blown down on Boston Common. Three grown persons with their arms stretched out can just span its huge trunk. The old cottage is sixty feet wide, yet the branches of the elm can be seen jutting out on both sides of the house from the view at the back. The cottage is one of those low, rambling buildings, only one story and attic, with nearly every room on a different level, so that one has to be continually stepping up and down in going from room to room a house that has grown gradually in the course of years with the people living in it. Many an artist has made a little pilgrimage to the place just to get a sketch of the old house and the older elm tree, both grown to be landmarks in the neighborhood.

"There I passed my days, never going to school an hour in my life, but learning from my mother and later from a few literary friends, who helped me in my work by cutting and pruning my first efforts at writing. My literary work now consists in writing novels that are published in book-form, and novelettes and short stories for magazine publication. I have completed two novels during the past winter. I shall stay a few days longer in Baltimore, but shall return after making a trip North, before going back to Elm Cottage."

Miss McClelland is a very rapid and prolific writer and since last autumn has written two novels and five short stories. Her style is terse, direct, and with a straightforward tone that has often been mistaken for masculine work and deceived many of her readers, who knew of the author only as M. G. McClelland and did not guess that the "M" stood, for "Mary."- Baltimore Sun.

Stedman. The poet Stedman is beginning to get irritable at the innumerable calls upon his time and patience by young authors. He is scarcely to be blamed. No man has ever been so ready to listen to the woes of the young author, and no hand has been so willing to assist by pen or introduction. But Mr. Stedman feels he has done his share. The attention bestowed by him upon the affairs of others has rendered it impossible for him to write for himself. "The exaction has become unbearable," said a close friend of Mr. Stedman's to me last evening. "Stedman feels he is old enough to be exempt. He must give up all hope of doing any more original work or be relieved from letterwriting to strangers and from attending to requests for literary aid and advice. And it should be the latter." Many a young author may miss Mr. Stedman's advice, but it is certainly true that few authors have done so much to make the literary path

smoother for many a beginner as has Edmund Clarence Stedman.

Twain. - Mark Twain has gone abroad, but he has left behind the manuscript of a new long story, which will see publication during the coming winter. The title chosen for the story is "The American Claimant," and its chief interest lies in the revival of the indomitable "Colonel Sellers," who is the leading figure in the story. Sellers comes into possession of an English title left him by his English relative, and the amusing portions of the story cluster around this fact. It was my privilege a few weeks ago to read the entire story in manuscript, and while it is good in many respects, it will by no means be considered Mark Twain's best piece of work. The humorist has not carried his deft humor with him with his years, and this the new story plainly shows. It is funny in spots only; then it drops into the commonplace. Colonel Sellers' famous phrase, "There's millions in it," becomes in the new story" There's billions in it, my boy." The story will first be published serially in a syndicate of newspapers.

While in his foreign seclusion, Mark Twain will write a series of letters from abroad on kings as he sees them across the mill-pond. While the humorist has never been known to shun money, his determination to get what he can from his fame and pen has grown with his years. Mark Twain does not write for his art; he writes entirely with the dollar mark in view, and writes to it. As a "space writer" he would be disastrous to the most flourishing newspaper. He will write for anything and everybody who pays him most. He has already made a fortune out of his pen, and he fully expects to make another before he retires from public view. Bok's Literary Letter.

Ward. Writing to the New York Sun of June 28, Eli Perkins says: SIR: I am in great trouble. Twenty years ago, when I wrote a biography of Artemus Ward, with a complete edition of his works and lectures, for G. W. Carleton, the publisher turned over to me the papers and manuscripts left by the humorist. Among them was the diary of his trip to California on the steamer Ariel, and his return by overland stage. On Monday I took a roll of these Ward manuscripts down to the Cassell Publishing Company. In it was Artemus Ward's interview with Brigham Young, which will be electrotyped for my new book, “Thirty Years of American Wit and Humor." But the rest of the manuscripts, with autograph letters from President

Harrison, the Prince of Wales, Blaine, Cox, Beecher, Talmage, Lowell, Curtis, Whittier, Cardinal Gibbons, Chief Justice Fuller, Professor Swing, Dr. Collyer, and fifty others, and six large books were taken from the Sixth-avenue elevated train. The books were kindly returned to me this morning by Mr. Clarence McGown, who accidentally found them in the Harlem depot. The man who took them from the elevated train had taken out Artemus Ward's manuscripts and the autograph letters. Artemus Ward's biographers have always said that his manuscripts went to his literary executors, Horace Greeley and R. H. Stoddard, but I have been keeping them sacredly for twenty years. His old Mormon panorama, once owned by Arthur Pelham, I have now stored in London, and have offered it to the Chicago World's Fair. If the Sun could induce the New Englander who took these manuscripts from the package to return these papers, he would confer a favor on every one who loves Artemus Ward, for they are the only autograph remains of the father of American humor.

LITERARY NEWS AND NOTES.

Mr. Edward W. Bok, editor of the Ladies' Home Journal, has become one of the owners of that periodical. Mr. Bok is twenty-seven years old, and was formerly connected with the Scribners, of New York.

W. Clarke Russell's new novel is entitled "My Danish Sweetheart," and will be published shortly in Harper's Franklin Square Library.

Some of the most competent judges say that no magazine article has appeared for years of greater value and importance than Mr. Carl Shurz's "Abraham Lincoln " in the Atlantic.

Mr. Howells, in criticising Boyesen's novel, "The Mammon of Unrighteousness," says: "America will never all be got in till the great American novel is conceived in an encyclopædical form, with a force of novelists apportioned upon the basis of our congressional representation and working under one editorial direction."

Mrs. Mary J. Holmes' new novel, "Marguerite," is finished, and will soon be on the market. The books of this author sell each year nearly 90,000 copies, making literature a profitable calling for Mrs. Holmes.

M. Emile Zola's next novel, which is to be en

titled "War," will be, it is said, the last of the interminable series of the "Fortunes of the Rougon Macquart Family," says Lucy H. Hooper in a letter from Paris to the Philadelphia Telegraph. He has, as a preliminary process to his work, undertaken a journey to the scenes of the war of 1870. M. George Ohnet's latest novel, "Debts of Hatred," is being published in feuilleton form in the Gil Blas. It is reported that Alexandre Dumas has begun a novel while awaiting the inspiration necessary for the completion of his long-announced comedy, "The Road to Thebes." Anything from his brilliant pen will be welcome; it has enjoyed already too long a period of repose.

A new volume of poems by Rudyard Kipling is announced for publication in the autumn. He has written a story for the Atlantic.

Miss Fisher, of North Carolina, the lady who once wrote many novels under the name of "Christian Reid," is now Mrs. Tiernan, and publishes no more. She is the daughter of the Colonel Fisher who gave its name to Fort Fisher.

Catherine Hutton, only daughter of William Hutton, the historian of Birmingham, died in 1846, at the age of ninety, leaving a collection of letters that are now to be published under the title, "Reminiscences of a Gentlewoman of the last Century," edited by her cousin, Mrs. Catherine Hutton Beale. The late emperor of the French, Charles Dickens, Byron's sister, and other celebrated persons were among her correspond

ents.

A charming little poem, probably by Chaucer, has just been discovered by Walter W. Skeat, the English scholar, in a manuscript in the Bodleian library. It is a playful love poem addressed to a lady, and consists of three stanzas of eight-line, ten-feet, iambic verse, such as Dr. Guest calls the "ballet stave." Guest says that Chaucer was the first to use this meter; it is the same as that employed in the "Monk's Tale."

A letter to Garrick from Goldsmith was sold for thirty-nine guineas recently in London. In it Oliver says: "I shall have a comedy for you in a season or two at the farthest, that I believe will be worth your acceptance." Garrick Had indorsed the letter, "Goldsmith's Parlaver."

Miss Elizabeth Deering Hanscom, whose helpful biographical study of Charles Lamb and his "personal" essays has just been issued by D. Lothrop

Company, is well known to the newspaper folk of Lowell and Boston as an indefatigable worker and a charming delineator of literary life and characters. Her latest "Study" is as useful as it is unique, and should be known to all lovers of the gentle Elia.

In view of the flattering reception which Mr. Janvier's charming collection of stories has met with in this country, the admirers of this brilliant author will be glad to learn that his book has met with appreciation in England. An edition of "Stories, of Old New Spain" was promptly secured for the English market by Messrs. James R. Osgood, McIlvaine, & Co., of London.

Fifteen years ago, according to the Toronto Week, Robert Louis Stevenson was one of a small gathering of art students and others at Barbizon. A discussion arose as to who, out of all of them, could best be spared by the world at large. Finally the matter was settled by a ballot, and every vote (his own included) was given for Stevenson.

Edna Lyall, the novelist, has been obliged to give up all literary labor on account of poor health, and is spending the summer in the lake districts of Italy.

George Kennan's "Siberia " is to be published in London before the year is out.

Douglas Jerrold dearly detested a bore. It is told of him that one of the breed one day met and halted him and asked, "Well, what's going today? "I am," returned the wit- and he did.

Mrs. Julia Ward Howe believes that it is never too late to learn. She commenced the study of Greek when she was nearly seventy years of age.

Mr. Stanley's "Darkest Africa" can now be had in England for less than half its original price. The "Letters" of Newman can already be purchased at $2.50 less than their published price, and a novel of Mr. Besant, published this year, may be had for a fourth of its original cost.

The works of Victor Hugo are still read more than those of any other French author.

Bret Harte's new story, "A First Family of Tasajara," will be published in six parts in Macmillan's Magazine. Mr. Harte, it is said, makes three times as much money out of the sale of his books in England as he gets from the United States.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer Cruger-or Julien Gordon, as she is best known in a literary way- - will hereafter confine her efforts more directly to book

writing than to articles for the periodicals, despite the fact that she cannot accept one-half the offers that come to her from the editors of magazines.

Speaking of Thackeray, Andrew Lang has this to say: "Travelling lately, and in lack of a book, I read the first half of 'Vanity Fair' again. It is even more delightful than it was. I suppose that, every five years, one learns better to appreciate this cynic, whose advice to young people is that they should learn early to love and to pray.' The meeting of Becky and Amelia on the day of Quatre Bras, the passion of Amelia, her sudden lapse into a child-like weakness, admiring George's scarlet scarf that she wears, and smoothing the pillow on which her husband's head will never lie, seem to me worthy of Shakespeare, or at least of Webster or Ford. Surely, it is the highest genius which thus endures, and masters, and touches us again, after so many years of intimate familiarity. Fifty years hence who will remember such details in the works

of any contemporary novelist? Who, indeed, remembers them a week after reading them?"

Some one asked James Parton not long ago where he had his country seat. "Country seat! People who write books do not have country seats. Country seats belong to those who sell books and buy them."

A rather startling addition to literature on the race problem is to be offered this summer in the form cf a novel, in which a black man figures as the hero. The plot is said to be very ingenious. A negro, born on English soil, the son of barbarians, is made a being of wealth, education, and refine. ment, absolutely ignorant that he is in any way inferior to those members of the Caucasian race he sees daily. Upon discovering his real status in society, the hero flies to America and proceeds to solve the race problem. After five years' steady grappling with this egregious task, he throws it up, and inflames the negroes of both North and South to pillage and murder. He devotes himself so thoroughly to a course of revenge upon the white race that his neck is in danger, and he flies the country. The hero subsequently returns to Africa, the home of his fathers, leaving an erratic white woman and several black ones to mourn his flight. The author of this book is Beckles Wilson, a young Englishman, who has spent several years in the South studying the race question. It is to be entitled "The Remarkable Experiment of Mr. Inigo Bright," and will be issued by the Lovells.

A company in London is preparing to print new

novels by Walter Besant and other popular writers and place them in eight-volume libraries on trains, in hotels, and other public places, where they may be withdrawn by dropping pennies in the slots. After a life of three months they will be published in the regular way, other volumes being provided for the automatic libraries.

Speaking of novel-writing, Frank R. Stockton says: "To my mind, the varieties of living types for the novelist's use are not to be found in New York or other great cities. I am aware that this remark will surprise many, and the English story writers will be cited against me. Kimball, Fawcett, Matthews, Bunner, Bishop, and several other successful men disprove my opinion, but it is not less confirmed, nevertheless. The country is the place to get the material- the clay, in some inupon which to work. Is it not from the country that the cities draw their supplies of fresh blood? Whence come the young men who are jostling each other on the floors of the exchanges? From the country. For every man city born and

stances

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bred who makes a prominent place for himself, I can show you ten who came up to the metropolis from the farm or the village. They are the men who wrestle the world an throw it oftenest?"

George W. Cable is spending all his time writing a new novel, which may possibly come out in the autumn or early winter.

Professor H. H. Boyesen's new novel, "The Mammon of Unrighteousness," will be published in England and in the fall in a German edition.

It seems odd that the dainty "J. S. of Dale," of "Gunnar" fame, should be a law-writer as well, but he is, and working hard on the second volume of his work on American statute law, upon which he has been engaged for the past five years.

Maurice Thompson has left his Mississippian retreat, and is now at his Indiana home working upon a new historical romance of New Orleans and the Gulf coast country during the war of 1812.

Rossiter Johnson is putting the finishing touches to his new story of boy life in Western New York, after which he goes to work on a book of rather a peculiar nature, which he has had in mind for a long time.

Dickens' favorite flower was the scarlet geranium; and the Academy says that this, too, is pleas antly characteristic of the man, who, with some of

his first earnings as a reporter-so John Payne Collier records "had bought a new hat and a very handsome blue cloak with black velvet facings, the corner of which he threw over his shoulder à l'Espagnole." "For a middle-aged man," says Mr. Locker, speaking of an after time, "Dickens was a smart dresser - he liked bright colors. He once told Charles Knight that he had the fondness of a savage for finery."

The number of American pilgrims who visit the tomb of Shakespeare far surpasses that from other countries. Each year the number grows larger, 20,000 being the latest figures.

Within the last two or three years it has come to be recognized that Australia is producing a literature of distinctive worth. As yet Americans have seen comparatively little of Australian fiction, and especial interest will for that reason be taken in the work of the clever Australian writer, Ada Cambridge, whose novel, "The Three Miss Kings," is the most recent issue, by D. Appleton & Co., in the town and country library.

At the sale of the Wilkie Collins autographs in London two weeks ago the following moderate prices were obtained: "Mr. Nightingale's Diary," printed copy, with autograph corrections of the author, and "Black and White;" printed copy, with an autograph note of the author, £10 15s.; "Frozen Deep," six printed copies with author's corrections, I 158.; "The New Magdalen," original autograph manuscript all in the handwriting of Collins, covering about seventy pages quarto, also the original manuscript score of the music by G. Richardson, £21 (with this lot was sold the author's copyright and all royalties and fees accruing therefrom); "No Name," a drama in four acts, original manuscripts, all in the autograph of Collins, 123 pages quarto, £1 148.; "No Thoroughfare," original manuscript, nearly all in the autograph of Collins, also two printed copies of the same and acting copy, £4; "The Woman in White," original manuscript in the autograph of Wilkie Collins, about 170 pages quarto, £14; "Rank and Riches," manuscript, with corrections by the author (with which was sold the author's copyright and all royalties and fees accruing therefrom), 1; "No Name," published by the author, 90 Gloucester place, Portman square, 1870 ( fourteen copies), 15; "The New Magdalen," a dramatic story by Collins, published by the author (thirty-six copies), 11; "Pris," original manuscript in the autograph of Collins, 195.

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more widely than is

An idea prevails sometimes supposed - that, as genius is a gift and "poets are born, not made," all brain-work is a spontaneous growth and finished articles flow freely from successful writers' pens. Now, if the people who entertain such notions would but consider that they do not belong to the class of successful writers, and would never attempt to write for publication, no great harm would be done. But, on the contrary, many, having possibly original and worthy thoughts, impose upon editors material so crudely prepared that it is a pity time must be wasted in opening its envelope; and others, with just enough literary skill to perplex the conductors of their favorite periodical, delight to boast in a self-congratulatory way that they rewrite anything."

"never

How far the method of the best writers differs from this mode of procedure a little re

No. 8.

search will show. The greatest mind — judged by its result has often toiled "the most terribly"; and that which appeared the happy product of inspiration becomes, as revealed, the rarely-polished work of art.

Instinctively the mind turns to the "In Memoriam " of Tennyson, and the "Faust" of Goethe. "In Memoriam," which is usually considered the best poem of its author, lay by him for seventeen years, being touched upon and added to from time to time, before it was regarded as finished and was sent out to the world; and "Faust," the most noted work of the great German poet, bears more wonderful record yet of long time spent upon a single literary production, it being sixty years from the time Goethe began it, a boy of twenty, till he had finally completed it, the man of eighty.

It may be admitted that it is altogether uncommon for authors to keep their tasks so great a length of time on hand; but there are enough cases sufficiently like these in the taking of pains and of time to prove that to achieve distinction in writing the rugged road of toil must be trod, and that for no inconsiderable distance.

Our would-be author can scarcely wait to see his name in print; but we hear of a reputable writer of to-day studying composition seven years before offering a line for publication. The historian Prescott studied six years in special preparation to make of literature a profession. And when he had then decided to write "Ferdinand and Isabella" he spent in reading and preparing for it more than three years before he began the actual writing. The book cost him ten years of hard labor. Sixteen years, then, from the time he set out to be an author his first work was published. Another