend the right hand of fellowship to us, in sheer admiration of our splendid thoughts. Faith, it is a strange spectacle, this poor, weary, jaded Public, ever seeking for some new thing, and all this galaxy of talent eager to woo his attention and charm him from his abject melancholy. And between, the impalpable shadow of Destiny, the mocking spectral Fate that keeps him still with head on hand, writhing with ennuiwhilst our own enthralling work, epic, comedy, or jeremiad, as the case may be, lies upon the shelves, chemically decomposing into grainless dust.

It is easy to understand how a book may be a great success. Touching, even though only by accident, on the inmost fibres of the human heart, will do it, even though every canon of criticism, and every rule of grammar has been violated in the doing of it. Perhaps Mr. Vincent Heward (March Author, p. 269) has not inaptly put it, when he says "style and form are graceful adornments, but what of the body they are to adorn?" Emotion communicates itself like flame. The reader that has been thrilled is eager that others shall experience like pleasure. And thus comes the great success. Merely intellectual satisfaction the reader is more continent of. He says "Clever chap that," but the world does not glow the brighter for a mere sparkle of the mind. Yet even if we recognise that there are many kinds of cleverness which merely stimulate superficially without turning the reader's nervous system into a red-hot furnace full of sympathetic flames, it is not easy to say why books of undoubted merit are often not merely "not very successful," but, on the contrary, total and abject failures.

It would seem that there must be a reason, and a remediable reason, for this, since it is idle to blame the public for neglecting a clever work, because the public's appetite for any sort of clever work is, there is plenty of evidence to show, insatiable.

We have seen that a clever work addressed to

the emotions, succeeds, because it is advertised by the public itself. It spreads like fever, like panic, or any sort of contagion-and then after a time a further influence comes into play-it becomes "fashionable." The obvious corollary is that works of merit (e.g,, those mentioned on p. 260) which are total failures, are only total failures because, not being of the class that advertise themselves, they have not in reality been advertised at all. Or to speak with precision, they have not been brought before the public in a way that has any practical influence on the public. And this will still be true, if many scores of pounds have been spent in advertising, and if every journal in the kingdom has spoken favourably of the work.

Enter any shop where a large trade is done in non-copyright books and cheap editions. Observe the purchasers. In nine cases out of ten the purchaser goes into the shop with a vague flavour in his mouth, a half-felt craving for some particular class of mental stimulus. It may be adventure by sea, or by land, the mazy thread of a detective tale, a "society" story, and so on. He wanders round the well-filled shelves, peeping into this, reading a few pages, passing on to that, until at length he finds something to his taste, pays his money cheerfully, and goes out in feverish haste to make acquaintance with his new friends.

The deduction is obvious.

What is really required to give a stimulus to the profession of the author, to the business of the publisher, to the trade of the bookseller, is reorganisation of existing relationships. The following seem reasonable suggestions. It is not pretended that they are now offered for the first time.

(1). Fewer reviews, but those few written by the best available men, bent, not upon "slashing the author, nor expatiating to a disproportionate extent upon mannerisms and style, nor exhibiting encyclopaedic learning, but on viewing the constructive work of their contemporaries as part of the zeit-geist in a calm and philosophic way.

66

(2.) The abolition, to a large extent, of the notice," which at its best is a waste of energy and space. A short statement of the plot or purport of the commonplace and generally unworthy book might be substituted. Such statement signifying neither praise nor blame.

(3). The introduction of much closer and more sympathetic relationship between publishers as a body and booksellers as a body. This is, of course, a vague and trite remark, and looks at first sight suspiciously like a pious wish, but it is the real focus at which all the evolutionary

forces at present working blindly in the world of books will presently be concentrated. We need not, however, discuss this from the point of view of the publisher; we will consider only what the author wants, whether he gets it directly or indirectly.

In every large town there should be many, in every small town there should be one bookseller who is not merely a tradesman, but an expertthe guide, philosopher, and friend of the book buyer. In his shop should be found every book reviewed by the critical journals, sent there on "sale or return" by the publisher. Of course this does not apply to éditions de luxe or specially expensive works-only to the rank and file of books that will be purchased by the public at large. There, too, would be found copies of those less successful works, open to everyone's examination; and it can hardly be argued that they would not be better disposed of in this way than decaying on the warehouse shelves. An unsold remainder of 500 copies would go a long way distributed amongst the chief booksellers of the kingdom. It is very certain that such shops, established as a recognised and flourishing institution in every town, selling all kinds of printed matter, would become the happy hunting ground of the public in search of a book, and that the scandal of works of merit proving financially disastrous, as in the case of our unfortunate fellow member, would cease to press on our attention.

The Public, entering the shop, either to behold with his own eyes that clever work of which he has just read the advertised "essence of review," or, on the other hand, merely desirous of finding something suitable to his present mood, would scan eagerly not only the works of A., B., and C. -celebrated authors-but also of X., Y., and Z., coming men, who, however, have not yet arrived. And it is much more likely that he will invest in the scintillating wit of X., Y., and Z., after having had the opportunity of mentally measuring it, than that he should speculate in the work of an unknown name on the faith of an advertisement. Besides, to be told that the books of a particular writer are not "kept in stock" leads one, unconsciously, to rank that writer as a second-rate one. The influence of fashion is often strongest where it is least visible.

It would appear that the bookseller is deserving of the tenderest care at the hands of the author. He is the advance-guard, the outpost of literature, aud his position should be strengthened as far as possible. Enlisting his sympathies, the author has a thousand Argus-eyed auxiliaries working for him, pointing out his merits, holding him up to the omnivorous public as a person

whose acquaintance (at the published price) it is desirable to cultivate.

The idea may be Utopian, but like many Utopias it is a pleasant one to contemplate. N. C.

IN

CORRESPONDENCE.

I. THE CIVIL LIST.

N the copy of The Author for July, which has just reached me, you do not mention the grant (the pension, rather) of £20 a year which has been awarded me from the Civil List. As I owe it entirely to the action of the Society of Authors, who most generously signed a petition on my behalf, I think some acknowledgment should be made in The Author. I am deeply grateful to the Society for their kind interest, and for the effort they made to help me. I may have hoped for a more generous award, but that does not affect my lively sense of the sympathy that has been shown me by my fellow authors, which has touched me most deeply. I thank them-and J thank you-most heartily.

FRANCES MARSHALL (Alan St. Aubyn).

July 8.

II. THE STRUGGLE FOR RECOGNITION. Do unknown authors, with touching faith in their own creations, and still more touching expectancy in regard to payment, truly realise the utter hopelessness, the dreary waste of time involved in sending out their literary samples to up-to-date editors or publishers' readers? Do they quite understand the appalling difficulties in the path of poverty, with a more than glutted market to meet-and poverty is always left to the sweet silence of solitude? To get a serial story accepted at, say, £3 weekly in a penny paper is the most practical way of earning a pittance in fiction; but even here there are thousands ready to do the work for half, and to do it remarkably well. Besides, the relatives of the proprietor or editor are always delighted to offer their services, and to steal all the "plums" from any proffered manuscripts. It is almost invariably the rich author who succeeds-the man or woman with a good income, irrespective of any literary earnings. Money lavished on advertising can make the dullest seaside story the fashion, and hence create a run on it. It is the moneyed power behind a book that will make it "go."

It is the greedy capitalist, without a literary instinct, commencing perhaps as some shrewd newspaper clerk, who through lucky chances and solid backers can buy up papers one after the other, and ruin their owners, like a huge serpent swallowing lesser ones.