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Updated: June 8, 2025
Mudie, and will lie about on drawing-room tables, I will merely mention that a most representation of my progenitor, under his nom de theatre, Mephistopheles, may be seen now in London, and I should recommend all who wish to understand his character to go to the Lyceum, though, between ourselves, he strongly disapproves of the whole performance.
In the conduct of his stories he is garrulous, homely, and slow-paced. He wrote in a leisurely world, when there was plenty of time for writing and reading, long before the advent of the printer's devil or of Mr. Mudie. There is little of the lyrical element in him. He does not dazzle by sentences. He is not quotable. He does not shine in extracts so much as in entire poems.
"You would not like the sort of books I read;" returned Edna, shrugging her shoulders. "There was a murder in the last; I could hardly sleep after it some one thrown out of a train. Oh, it was deliciously horrible! I have not sent it back to Mudie; you can read it if you like." "No, thank you," returned Bessie quietly; "it would not suit me at all.
Mabel had told her lover before that she did not aspire to please the multitude, that she would have esteemed such cheap and tawdry success a humiliating failure. It was almost better not to be read at all than to be appreciated only by the average Mudie subscriber. But she would have liked someone to read her poems. She would have liked critics to praise and understand her.
Mudie may announce that he has 3250 copies of it; that it shall be the talk of every circle; its incidents set to music, its plot dramatized; that it shall count readers by thousands while others count readers by scores; while yet one cannot really see why any of the others might not have taken its place.
Mudie; and in the author of the most pleasing novel on that roll, "All Sorts and Conditions of Men," the desire is natural enough. I can conceive then, that he would hasten to propose two additions, and read thus: the art of fictitious narrative in prose.
I had taken it for the giving of a book, writing further of it as follows: On the left, the men of the world, kneeling, receive the gift. Recommendable seal, this, for Mr. Mudie! Mr. Caird says: "The book is written law, which is given by Justice to the inferiors, that they may know the laws regulating their relations to their superiors who are also under the hand of law.
Waverley was printed in three small volumes at the cost of a guinea. We believe that to buy books was more usual then than now, and there were circulating libraries everywhere, conveying perhaps the stream of literature more evenly over the country than can be attained by one gigantic Mudie.
"Any afternoon I shall be delighted, except Wednesdays. Wednesdays are sacred, aren't they, Miss Wall? London on Wednesdays for Mr. Saffron and me, and the old brown bag!" He laughed in a quiet merriment. "That old bag's been in a lot of places with me and has carried some queer cargoes. Now it just goes to and fro, between here and town, with Mudie books.
Why, that last book by Lady What's-her-name which came in the Mudie box the one they say is so improper has been lying on your table for over two months, and you can't tell me yet what it was the heroine did wrong. Morris, you are not inventing anything more, are you?" Here was an inspiration.
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