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They are not compelled to furnish copy between daylight and dark. They need a course of study in English prose more than anyone else, and they would profit by the effort. As a class they seem to be like the young man in Du Maurier's picture, who, being asked if he had read Thackeray, replies, "No. I nevah read novels; I write them."
"And what's more, I don't take any stock in cheap novels in which American heroes go about marrying into royal families and all that sort of rot. It isn't done, Lou. If you want to marry into a royal family you've got to put up the coin." "Prince Robin's mother, the poor Princess Yetive, married an American for love, let me remind you." "Umph! Where is this Groostock anyway?"
It is really not their best, but it is work so good that it ought to have equal acceptance with their novels, if that distinguished editor was right who said that short stories sold well when they were good short stories. That they ought to do so is so evident that a devoted reader of them, to whom I was submitting the anomaly the other day, insisted that they did.
On the other hand, nothing is so delightful as to sit down in a country village in one of Miss Austen's delicious novels, quite sure before we leave it to become intimate with every spot and every person it contains; or to ramble with Mr.
'Did you think I collected postage-stamps? the husband retorted. 'No, I'm not a book-collector, but our doctor is. He has a few books, if you like. Still, I wouldn't swop him; he's much too fond of fashionable novels. 'You know you're always up his place, said the wife; 'and I wonder what I should do if it wasn't for the doctor's novels! The doctor was evidently a favourite of hers.
This hope deferred must have caused the young husband meanwhile no little anxiety and heart sickness. Love in a cottage is very pretty and romantic in novels, but love in a cottage actually thriving on "bread and water," was a sweet reality in the home of the young couple in Roxbury.
Second and third editions of the book were called for within a month. Writers of leading articles and speakers on public platforms began to quote and commend her. Most remarkable of all, her novel made a conquest of her brother Sydney. He did not care for novels as a rule, but he read "Laurels and Thorns," and was desperately interested in it.
She had one grudge against Walter Scott, whose novels, with the Bible, made her sole reading, and this was that he never mentioned "our chief," as she called him. More than once I can remember her looking up from the pages of "Redgauntlet," and declaring that had the Prince been a more capable man we should be living in a castle in Scotland.
He stood at the appointed bookstall, amid a crowd of Sunday travellers, in a Harris tweed suit exhaling, as it were, the emotion of his thumping heart. He read the names of the novels on the book-stall, and bought one at last, to avoid being regarded with suspicion by the book-stall clerk. It was called "The Heart of the Trail!" which must mean something, though it did not seem to.
Any special plan for its publication? 'No. 'Then why not offer it to Jedwood? He's publishing a series of one-volume novels. You know of Jedwood, don't you? He was Culpepper's manager; started business about half a year ago, and it looks as if he would do well. He married that woman what's her name? Who wrote "Mr Henderson's Wives"? 'Never heard of it. 'Nonsense! Miss Wilkes, of course.
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