Miss Beatrice Harraden has been asked to write a serial for the Century, but refused. "I do not like serials," she said. "It is a bad arrangement for both author and reader. The effect of the story is lost when it is read by piecemeal, through several months. The reader is disappointed or loses interest, and the writer is misjudged."

The Magazine of Poetry (Buffalo) for October contains sketches of George P. Morris, Stephen C. Foster, John G. Saxe, Fitz-Greene Halleck, and other writers.

The Review of Reviews for October has portraits of William Cullen Bryant, Parke Godwin, Charles Dudley Warner, Chauncey M. Depew, and Hall Caine.

In Macmillan's Magazine for October George Saintsbury gives the third and concluding part of his essay on "The Historical Novel."

"How a Law is Made" is the title of an article contributed to the November number of the North American Review by Senator John L. Mitchell, of Wisconsin, who describes the course of a bill through Congress. In the same number Mrs. Amelia E. Barr writes about "The Modern Novel."

F. Tennyson Neely, the Chicago publisher, who has returned after several months' travel in Europe, will soon publish some experiences under the title "Foreign Authors as They Received Me."

Book News (Philadelphia) for October has a portrait and sketch of George Du Maurier.

The Century for November signalizes the opening of its twenty-fifth year by the beginning of one of its most important enterprises, the Life of Napoleon, by William M. Sloane, Professor of History at Princeton College. Charles Dudley Warner contributes to the number an article on Professor Sloane and his work.

It is the custom of John Codman Ropes to put his work in type and have it printed before turning it over to the publishers, since by this means he secures absolute accuracy, and is also able to judge of the final appearance of his manuscript.

It is spring and sometimes almost midsummer now in the magazine offices. The Christmas numbers were gotten out of the way weeks ago, and later numbers have long been in various states of forwardness. The spring poem inspired by the glories of last May is now in type for May, 1895.

After Victor Hugo died more than 10,000 isolated verses were found scattered about his room, written on little slips of paper. He used to write incessantly, even while he was dressing himself in the morning.

Amelie Rives-Chanler, in one of her recent books, eclipses all vivid novelists in a bit of description of her hero. His heart gives "a hot leap along his breast to his throat, leaving a fiery track behind it, as of sparks.'

Miss Kipling, a sister of Rudyard Kipling, has gone into literature. She is a Mrs. Fletcher, but Kipling is a better name to conjure with.

As an illustration of the enormous development of newspapers in the United States, it is related that in 1880 the newspaper and press associations received only 28,000,000 words by telegraph, while last year they received by wire 1,800,000,000 words.

Mrs. A. T. Van Derveer, of Long Branch, N. J., who is a contributor to the Christian Intelligencer, of New York, and the Burlington Hawkeye, of Iowa, has been awarded one of the prizes offered by the woman's executive committee of the board of domestic missions of the Reformed Church for a leaflet, entitled "The Mission Ball."

M. Stephane Mallarme, the French poet, suggests that the publishers of books on which the copyright has expired should be compelled to pay a small royalty into a fund for the benefit of needy authors.

Professor David Swing died in Chicago October 2.

Oliver Wendell Holmes died at his home in Boston, Sunday, October 7.

James A. Froude died in London October 20, aged seventy-six.

Professor James Darmesteter died at Maisons-Lafitte, near Paris, October 26, aged fortyfive.

VOL. VII.

The choice of proper names is an important matter in the writing of fiction. While names, in actual life, are not necessarily synonymous with character, a contrary rule, tacit at least, appears to obtain in the unreal life of letters. Heroes, heroines, aristocratic families, and polished villains have euphonious names; low knaves, uncouth or contemptuous names; and humorous characters, humorous names. Examination of our best novels will convince the doubtful of this fact. Names directly indicative of character, indeed, were common in the old comedies and satires. There Mrs. Malaprop, Sir Jonathan Backbite, Croaker, and Lord Foppington were allegorical representatives. They have been relegated in these days to farce comedies and burlesques, in which Policeman Glue, Noisy Howell, Miser Grabit

No. 12.

all, etc., still proclaim their respective traits; but no dignified writer of fiction now puts such placards upon his characters.

The careful author makes the choice of names a matter of earnest research and consideration. Their fitness is indefinable, extremely elusive, and is governed by his own taste and individuality. Any one who has not given the subject attention will be surprised to learn how much more can be done with a character after a suitable name has been found than previously, and what a clog a poor selection is. I do not allow myself to work upon a tale until I find fitting names for all its people, and often put off writing for days until they can be found. There is inspiration in a well-chosen name. Entire plots are often suggested by a striking name, the traits naturally associating themselves with it, and the incidents of the tale or sketch easily following. A good name makes the imaginary hero or heroine seem more real, and without such seeming good writing cannot be done.

In connection with his observations of life, the earnest writer should study into the relation of names to character, and he will find much that is interesting and valuable. Every one knows that a man whom people nickname "Bob" is a wholly different person from one who is always addressed as "Robert." The connection between name and character is closer than is generally supposed, and will amply repay study.

A book for the recording of good proper names is a highly useful addition to the reference library. If a choice cannot be made from it, transposition will often solve the difficulty. Thus, for instance, Radcliff may become Ardcliff and Darcliff; and, by changing the last syllable, Darman, Ardman, and Radman, and

so on endlessly. Even so slight a change may greatly improve the story. Directories, of course, are mines, but much digging is requisite to find a gem. I have found the indexes to reports of law cases the very best place in which to find good names. Possibly the traditions of the law make them more interesting or romantic; but, whatever the reason may be, I would advise examination of such sources.

It seems to me that the choice of proper names deserves serious attention. All of us have read tales that would have been far better had better selections in this respect been made. Our realists may contend that no such fitness of name to character exists in the natural world, and may argue that it is exalted position, in the case of an aristocratic family, that renders the name euphonious, and that the bad deeds of a villain make his name an outlaw to harmony. Against this contention I might point out various other unrealities which the very

nature of writing stories makes necessary; and to the argument might reply that, if our impression of names is based upon the character of the persons to whom they apply, then, in choosing them for the people of our tales in accordance with the rule herein suggested, we are only copying a phenomenon of the natural world.

A written story is, after all, like a picture or a statue, only a work of art a representation of life. An artist would not mar the beauty of a landscape by placing an unsightly object in the foreground, nor would a sculptor ruin the graceful marble form by chiseling a deformed hand or foot. Each strives to make every minute detail conform to the general harmony. One unmusical word may destroy the sweetness of a poem, or a false chord mar the cadence of a hymn. Character names are an important part of fiction, and a poorly-chosen name may spoil a beautiful story. Howard Markle Hoke.

HARRISBURG, Penn.

For several years publications of all kinds have teemed with articles filled with advice for young writers. The ambitious young author

has been told to write only on one side of the paper, always to use black ink, not to roll his manuscripts, to cultivate a neat, legible handwriting, to revise with great care, and to have great patience with the editor upon whom he may inflict his early efforts.

Again and again, he has been warned not to offer a treatise on Chinese metaphysics to a popular magazine, or a light society sketch to an encyclopedia. He has been advised to get a copy of the publication to which admittance is sought, to note carefully its contents, and then act accordingly. He has been warned that if the periodical in question has not hitherto used serials or comic verses, it is not likely to use them; that if it has never printed short stories containing more than 5,000 words, it

would be a waste of postage to send the editor a story twice as long. He has been reminded that it is hardly a judicious thing to send theological discussions to a secular sheet, or epics anywhere.

To win respect in the editorial sanctum, the young writer has been counseled not to write long letters to the editor, or to think it necessary to explain what his article was about, or to supply articles regularly each week or month, or to tell the editor that he is young and inexperienced, or to work on the editor's sympathies, or to ask the editor to tear up or burn the manuscript if he cannot use it, or, finally, to fasten all hope upon a single publication, when there are hundreds in the land.

Now, all this is very important and useful advice-important to the young literary aspirant and useful to the overworked editor. But there are scores, who have learned these rudimentary

lessons, who would like to have their instructors go a little further and give them points upon marketing and keeping trace of their manuscripts. THE WRITER has had much to say in this line, and it has been of great practical value to young authors, and to older ones,

too.

For the last seven or eight years, in addition to my regular daily work, I have mailed from two to six manuscripts each week. Some have been accepted immediately, others have not been heard from in any way for months, others have been accepted, but not paid for until they were printed, after the lapse of a month, a year, or, perhaps, even five years. It soon became a great task upon the memory to keep track of these manuscripts. After several years' experience the following blank was devised and adopted:

when it is returned. In case the article is accepted, space is provided for entering the amount paid for it, the rate per 1,000 words, the date of payment, and any comment that may be of future value. The attached skeleton letter has been very useful, since it says, when it is filled out, all that needs to be said in almost every case.

This plan has been all that could be desired in keeping track of manuscripts, but in another way it has been of even greater value. In the past two or three years I have made nearly 500 entries of manuscripts sent away. It is easy to see that these stubs furnish a record of very helpful information.

For instance: I have found that the Youth's Companion almost invariably accepts or rejects a manuscript in about two weeks, always pays when the manuscript is accepted, and, if the

If any of the readers of THE WRITER have any trouble in keeping track of their manuscripts, or would like to keep a compact record of their work, this system can be relied upon to

give satisfaction. It is not copyrighted, and any one is welcome to use it who cares to. F. M. Howard.

NEW YORK, N. Y.

We have, all of us, learned that the story of any human life, even the humblest and most uneventful, would be full of interest if truly and sympathetically told.

If this is true of human life as a whole, it is more strikingly true of those lives which have put themselves en rapport with large classes of people by what may be presumed to be, in a measure, self-revelations.

In reading the works of all the great masters of Fiction, we are constantly peering after the man behind the mask. The life of the author himself interests us more deeply than his greatest creations, especially if we ourselves, however modestly, venture to claim a share in that magic freemasonry which knits together in one band all the devotees of Literature. To us it is the greatest of the arts and its masters are the crowned leaders of the world.

And so, though the subject of this sketch assures me that there is "really nothing to tell," I am certain that even the outward aspects of this life, which is, to those who read between the lines, more than half hinted, will yield somewhat of interest and helpfulness to those who, not having won reputation, dream of it afar off.

Maria Louise Pool is in every sense a daughter of the soil. Born in the old Bay State, not far from that rugged coast the salty flavor of which gives pungency to many of her earlier stories, never having traveled excepting in her own country, and having an almost passionate attachment to her home, she came to womanhood surrounded by its influences, apparent and latent, its historic earth meaning more to her than a kingdom the other side of the ocean, its capital city the one city of the world, its literary coterie the spur of her ambition and the Mecca

of her hopes. I do not know how far she has outgrown the worship of her early idols, though, I dare say, some of them were found to be mere simulacra, men of straw, without weight or substance; but, as a girl of a certain latent intensity of nature, which you felt rather than defined, it did her no harm to have before her such models and heroes as the New England classic authors. Ideals and tastes inspired and formed by such writers as Lowell, and Holmes, and Rose Terry Cooke, and Mrs. Spofford, and the rest of the long chain of illustrious names, which, for twenty years, made the Atlantic Monthly the star of the magazine world, are good working forces and precious capital to an ambitious writer. No doubt by them Miss Pool was helped to handle her creations in a manner all her own.

She began to write eårly for many periodicals and newspapers. Some of her stories appeared in the Galaxy, that New York magazine which came as a protest against New England exclusiveness, and, like all protests unsustained by wealth and influence, died too soon. Later, the New York Post and Tribune began to welcome her papers. Her first book, "A Vacation in a Buggy," is an aggregation of letters contributed to the New York Evening Post. Their freshness, humor, and, perhaps most of all, their individual flavor attracted the attention of the publishing house of G. P. Putnam's Sons, and they solicited of the author permission to put them into covers. The result is a bright and charming little book.

It was soon after the appearance of this first book that Miss Pool made her second visit to the South, this time tarrying for some weeks in the mountains of North Carolina. While