Two young men came to Atchison nearly thirteen years ago and started an evening paper. They were almost entire strangers to the community. No one seemed to know much about them. The paper was called the Little Globe, and the adjective applied was not misleading, for it was a mite of a journal, printed on a quarto Gordon jobbing press. It was a single sheet of ten columns, five to a side. The entire work of the paper was done by themselves, excepting the delivering, for which they hired two boys.

The typesetting was done by one brother while the other gathered items, returning at hourly intervals to deposit the news he had gleaned. The success of the paper was phenomenal, and before its first birthday it claimed for itself the largest circulation of any paper in town. It was bright and breezy, somewhat inclined to the sensational and mysterious, often keeping the small community in suspense and eager for the next edition. Many people, too, were made very uncomfortable by various allusions, until the little paper was beginning to be feared. But as it grew older it increased in wisdom, and to-day it has the reputation of being one of the cleverest newspapers in the country. No longer is it known as the Little Globe, but the Atchison Daily Globe, in bold type, informs us of its increased proportions. Its editor, business manager, advertising agent, and chief reporter is Edgar W. Howe, known to the literary world as the author of "The Story of a Country Town."

There is probably no author who has achieved the literary fame that Mr. Howe has by his stories who remains so personally unknown to his many admirers. But he possesses strong personalities. His face is not unlike that of a Catholic priest's; closely shaven, with prominent features, excepting his eyes, which are small and bead-like, peering out from beneath heavy, shaggy brows, with a questioning glance, incredulous, but shrewd. About his mouth hovers a bit of intense cynicism, and those who read the scintillations and crumbs of wisdom that emanate from his pen and find cosy corners in prominent Eastern journals can easily believe that he is a great cynic.

Mr. Howe is only thirty-six. At times he appears ten years younger than his actual age, and then again he seems old and sedate. He is an Indianian

Mr. Howe told me the last he saw of a schoolroom was shortly after his tenth birthday. Lessons were an abomination to him, and only within recent years has he cared for books. Macaulay seems to be the only great writer who pleases him, though he candidly admits that "The History of England is a stupendous bore."

Outside of his paper, the only objects of interest are two of his children, a boy and girl, seven and nine years of age. Children, as a rule, irritate him, but in these two mites of humanity he takes much comfort, and, though known as a cold, unresponsive man, and totally indifferent to all those tender impulses that ennoble our character, these children are the joy of his life and the objects for which he works. His oldest child is a lad of eleven, who fell from grace by running away from home, and his father has never fully forgiven him for his infantile escapade.

At one time in the earlier part of Mr. Howe's career as a writer, I think, he had an idea that to be truly literary one should be eccentric. My suspicions are well grounded, for there stands yet a monument that confirms one in this belief. On his grounds there is, besides his own comfortable dwelling, a tiny house that attracts the eye of the visitor. I inquired what it was, and was told that Mr. Howe built it for the purpose of secluding himself. The house has one room, and contains a couch, chair, table, and stove. For a brief period he occupied this little den, returning to the house solely for refreshment. Here he thought Genius would adopt him for her own, and that all his future efforts would be crowned with popularity. It is generally believed that his recent literary failures were written here. Anyway, since their publication he has returned to his library, and contents himself by exploring the regions of his mind like ordinary men. Whether the latter method of writing is more conducive to success or not the world will shortly have an opportunity of judging, for he has recently put in the hands of Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. a new novel, which has the curious title of "An Ante-Mortem Statement." — Ethel Ingalls, in the New York World.

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"THE WRITER" FOR JANUARY.

THE WRITER for January contains: "Publishers' Judgments," by George B. Perry; "Don'ts for Amateur Writers," by J. L. Harbour; "Some Curiosities of Our Language," by E. Palmer Mathews; "Personal Reminiscences of Mary Howitt," by Jeanie Parker Rudd; " New Words to be Looked up in the New Webster," by H. A. Schuler; editorials on "High-class Periodicals in America," "Mr. Howells and the Newspapers," "King Kalakaua as an Author," and "Poor Authors and the Government Printing Office"; and the usual "Queries," "Book Reviews," "Helpful Hints and Suggestions," Literary Articles in Periodicals," and "News and Notes."

66

TOLSTOI.

Since 1862 Count Tolstoï has lived and worked on his farm in the country, plowing his fields and wearing as homely dress as any Russian peasant. In this he follows his maxim, "that all men are created equal." Many of his works, whose publication was forbidden by the Russian censor, are circulated in manuscripts, and poor ladies earn their livelihood by copying his works for the trade. From his home, lasnaia Polana, he sends daily a great many letters, for he replies to everybody who addresses him, and such answers are copied and copies are circulated throughout Russia.

Although both the censor and the pulpit prosecute his works, they are nevertheless in the hands of every one. One of the Czar's officers reads all Tolstoï's works to the Czar and the Czarina. When he was reading "The Reign of the Dark," the Czar was deeply moved, and the Czarina left the room in emotion. None of Tolstoï's plays are allowed to be publicly represented, but they are often produced in the halls of the nobility. Once when such a representation was about to be given, at an expense of 20,000 rubles, Pobiedonoscev, the chief of police, tried to prevent it, but the landlady answered that she could not obey his order, as forty members of the imperial court had promised to be present. The doctrines of Tolstoï have found not only enthusiastic admirers, but also practical followers. Some of

the noblemen have turned to what Tolstoï preaches: "the natural life and social equality." His wife only partially adheres to his principles, his son is a naturalist, his elder daughter a talented painter, and only the younger daughter (nineteen years old) dresses herself like a country maiden, and works according to her father's maxims. The western Europeans cannot understand and appreciate Tolstoï's influence over Russia. He is celebrated not only as a poet, but as a herald of morality, though often misunderstood and misrepresented. I am a Slav, and my article is founded on Slavonic opinions. Joseph Geo. Král. CHICAGO, Ill.

B. L. FARJEON.

A friend of mine writes to me from London that

Farjeon, the English novelist, is soon to visit America. When Charles Dickens died, and Farjeon came to the front, it was thought that the mantle of "Boz" had fallen on the younger man's shoulders, but time has not added much to his early reputation, although he is one of the shining lights in English literary circles, a splendid story-teller, and a charming fellow.

The novelist has many ties which bind him to America. Of his three brothers, one is in business in New York City, and another is in California. Both his father and mother rest in American graves, and Mr. Farjeon wooed and won an American bride, Margaret, the daughter of Joseph Jefferson, the actor. Mr. Farjeon was born in London about fifty-five years ago. His father was a clever linguist, and a man who had travelled all over the world. Farjeon early developed the faculty of story writing. Even when he went to school he was in the habit of amusing the other boys by tales of his own invention. After leaving the common schools young Farjeon entered a printing office in his native town, owned by Quakers. From here he entered the office of the Non-Conformist, and after serving his apprenticeship as a compositor, he left for Australia, where, at the age of twenty-two, he brought out his first book, "Shadows on the Snow." 1867 Mr. Farjeon paid a visit to America for the first time. He soon returned to London, however, and settled down to a life of literary work. The first book he brought out there was "Grief." I am told that he draws a weekly royalty on it to this day. Following in rapid succession came "Joshua Marvel," and that charming Christmas story, "Blade o' Grass." The advance sheets of the latter were

In

accepted by Harper Brothers, who sent the author a draft for a large amount in payment. Frank Leslie has frequently paid as high as $1,500 for advance proof-sheets of his works. One of Mr. Farjeon's latest stories, 'No. 14 Great Porter Square," was published simultaneously in English, French, German, Spanish, and Italian. Many of his other works have also been translated into the French and German languages.

In 1876 Mr. Farjeon was married in London to Miss Jefferson. There is quite a little romance connected with their marriage. Miss Jefferson was in London with her father, who was playing there at the time. She had read some of Mr. Farjeon's books, and expressed a desire to meet the author. Mr. Jefferson, who knew Mr. Farjeon very well, said that nothing could be easier, and the two were soon introduced to each other. If it was not a case of love at first sight, it was something very like it, for the couple were soon married. They came to this country on their honeymoon, and remained in New York nine months, after which they returned to London. They have a very interesting family of four children. Harry, the oldest, aged 13, and Joe, Nellie, and Bertie. One son, Charlie, is dead, and it was on this sad event that was based the story of "The Christmas Angel." Miss Nellie has shown wonderful ability as a composer of music. Although only nine years of age, it is not an uncommon thing for her to sit down at the piano and improvise the words and music of a song. Her father is editing a little book of her compositions.

Mr. Farjeon is below the medium height, with a jolly, round face and small side-whiskers. He is excellent company, and entertains many choice spirits at his home in Adelaide road, South Hampstead. Mr. Farjeon is an omnivorous reader, and has the faculty of remembering what he reads strongly developed. When he retires for the night he always has a table on which are a heap of books and three or four candles placed beside his bed. In his literary methods Mr. Farjeon is singularly unaffected. He writes all his novels on a typewriter, in the manipulation of which he has become an adept. On one occasion he composed and set up a complete novel at a case which he had in his house. He is a shorthand writer, and always carries a note-book in his pocket. If an idea strikes him, no matter whether he is on the street or in bed, he promptly makes a memorandum of it in his note-book. Mr. Farjeon has been engaged on three novels at the same time, and he has seldom less than two under way. He has made a great

It is difficult enough to keep the world straight without the interposition of fiction. But the conduct of the novelists and the painters makes the task of the conservators of society doubly perplexing. Perhaps the most harmful sinners

are not those who send into the world of fiction the positively wicked and immoral, but those who make current the dull, the commonplace, and the socially vulgar. For most readers the wicked character is repellent; but the commonplace raises less protest, and is soon deemed harmless, while it is most demoralizing. . . . Unfortunately, the world is so ordered that the person of the feeblest constitution can communicate a contagious disease. And these people, bred on this pabulum, in turn make books. If one, it is now admitted, can do nothing else in this world, he can write, and so the evil widens and widens. No art is required, nor any selection, nor any ideality, only capacity for increasing the vacuous commonplace in life. A princess born may have this, or the leader of cotillions. Yet in the judgment the responsibility will rest upon the writers who set the copy. Charles Dudley Warner, in February Harper's.

PERSONAL GOSSIP ABOUT WRITERS

Browning. To-day was the anniversary of Robert Browning's death at Venice, and at 5 o'clock in the afternoon, in singular commemoration of it, an event unique in the history of science and of strange sympathetic significance took place at Edison house. The voice of the dead man was heard speaking. This is the first time that Robert Browning's or any other voice has been heard from beyond the grave. It was generally known that Colonel Gouraud had got locked up in his safe some words spoken by the poet April 7, 1889, at the house of Rudolph Lehmann, the artist. But up to yesterday the wax cylinder containing the record had never been made to yield up its secret. Yesterday Dr. Furnivall and Colonel Gouraud happened to meet at my house, and the president of the Browning Society (Dr. Furnivall) reminded Colonel Gouraud that it was the anniversary of their mutual friend's death, and that this would be a fitting occasion to test the integrity of the cylinder containing his voice. Accordingly, after wiring

Rudolph Lehmann to meet us, we adjourned to Edison house. The small white wax cylinder containing the record carefully wrapped in wool was produced, and, on being put upon the machine, the voices at Rudolph Lehmann's house on the night of April 7, 1889, were accurately reproduced. First came a message in Colonel Gouraud's voice addressed to Edison, informing him that Robert Browning's voice would follow his own, and then, whilst in breathless silence the little, awed group stood round the phonograph, Robert Browning's familiar and cheery voice suddenly exclaimed: "Ready?" and immediately afterward followed: "I sprang to the saddle, and Joris, and he;

(and again the poet halted). "I-I am exceedingly sorry that I can't remember my own verses; but one thing that I will remember all my life is the astonishing sensation produced upon me by your wonderful invention." Then there was a pauseRudolph Lehmann reminded us that Browning left the speaking-tube, but on being asked to authentiticate his own words, returned. So presently in a loud voice came shouted at us "Robert Browning." The murmur of applauding voices and loud clapping of hands followed. After this extraordinary seance, the wax cylinder was taken possession of by Miss Fergusson, who had manipulated the phonograph on the night of April 17, 1889.- H. R. Haweis, in the London Times.

Broughton.- Few authors have enjoyed a more uniform success than has Miss Rhoda Broughton, who comes of an old family of Cheshire, England. Her early life was spent in the country, where there was little in the way of social gayety. It was here, too, that, perched up on a ladder, in her father's library, absorbed in the fiction of an earlier day, she gained that "experience of life" which her critics declared must have been of so extensive and varied a character when it appeared embodied in the pages of her earliest novel, 'Not Wisely, but Too Well." Her earliest book was first read aloud to two self-appointed critics, her uncle, Sheridan Le Fanu, the author of "Uncle Silas," the grimmest tale in English fiction, and Percy Fitzgerald; of which limited audience she is wont

humorously to declare that one said nothing and the other fell asleep.

That this statement cannot have had even a bowing acquaintance with the truth seems clear from the fact that, owing presumably to their friendly action, the novel appeared soon afterward in the pages of the Dublin University Review. It was followed in a year or two by "Cometh up as a Flower," which was offered to Bentley and promptly accepted by him for Temple Bar, where also "Not Wisely, but Too Well," subsequently appeared, after one or two incidents had been toned down in deference to the feelings of the British public. In 1880 Miss Broughton moved, with her sister, to Oxford. Here she has lived for the last ten years, finding time both to gather round her a pleasant circle of cultivated people and to produce "Belinda," "Dr. Cupid," and "Alas!" the two latter being two of the very best of her books. In all, she has written about thirty books, but only half of them have been published or offered for publication. - Chicago Post.

Goodale. The life of Miss Elaine Goodale, the poet, who has been for two years a teacher among the Indians of Dakota, and who is engaged now to marry Dr. Eastman, the educated Sioux, who took his medical degree from Boston University and went back to his people last June, has been a most interesting one. The first that was heard of her was back in the seventies, when the poems of herself and her younger sister began to appear in the magazines, and a volume of their verse was published by the Putnams. The home of the Goodales was Sky Farm, at South Egremont, Mass., among the Berkshire Hills. There these children lived and wrote. It was when she was only thirteen years of age that Elaine Goodale wrote the little poem "Ashes of Roses" :

:

and ready use of her pen. Her father was close of kin to Thomas Jefferson, and was descended from the first president of William and Mary College, who may be called the father of letters in the colony; his mother was educated by the sage of Monticello in his old age, and herself made contributions to the literature of her day. Miss Constance Cary grew up at Vaucluse, a home of the Fairfaxes in the county that bears the family name, and there found not only the English and French classics, but many an old book of the eighteenth century, now forgotten or to be discovered only in great public libraries. She pored over these treasures wherever a window-seat or a quiet nook allowed escape from things which distract even in the daily life of a sequestered country house. Growing up in such an atmosphere, with traditions. of older homes of her people, and of the patrician order they had illustrated before caste had altogether ceased to influence the society she was born into, her mind was stored with the incidents she has described and the pen pictures she has drawn (chiefly in articles from time to time appearing in the Century) of daily life at Mount Vernon, Belvoir, and Towlston, in the generation after 17 50, and of the stately men who then dwelt or assembled there. She was still in a happy young girlhood of such surroundings when the war overtook us, and Fairfax County was occupied by armies confronting each other; Vaucluse was necessarily abandoned after ladies of the household had hastily buried the family silver in a cellar, and the old house was razed to the ground to become the site of a fort in the defences of Washington - bricks and débris filling the cellars and furnishing a secure covering for precious candlesticks, spoons, forks, salvers, coasters, and like relics of the reign of good Queen Anne, until they could be dug out four years afterward. Miss Cary was with her mother and aunt at Bristow Station, in the rear of the Confederate Army, when booming guns and rattling musketry informed her of the varying fortunes of the fight at Manassas her brother and many a kinsman in the fray; and until four long years were gone she was familiar with things such as she tells in "Crow's Nest," a reminiscence of campaigns of arms and anguish, and of romance, too. As soon as possible after the war was ended she went with her mother to Europe, and saw the Tuileries and the Empire in all the glitter of the culmination of the third Napoleon's reign, returning to be married and to live thenceforth in New York. The earliest of Mrs. Burton Harrison's contributions to the magazines

soon