6. Idle talk about publishers' "risks." "risks." We are talking, here, of books which carry no risk with them. Since this is all that can be said against Mr. Hall Caine, we may read his address over again in confidence; and, in our own interests, we may learn it by heart and commit it to memory. 66 a Some eight years ago a certain literary paper reviewed Life of Richard Jefferies," written by myself. The reviewer spoke kindly of the biography, for which reason I do not mention the name of the paper. But, it said, if anyone in ten years' time were to take up the "Life of Jefferies" he would ask in astonishment, "Where are the documents or writings of this man?" It was really one of the most unfortunate predictions ever offered. Nearly that time has now elapsed. What do we see? Fancy prices for all Jefferies' early editions, reprints of his books, a constant stream of quotations from them, and a growing and widening circle of readers; a second biography of him-that by Mr. H. S. Salt: and now the most dainty little book in the world—just issued-a collection of "Thoughts" from his writings. The publishers are Longmans. I hope that every lover of the country, even if he is not already a lover of Jefferies, will make a note of this book. It is concentrated Jefferies. Oh! the wonderful writer! The eyes that saw through and through! The soul open to the voices of the flowers, the trees, the grasses, the skies, the clouds! There has never been any worshipper of Nature like unto Richard Jefferies since poets first began. A note has been received by me concerning a certain person who owes an author a somewhat considerable sum of money, which he will not pay, taking no notice of letters sent to him. The information is sent with a request that the case may be published in the Author. But, it is said, the author refuses to take steps on religious grounds. Then what is the good of publishing the case in the Author? The time has gone by when we published real cases under initials in order to prove to people the abuses which exist. If we publish such a case as this, it must be as part of the whole case, as taken up by our lawyer. Where religious scruples come in it is difficult to discover. A man owes money; he does not dispute the debt; he answers no letters; he takes no notice. Evidently the only sequel possible is the lawyer. If the author is not prepared for the intervention of the lawyer, why does he ask for the money at all? And should not religious scruples point out that to let a scoundrel rob with impunity is equivalent to encouraging him to rob others? and surely that would be a very irreligious thing to do. The Secretary of the Society has again asked me to call attention to the fact that a safe has been purchased for the storing of the agreements of members of the Society. All agreements will, of course, be kept absolutely private and confidential. There are, however, two advantages in placing the documents in the hands of the Secretary: First, the advantage accruing to the member in the knowledge of their secure preservation; and, secondly, the advantage accruing to the Secretary from the knowledge he obtains of the different methods and principles of the different publishers. Certain members of the Society who resigned at the end of last year have returned to their allegiance, stating that they have been unable to act without the advice of the Society. This is very satisfactory, and shows how necessary the Society must be to most of those who live by literature. One may be thought to be insisting too strongly on the enormous increase of readers during the last few years. Let us look back a little. In the year 1837 there were 20,984 committals in England and Wales. Of this number only 191 could read and write well. Of the rest some could read a little; the rest could not read at all. This proportion represented the condition of the class from which these criminals camethe agricultural and lower class of working people. To put it roughly, 200 out of 20,000 (or 1 per cent. only) could read and write well. The population of England and Wales was then about 20,000,000. Setting aside 4,000,000 for the better educated, there were left in this country only 1 per cent. in 15,000,000 who could read and write These -only, that is to say, 15,000 persons. 15,000,000 have now grown to 30,000,000 and they can all read. What do they read? Most of them only a newspaper. But they are getting village libraries, and they will soon read a great deal, because village life is dull, and reading will become for a time-and as a stepping-stone-the principal recreation. The astonishing circulation of many novels of the day seems, but is not, without precedent. If, for instance, we find novels of the day going into their fiftieth, hundredth, even hundred and twentieth edition, let us compare what was done with "Waverley." Lockhart tells us that the first edition of 1000 copies appeared on July 7, 1814; the second before the 3rd of August; the third in October; the fourth in November; the fifth in January, 1815; the sixth, of 1500 copies, in June, 1816; the seventh of 2000, in October, 1817; an eighth, of 2000, in April, 1822; that up to the edition disposed at a OPENING OF THE BRONTË MUSEUM. (Saturday, May 18, 1895.) the perpendicular street, of; and that up to the time of Lockhart's writing U paved with worse material than good 40,000 copies of the edition of 1829 had gone. So that the circulation of " Waverley" up to the year 1836 or so was 51,000 copies. At that time the population of Great Britain and Ireland was about fifteen millions. It is now 40,000,000, and with its colonies it is about 60,000,000. A modern book therefore, to be in as great demand by 1895 as "Waverley" was by the year 1836, should have sold 200,000 copies. Well; but Scott's novels were priced at a guinea; those of the modern novelist at 6s.; if price controls circulation, an equivalent to the popularity of Scott's "Waverley" would in these days mean about 600,000 copies. And this total has not, so far as I know, been reached by any living man. WALTER BESANT. What cry tempestuous thrilled the ecstatic air, On Pluto's rock the faithless chief shall rue A glamour, o'er gray cliffs and valleys lone C. A. KELLY. *"Folk have called me Rhodian, do you know?” Aristophanes' Apology. intentions, past the queer little shops and the Black Bull of immortal memory, until we find ourselves in the midst of such a crowd as probably Haworth has never before seen. Brontë worshippers have been asked to bear witness to the faith that is in them, and they have responded in no uncertain voice. In front of an unassuming doorway, with the mystic No. 2 upon it in white letters, standing upon an unpretentious armchair, a gentleman is reading the speech which Sir Wemyss Reid should have delivered in person, had not ill-health compelled him to be absent. By dint of edging our way step by step into the heart of the crowd, we manage to catch the words "neighbourhood - forefront - literature- bleak moors," but we are told afterwards that the speech will "look well in print." We cheerfully await the continuity which those five words seem somewhat to lack. museum. After the speech, the door is formally opened, and some few of those in front admitted to the The museum is small, and the crowd is large; hence a considerable amount of waiting is necessary. An English crowd, surrounded on all sides by house-walls, and being slowly broiled, as in a crater, by the captive sunbeams, is not always good tempered; but this crowd is, singularly so. A diversion is created by the appearance of Dr. Wright, an invaluable contributor to Brontë lore, who finds it no easy task to gain the doorway, even under escort of a bland, white-ribboned official. We are glad to see him. After a time he who, august in blue, guards the door proclaims that strangers shall take precedence over inhabitants, as the latter can see the museum any day. We live exactly five miles a way, across the hill, and are wont to haunt Haworth like a familiar spirit, but our conscience unhesitatingly proclaims us a stranger. enlist the services of a policeman in our immediate rear on behalf of a pilgrim from a distant land, and together we manage to reach the door, The Haworth morality, we regret to say, is lax; not a few of the villagers enter with us, hoping to pose as strangers; they have forgotten, however, that the guardian constable knows every face in the neighbourhood, and they are ignominiously pushed into a little room on the right. We chuckle, and pass up the stairs, into the museum itself. An oft-repeated cry assails our ears, "Pass on quickly, please; we can't keep the people outside waiting too long," so that our We inspection of the relics is of necessity hasty and incomplete. Our impression, however, is that the collection is a distinctly good one, and we learn that shortly it will be added to considerably. There are many copies, and some originals, of the Brontë letters, a few striking portraits in oil by Branwell Brontë, numerous personal possessions of the family, and odds and ends of all kinds. Particularly do we wish to linger above a white lace collar that once belonged to Charlotte; but how can we, with the haste-cry ringing in our ears? We shall come here on a quiet day and sentimentalise upon that bit of lace; there is about it an inexpressible pathos, which only these scraps of personal apparel seem able to attain. Out once more into the street, and across to the defaced parish church, rich in the gaudiness of modern windows, memorial only in respect of one small tablet, just without the chancel, recording the death of Charlotte Brontë. There is a window also to the glory of God and the Brontë family, presented by an American citizen; we metaphorically shake hands with that American citizen, but we feel that there was earnest need for an energetic Brontë Society in England here. Then to the Black Bull, thronged with thirsty and a-hungered worshippers. A Yorkshire tea spread in the big room upstairs, and everyone in the most delightful of hail-fellow-well-met humour. The local band enlivening the proceedings by waltz tunes, and other harmonious frivolities. Cream is scarce and the bread and butter gives out; but no one minds in the least. Afterwards, a well-filled pipe and a ramble among the ever-dear moors, harsh of aspect, but tender with a lover's tenderness when once you win inside their mystery. At six we adjourn to a packed meeting in the capacious schoolroom. Alderman John Brigg is in the chair, and sits it gracefully. The Established Clergy are conspicuous by their absence-both from the platform, and, so far as we can judge, from the audience-but Canon Clarke, of Dewsbury, does his best to atone for this by giving us an admirable speech. Other speeches follow, but candour compels us to admit that the meeting has suffered by the absence of many excellent people who were expected to be present. Dr. Wright, when he comes in at fifth wicket down is of course interesting, and gives us not a few reminiscences which might with advantage have appeared in his book; but, in our opinion, he rendered too much honour to Ireland, and too little to their true inspiration, when dealing with the origin of the Brontë works. Mr. Joe Normanton, a local celebrity, rises at a later stage, and the raciness of the soil is about his lips. He exposes a blot on the escutcheon of the Rev. Patrick Brontë; this otherwise exemplary pastor, it seems, "spliced " Mr. Normanton and his spouse some thirty or forty years ago, and Mr. Normanton finds it hard to forgive, though he may excuse. But the speech par excellence of the evening comes, like good wine, at the close of the banquet. It is Mrs. Scatcherd, of Morley, we believe, who rises to ask if no ladies are to be allowed to speak, and who is forthwith invited, with genial if tardy courtesy, to mount the platform. And it is good to have waited to the end. With exquisite sarcasm she points out that they are here to-night to honour three women, and that no woman has as yet lifted her voice. With exquisite pathos she dwells on that too little appreciated book, "Wuthering Heights." And we who love "Wuthering Heights" detect in the speaker's voice that trembling and hint of inward tears which we know so well; and it is hard to determine whether Mrs. Scatcherd's pluck, or the true ring of her sentiment, is more to be admired. Out again into the heart of the moors, with a half gale blowing into the teeth of a dying sunset. Up there on the brow a lone farmhouse, and over the moor that deathless cry of "Cathy! Cathy! Cathy!" Yes, we know how to love, we people of the moors. Finally, back to the Bull, which is almost deserted now. A seat, for sentiment's sake, in the original Branwell armchair, whisky (Irish whisky, again for sentiment's sake), and a pipe. And added thereto, perchance, a feeling that it is risky for a mere writer of books to undertake to "write up" a function. One last word. Two items in the day's proceedings are much to be deplored. Firstly, some ill-timed allusions to politics were mingled with the nobler issue. Secondly, not a few of the visitors thought it necessary to appear "bedecked and bedraped" in the fashionable monstrosities of the hour, as though they were attending a regatta or a military tournament. Surely the Three Sisters would have welcomed quieter, and more careless, garb. But it has been a good day, and a good-tempered day, and even errors of taste must be condoned. The grand upshot of it all is, that us who are Yorkshiremen, born of the moors, thank the gods for their mercies. TH HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE. THE DINNER TO THE EDITOR. HIS dinner was held on June 26. A report of part of the speeches will be presented in the August number. THE "SPEAKER" AND THE AUTHORS' Ο SOCIETY. N June 15 there was permitted to appear in the columns of the Speaker an article directed against this Society, which for unmannerly insinuations-there is no other word. --and ridiculous figures would be difficult to beat. The following are a few specimens of the spirit in which the paper is written: 1. The writer says that the secretary is not aware of the existence of any other book than the novel. He either conceals or is ignorant of the publication of a book by the Society some years since, in which the cost of producing nearly every kind of book was considered. The cases which are individually brought to the secretary cover every possible branch of literature. But where he writes of a novel he confines his attention to a novel. 2. "The Society," he says, "is a self-elected English Academy." It is, of course, nothing of the kind. Its sole function is the defence of literary property. The writer does not know even what the French Academy attempts. That body has nothing whatever to do with literary property. 3. It is in defence of literary property that the Society have collected and published their figures. They were published five years ago, and were collected, and tested, and proved very carefully before publication. Those obtained by Mr. Hall Caine the other day were actually furnished to him by publishers. And they agree with ours. over, printers have declared themselves ready to work on the basis of these figures, not in "immense editions" only as this writer ignorantly affirms, but in moderate editions. Tenders for the work have been brought to the secretary on much lower terms. More 6. The writer says that our figures apply only to editions of 20,000. This shows that he has not even opened the pages of our book, where editions of different numbers are separately estimated. He 7. Now let us turn to his own figures. says that if a publisher orders an edition of 1500 copies to begin with they will cost him 28. 94d. each. Observe that he is so ignorant of the subject as to suppose that all books cost the same. He pays no attention to length, size, type, paper, or anything. No, they all cost the same: all 2s. 94d. each. Next, if you turn to our figures, you will see that the estimates are drawn up each for a certain book of so many pages, so many lines to a page, such and such type, and a certain sum assigned for paper and for advertising. There can be no mistake about our estimates. Now, look again at our figures. (See "Cost of Production," p. 27.) The book quoted is one of 17 sheets, or 272 pages, at about 258 words to a page; i.e., an average six-shilling book. The cost of the first edition of 1500 copies, with advertising, is Is. 6d. per copy, against this writer's absurd estimate of 2s. 94d. each. The cost of the second edition and following editions of 1500 copies is 10d. per copy. His estimate, therefore, is actually double our own for the first edition. But this man, who is writing on figures which he does not understand, is himself unable to work out the simplest sum. He says that a royalty of 15 per cent. on a six-shilling book is 10d. It is not; it is 10d.-a very considerable difference. in a large sale. He says further that a royalty of 25 per cent. is "rather more than 16ď. per copy." It is, indeed. It is 18d.-only a difference of a trifle of £50 in a sale of 6000 copies! 8. Next consider his facts. He says that Mr. Hall Caine should remember that his publishers "found the capital for the production of his book, and risked that capital on the chance of success." This is quite the old-fashioned way of talking the loose and ignorant way. What are the plain facts of the case? (1.) The finding of the capital. The production of a book only moderately successful need not require the advance of any capital at all. The printers, paper makers, and binders are all paid after the first and largest returns of the book. This is a simple arrangement — one supposes the universal arrangement of which the writer has never heard. a (2.) The so-called risk. There are some hundreds of writers, historians, poets, essayists, novelists, concerning whose works the word "risk" cannot be used. It is an insult to speak of their writings as bearing any risk. Of course, if a publisher is such a fool as to print an edition of a million copies when only five thousand will sell there is risk, but we speak of publishers as men of sanity and common sense. The writer speaks of novel publishing as very risky" business. "Not one in ten," he says, furnishes the publisher with more than a bare percentage on his capital." What stuff is this! Not one in ten? Why, setting aside the things produced at the author's own expense, the new novels of the day produced by responsible firms are nearly all books which are certain to pay, not only their expenses, but, as well, to leave a comfortable margin. That they all pay large sums cannot, of course, be claimed. If they were not all nearly certain to pay something they would certainly not be published. As we have said, over and over again, the business of the Society of Authors is not to attack publishers, although it has constantly been accused of doing so. Its business is simply to defend literary property. In order to do so it ascertains the facts and figures as to publication, and publishes these facts and figures. This exposure is, one understands, extremely disagreeable to certain publishers, because the Society converts into an open and honest business what was formerly kept cose and secret. But why does the Speaker object to openness and honesty? The Consolidated Board of Trustees of the New York Public Library-the Astor, Lenox, and Tilden Foundations-have elected their officers. President, John Bigelow; first VicePresident, Bishop Potter; second Vice-President, John S. Kennedy; Treasurer, Edward King; Secretary, George L. Rives. No action has yet been taken as to the site of a library. The President, who was at one time United States Ambassador to France, is the author of the "Life and Letters of Benjamin Franklin," the "Life of Bryant" the poet, the "Life of Molinos," the "Life of Tilden," and many other historical and political works. He is now seventy-seven years of age. His son, Mr. Poultney Bigelow, is at this time a resident in London. The "Following of Christ" is a collection of passages from modern writers, selected and arranged by Charles L. Marson, curate of St. Mary's, Somers Town, N.W. The Rev. Canon Scott Holland supplies an introduction or preface. The note struck by the latter is that our times no longer produce "supreme individualities, robust, complete, severe." Even the giants of the day, now fast vanishing, have been "feverish, excited, with a touch of extravagance." What have we now? "A crowd of lesser men, obviously clever. Keen, alive, interesting, but all more or less on a level." In other words, not the whole of a man's work is at the man's highest, but only bits here and there. These bits, picked out and arranged, form the "Following of Christ." (Elliot Stock.) "The Furled Banner," by Heather Gray, is a tender, pathethic little religious story. It does not take long to read it. Nor does it take long to touch the heart and bring the tears to the eyes. (Elliot Stock.) "Cromwell's Soldier's Bible." This is a notable little reprint. It is a copy of the " Pocket Bible supplied to every soldier in Cromwell's army. Not a complete Bible, but a collection of passages selected as likely to be most useful to a soldier on a campaign. It is a book which anyone who has ever considered the history of that time should purchase. The "Teacher's Prayer," by Zillah Dugdale (Elliot Stock and the Sunday School Union). This little book is written as much for Sunday school scholars as Sunday school teachers. It is, as might be expected, a deeply religious story. It is also well written, and shows a high level of thought and feeling. "Turquoise and Jade," by D. M. B. (Maidstone: Young and Cooper), is a collection of rondeaux, sonnets, triolets, &c. Let the poet speak. MOTHER-HOOD. The mystery of dawning mother-hood Dwelt in her eyes and lingered in the air With newer beauty, greater good than 'ere Held her in bondage, while they set her free, The mother of her child-to hold so fast A novel by Sir Walter Besant has been purchased with all rights by Messrs. Chapman and Hall. The work will run serially in Chapman's Magazine before publication in volume form. It will probably appear in 1897. The same writer's other engagements, up to 1898 inclusive, are for the Pall Mall Magazine, the Tillotson's Syndicate, and for Messrs. Chatto and Windus. Mr. R. H. Sherard's new novel, "Jacob Niemand," will be published early in July by Messrs. Ward and Downey. Mr. Sherard is at present engaged on a story of the Napoleonic wars, entitled "With the Great Commander," which will be published in the autumn. M. Daudet's new book, "Premier VoyagePremier Mensonge," written in collaboration with Mr. R. H. Sherard, will first appear in serial form in an English and American magazine. Arrangements have already been made for its subsequent publication in book form both in England and America. Mr. M. H. Spielman's History of "Punch" will appear in the autumn. It will contain about a hundred and twenty portraits, illustrations, and |