remain unpublished for practically the same

reasons.

The first thing which a reader looks for in a story is the quality technically termed "human interest," including the love interest, about which most novels concern themselves. Human interest may be defined to be that touch of nature with which the able novelist endows the people whom he creates, so that they become to the reader's sense living men and women. Few can do this. To my mind it is a talent that is acquired, and not inherited. It is an art, rather than an instinct. So the true

novelist may be said to be made, not born. But, whether or no, it is in imparting human interest that the great unpublished break down, with practical unanimity.

Another peculiarity among the beginners is that men are less liable than women to know how to handle the love interest of a story. The tyro, and especially the male tyro, on approaching the tender subject in the unfolding of his story, seems to throw experience to the winds. The result is that the reader who expects an idyl is compelled to wade through a debate.

Perhaps enough has been said on the subject of human interest. In leaving it I would make the following suggestions to the great unpublished: Study human character as you see it around you in your daily life; when you write about love-making, remember that it is the making of love, not the the talking of love, you are addressing yourself to; men, go and fall in love yourselves before you undertake to tell how lovers behave! and, girls, forget all you ever knew about "The Quick or the Dead!" The next great fault of which the unpublished are guilty is that they start in to tell a story long before they have a story to tell. There are multitudes of people who go about the world with vague ideas in their heads which they fondly cherish as the nuclei of famous novels. Occasionally one of these digests his idea far enough to begin writing, and once in a while the writer develops sufficient energy to pursue his purpose to the bitter and undigested end. Manuscripts evolved in this desultory way load the shelves of the publishers. The army of the unpublished is constantly recruited from the ranks of the idle, who have imagination enough to engender the idea without the patience to think it through. So it is a common thing for literary tasters to report that the story begins well, but that the author breaks down at such a point.

And this brings us to the subject of treatment. Treatment embraces style, but it is much more than style. It is of the last importance for the

unpublished to acquire style. I knew a man once who founded his style upon that of Addison by taking the Spectator and devoting his spare moments to copying from it. An accomplished stylist may be said to have achieved half the battle, but not more than half.

The unpublished are pretty generally addicted to the "padding" weakness. Padding," in publisher's slang, is matter introduced by the author upon his own motion, without any prompting from the story itself. Let me, as their friendly critic, whisper to them that padding always offends both the publisher and his reader. A literary taster will detect padding as readily and as unerringly as a bank teller will find a spurious bill, and he is quite as hostile to it.

The unpublished seem for the most part of a sombre turn of mind. There is rarely a trace of humor, to say nothing of wit, in their work. The younger ones are especially morbid. The only portions of an unpublished manuscript that are apt to inspire mirth in the reader are the ultra mournful and hyper-pathetic passages. But it has been the general observation that those fiction writers who have established the greatest reputations and met with the most unequivocal success are for the most part those who have begun as humorists or satirists. The unpublished should take their cue from this fact. The public would rather laugh than cry. Publishers' readers decidedly prefer to be approached on the humorous side.

Another point that is worth the careful attention of the great unpublished is that publishers as a rule like to have the atmosphere of the stories they put upon the market as wholesome as possible. Every publisher likes to have his books well spoken of. So in the competition of the manuscripts of the unpublished for the favor of the publisher, other things being equal, the moral has two chances to one over the risqué offering.

By way of summing up, I offer the following suggestions to the great unpublished: Learn to write and cultivate an original, or at least a correct, style. Think your story out before you write it. Let it be moral in tone, if this be morally possible. Try to remember that comedy and tragedy lie side by side in real life; do not, therefore divorce them in your contemplated picture of it. Tell your story straight forwardly and so avoid the publishers' bête noire, padding. Remember that love-making is not lovevaunting, and write not of imaginary people, but of the real men and women who live about you, and to that end, learn who and what these are. - Frank Howard Howe, in the Cosmopolitan for June.

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per C. Friends of THE WRITER and THE AUTHOR will confer a favor if they will inquire at public libraries whether complete sets of the two magazines are on file. Both magazines are educational in their character, and, being the only magazines in the world devoted solely to explaining the practical details of literary work, they should be found in every public library in the United States. The number of complete sets available is rapidly diminishing, and librarians will find it impossible to get complete files unless they order soon. Unbound sets can no longer be supplied.

"THE WRITER" FOR JUNE.

"A Sug

THE WRITER for June contains: gestive Fiction," by Tudor Jenks; "The Accuracy of Reporters," by M. Y. Beach; "New England Woman's Press Association," by Estelle M. H. Merrill; “Laura Garland Carr,” by S. C. Beane; "Writing to a Public," by Jeanie Porter Rudd; "Unknown Poets," by J. F. Howard; "Mrs. Laura Holloway Langford," by E. A. Thackray; Editorial - "The Function of the Literary Bureau"; "Two Checks. for One Article," by William Robert King; 'Michigan Woman's Press Association," by Hattie C. Sleeper; with the usual departments entitled Queries," "The Scrap Basket," "Book Reviews," "Helpful Hints and Suggestions," "Literary Articles in Periodicals," and "News and Notes."

66

SAXON OR LATIN?

A mistake often made by writers on style is to speak of simplicity as if it were something absolute, as if a particular form of expression were absolutely more simple than another. Simplicity is

really a relative term. An expression is simple or abstruse according as it is familiar to the reader or the reverse.

We are often told that we should use the Saxon part of our vocabulary rather than the Latin, because it is simpler. The late Dean Alford raised the cry, and it is often heard. "Latin," says Mr. Spurgeon, "is turf, Saxon is stone, good to pelt sinners with." But it all depends upon whether the Saxon words are in common use. We have retained in our speech the Saxon words for many common things and primitive feelings, but others have been superseded by Latin words, and a word may be of Saxon origin and yet be far from simple. Gainsay" is not so simple a word as contradict." "Yeasay" may be a prettier word than "assent,” but it is not so readily understood. "Inwit" is a good Saxon word, but we have to explain it by the Latin "conscience." We may, if we like, use "forewords " instead of "preface," to gratify a sentiment or carry out a theory, but it is pedantic or affected, and not simple English. The simplicity of a word depends entirely on whether or not it is in common use. - Professor William Minto, M. A., in the Chautauquan for June.

QUERIES.

while driving in the suburbs of an English town. The injury entailed a prolonged period of absolute rest, and just as she was recovering she had information of another trial of a far more grievous nature than any personal injury. She learned that her oldest son, a handsome, genial, and promising lad, was a victim of consumption, and for more than a year she gave herself up to the care of the boy. After his death Mrs. Burnett was so prostrated that it seemed to her that she never could take up her pen again. She feared that she could not write without being constantly reminded of the boy. She had no heart for composition. Her literary impulse was benumbed by her grief. Of course, time assuages the bitterest grief, and Mrs. Burnett has still another boy, the one who was the ideal from whom Little Lord Fauntleroy was drawn. And with him for a companion she has at last mastered her great sorrow, although, of course, the death of her oldest has left a suffering which no literary success, no praises of the world, can ever assuage. In a letter to a friend in New York City Mrs. Burnett communicates a piece of news which will perhaps astonish and disappoint those who have admired her books. She has one or two contracts for novels, and these she will endeavor to execute. When these books are finished it is Mrs. Burnett's idea that she will never write another novel. She proposes to devote herself entirely to the drama. She tells her friends that she has worked with some success in three different fields of literary endeavor, and she feels that this is a mistake; that she should have concentrated her energies entirely upon one form of literary expression, and that the dramatic. It is very likely that Mrs. Burnett's enthusiasm for the drama is due to her discovery that a successful play is a veritable gold mine. While "Little Lord Fauntleroy" was running in New York City Mrs. Burnett's income was from $1,200 to $1,500 a week. Her profits from the play amounted to some $60,000, and are still coming in. And that is six times as much as she received from the publication of all her novels.-E. J. Edwards, in the Syracuse Herald.

festival. Coming back to Paris, she spent two months in Algiers, making sketches. Reaching Paris in January, she took an apartment in the Place de la Madeleine, and began regularly studying art in the atelier of Charles Lasar in the rue Vaugirard. Mrs. Chanler went to Paris to study art, not because she had the intention of abandoning literature, but because she wished to cultivate her taste for art sufficiently to be able to return home to carry on painting and literature side by side. After a time her doctor forbade all work, and in the spring ordered her to Fontainebleau, where with her husband and .some friends she spent the summer in the home of Madame de Pompadour. In the garden surrounding the house, after somewhat regaining her strength, she again took up her brush, painting from models in the open air. She worked steadily until September, when the doctor ordered her to leave for a change of air. She then went to Germany, afterward returning to Paris to resume her art work. The unprecedentedly severe winter brought back the old trouble with her lung, and confined her for several weeks to the house. During the previous winter she had found time to write a short story called "Was It a Crime?" which appeared in the London Fortnightly Review. Upon finding that she was unable to do any work with her brush last winter, Mrs. Chanler wrote a novelette, entitled "According to St. John," which will be illustrated by Miss Greatorex, the well-known American artist in Paris, and which will appear in the Cosmopolitan, beginning in August.

Early in the past winter Mrs. Chanler was ordered by her physician to San Remo for the benefit of her health. Here she rapidly improved, and after a few months' treatment her lung trouble disappeared. After this she visited Italy with her husband, returning to Paris in April. While much improved in health, she is still too delicate to resume her work, and has, consequently, decided to return to the United States. Mrs. Chanler will, upon reaching America, remain a short time in New York, and after spending a few weeks at some summer resort with Mr. Chanler, will go to her old home, Castle Hill, in Virginia, reaching there next September. Soon after taking up her residence in the old homestead she will resume her art studies under the supervision of Mr. Lasar, who, with his wife, will spend the autumn near her in Virginia. About the first of February Mr. Lasar will return to Paris, and Mrs. Chanler will then go to New York, where she will remain a month or two, or longer if she finds that the climate agrees with her. In the future her

home will be divided between New York and Vir ginia. Paris Letter in the New York World.

Kipling. Rev. W. J. Dawson has discovered that Rudyard Kipling's grand-parents on both sides were Wesleyan ministers. Rudyard's father," continues Mr. Dawson in the Young Man, "is a man of great ability, who held an important position as art-director in India, and, of course, this explains the son's perfect knowledge of the technicalities of art. Years ago he was an artist in Pinder, Bourne, & Co.'s, now Doulton's, works at Burslem. Near Burslem is a pretty village named Rudyard, of which the Kiplings were very fond, and it was from this circumstance that Rudyard Kipling received his first name. Mr. Kipling, senior, is at present decorating a ceiling for the Queen at Windsor, and has in preparation a book dealing with the picturesque life of India. Among his gifts is mimicry, and those who have heard him tell a Yorkshire story have been amazed at his perfect mastery of the dialect. Here, then, is a further explanation of that extraordinary mastery of dialect displayed in the stories of the son."

Mines. Flavel Scott Mines is the author of many bright pieces of verse, which have appeared in the humorous publications, as well as in Harper's Weekly and other journals of a dignified nature. He is the son and grandson of a clergyman, and makes his home on Staten Island. Mr. Mines was born in 1866, at Cherry Valley, N. Y., and went to the metropolis in 1881, to seek his fortune. He secured a position as office boy in the establishment of Harper & Brothers, and worked his way up to the editorial staff, where he began to attract attention by his work. Last summer he left the immediate employ of the Harpers, but continues to write for their periodicals, at the same time contributing to other publications many of the bright things which serve to gladden the hearts of the multitude. - Brooklyn Citizen.

Sheldon. The author of that bright little brochure, How We Saw It in '90," is Grace Carew Sheldon, of Buffalo, a young lady whose efforts in the past few years have been noteworthy, not only in literature, but in other fields. Miss Sheldon is the eldest daughter of the late Judge James Sheldon, who for many years sat on the bench of the superior court. On her father's side she is descended from Captain George Denison, whom some consider a greater soldier than even Miles Standish ; on the other side she traces her descent back to Governor Carver. Her business talent and success is the more remarkable because for long gen

erations her ancestors have been college bred and professional men. Miss Sheldon was graduated from Wells College, Aurora, the alma mater of Mrs. Cleveland, in 1875. After her graduation she became interested not only in writing, but in lecturing, and gave a series of successful drawing-room talks, "Round Table Talks," by which she earned enough money to open the Buffalo Woman's Exchange five years ago. This exchange is unique as the only one of any age governed exclusively by one woman; every kind of woman's handiwork is sold, or can be ordered, and, from a business point of view, the exchange has been a great success. Miss Sheldon inherits much of her mother's beauty. She was Susan Carew, of Stonington, Conn., and a celebrated beauty of her day, and is still living, the mother of nine children. The young author feels that the stalwart line of women, the wives of the professional men who were her ancestors, may have contributed in no small degree to her success. Miss Sheldon is her own publisher of her book of European travels; it is printed by the Buffalo Courier, whose columns first contained the sprightly letters sent over last summer. All who admire pluck and determination will wish the young author success.

E. A. T.

Sherman. Frank Dempster Sherman, the poet, is a professor in the Columbia School of Mines. He is a slender, rather nervous young man, with a vast capacity for work and a most earnest way of stating his convictions. He makes literature a pastime as a relief from the routine work of the class-room. He is very popular with his students and in society. He has a wife and one child, a son. Though not a great poet, he is among the most polished and acceptable of our younger versifiers. What years and experience will do for his muse is a matter of speculation. His published poems have had a very wide sale. - Buffalo Express.

Stedman. - Seeing Edmund Clarence Stedman on Madison square last week recalled his interesting career to me. Mr. Stedman had every educational advantage for a literary life. He is of excellent family and education. His mother held a reputation as a clever writer of verses, and is favorably known in literary circles. Mr. Stedman is an alumnus of Yale, graduating in 1853. He began newspaper work at Norwich, Conn., as early as 1852, and afterward became editor of the Herald at Winsted, Conn., where he remained until 1855, when he removed to New York, and in 1859 became a member of the Tribune staff. Later he was war correspondent of the New York World. His ambition

was always to secure success in literary lines, and to achieve this he was compelled at first to struggle hard for support. It was in 1859 that he made his first success in his poem, "Diamond Wedding," contributed to the Tribune. This was republished many times in this country and Europe, and created a genuine sensation. A certain Lieutenant Bartlett of the United States navy, detecting personal allusions in the poem to the recent marriage of his daughter to a wealthy Cuban, challenged Mr. Stedman to a duel, but the affair never took place. A number of other poems followed soon after, all of which were more or less successful. Feeling the pressure of necessity, Mr. Stedman gave up journalism, and went into Wall street, where he made a modest fortune for himself, continuing his literary work in leisure moments. It was later that he achieved his greatest success as a literary critic in his "Victorian Poets," which placed him in the first rank of American writers. From the sales of this work and its companion volume, "Poets of America," he derives quite a comfortable income each year. Edward W. Bok, in the Springfield Homestead.

Stockton. Frank R. Stockton tells with great glee how once, many years ago, he invented a dish and got $2 for the invention. It was while he was sub-editor of Hearth and Home, a weekly paper of which Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge was the editor. He had contributed to every department save the household department. This put him on his mettle. So he handed in a receipt of his own concocting. Mrs. Dodge accepted it, and paid for it at the current rates-$2. The dish is called "Cold Pink," and here is the receipt: Take all the white meat left over from the Thanksgiving turkey, and chop it up very fine. Pour a thin cranberry sauce over the cold meat. Mix well, put it in a china form, and set it away to get cold. When cold, serve it. It makes a delightful dish. But alas! as Mr. Stockton himself remarks, there is never any turkey left over from the Thanksgiving dinner. The Epoch. Whitman. The seventy-second birthday of Walt Whitman was celebrated at his home in Camden, N. J., on the evening of May 31. About forty friends and admirers sat down to a dinner, the poet occupying the seat of honor at the head. He was in good health and spirits, and entertained his guests with selections from his own works and comments on literary affairs. His opening words were characteristic: "I feel to say a word of grateful memory for the big fellows just passed away- for Bryant, and Emerson, and Longfellow; and for those we still have with us - Whittier, and