work planned now," she explained, "that it would take me six or seven years to finish it. There is always a great deal ahead. Just now I am writing another book, but I don't know when I shall have it finished. There is no hurry. One of my theories is that there is entirely too much written. I myself seldom turn out more than one piece of work in two or three years."

They tell a quaint story of Beatrice Harraden and the odd adventure she had with her famous book, "Ships That Pass in the Night." It furnishes another indication that she is both impetuous and decided in her feelings about her own work. After finishing the book to suit her own ideas as to how it should be written she sent it off to a London publishing house. In the course of time it was returned, and she, without opening the package, tossed it into an old trunk. If the work was a work of genius the first person who saw it, thought she, would recognize the fact. If it was not she did not ever want to see it again.

to or for a newspaper in their lives, who would never talk of "adverse climatic conditions" when they meant "bad weather," who had never trifled with words such as "obsess," "recrudesce," "envisage," "adumbrate," or with phrases such as the psychological moment," the "true inwardness," "it gives furiously to think." It dallied with Latinity-"de die in diem," "cui bono," but not for the sake of style.

The journalist at the worst was an artist in his way; he dabbed paint of this kind upon the lily with a professional zeal. The more flagrant (or, to use his own word, arresting) the pigment, the happier was his soul. Like the Babu, he was trying all the while to make Our poor dear language more floriferous, more poetical; like the Babu, for example, who, reporting his mother's death, wrote:

"Regret to inform you hand that rocked the cradle has kicked the bucket."

No such gusto marked, no such zeal, artistic or professional, animated the practitioners of jargon. Caution was its parent; the instinct to save everything, and especially trouble. They might say it was bred by caution out of laziness. It was becoming the language of Parliament; it had become the medium through which boards of Government, county councils, syndicates, committees, and commercial firms expressed the processes as well as the conclusions of their thought and, in short, voiced the reason of their being.

Some men were constitutionally incapable of saying "no." The Minister in the House of Commons conveyed it thus: "The answer to the question is in the negative." That meant "no." It was jargon, and it happened to be accurate, but as a rule jargon was by no means accurate, its method being to walk circumspectly around its target. Thus the clerk of the Board of Guardians would minute that:

"In the case of John Jenkins, deceased, the coffin provided was of the usual character and in accordance with specification as per Messrs. So-and-So's tender."

Now, this was not accurate. "In the case of John Jenkins" - but John Jenkins

never had more than one case, and that was the coffin. The clerk said he had two, a coffin in a case.

There were two main vices of jargon. The first was that it used circumlocution rather than short, straight speech, and the second was that it habitually chose vague, woolly abstract nouns rather than concrete ones. If they would write masculine English, let them never forget the old tag of their Latin grammar :—

"Masculine will only be

Things that you can touch and see."

As his lectures were meant to be a course in "first aid" to writing, Professor QuillerCouch said he would suggest one or two extremely rough rules. First, whenever in their reading they came across one of the words, Case, instance, character, nature, condition, persuasion, degree," whenever in their writing their pen slipped into one of them, let them pull themselves up and take thought.

Next, having trained themselves to keep a lookout for these worst offenders, let them proceed to push their suspicions out among the whole cloudy host of abstract

terms.

"How excellent a thing is sleep," sighed Sancho Panza; "it wraps a man round like a cloak."

A jargoner would have said that:

Among the beneficial qualities of sleep, the hu man consciousness from the contemplation of im mediate circumstances may, perhaps, be accounted not the least remarkable."

Another trick of jargon was the trick of elegant variation, so rampant in the sporting press "Hayward and C. B. Fry now faced the bowling, which apparently had no terrors for the Surrey crack. The old Oxonian, however, took some time in settling to work."

To illustrate the ravages effected by jargon Professor Quiller-Couch reconstructed the well known soliloquy of "Hamlet," "To be or not to be," as follows:

"To be, or the contrary? Whether the former or the latter be preferable would seem to admit of some difference of opinion, the answer in the present case being of an affirmative or of a negative character

according as to whether one elects on the one hand to mentally suffer the disfavor of fortune, albeit in an extreme degree, or on the other to boldly envisage adverse conditions in the prospect of eventually bringing them to a conclusion.

"The condition of sleep is similar to, if not indistinguishable from, that of death, and with the addition of finality, the former might be considered identical with the latter, so that in this connection it might be argued with regard to sleep that, could the addition be effected, a termination would be put to the endurance of a multiplicity of inconveniences, not to mention a number of downright evils, incidental to our fellow humanity, and thus a consummation achieved of a most gratifying nature."

That was jargon, and to write jargon was to be perpetually shuffling around in the fog and cotton wool of abstract terms. When any one wrote in the active voice: "They gave him a silver teapot," he wrote as a man. When he wrote "He was made the recipient of a silver teapot," he wrote as a fool.

If their language be jargon, their intellect, if not their whole character, would most certainly correspond. Where their mind should go straight it would evade, for the style was the man, and where a man's treasure was his writing would be also. - London Letter, in New York Sun.

Song Writers and Publishers. The methods of unscrupulous so-called song publishers have been pretty thoroughly aired of late. The plan followed by a concern in Washington that recently came to public notice is typical. It inserted advertisements in papers all over the country, calling attention to the tremendous profits made by authors of " song hits," urging people to follow this easy road to wealth and promising to market songs placed with it for publication.

Those who submitted songs in compliance with this generous offer were informed that it would be necessary for them to pay thirty-five dollars to cover the cost of publication, payable on the installment plan at rates of one dollar to two dollars and a half a week, according to the means of the author. These terms were accompanied by a letter in which the "song" was highly praised, winding up in this way: "Just think what pleasure it will be and the pride

you will have in seeing your song on the pianos of your friends."

The concern in question was doing a thriving business with the gullible, who paid their thirty-five dollars, only to learn that the publishers did not guarantee a profitable sale of the songs after they were published. Unscrupulous book publishers have for years worked a very similar scheme among those smitten with an ambition to see their names on the title page of a book, collecting in some cases large sums to defray the cost of publication, and leaving their victims with an unsalable stock of books on their hands.

Reputable book publishers do not follow such methods. They assume the risk of the publication of a manuscript that possesses merit and is likely to find a sale. The same thing is true of song publishers. There are rogues in every calling, however, ready to play upon the vanity and ignorance of those who do not understand the ins and outs of the publishing business. It is not true that anybody can write a popular song, any more than it is true that anybody can paint a picture, or model a statue, or design a house, even though it is true that much sorry doggerel attains a certain popularity. Rochester Democrat and Chronicle.

--

Eccentricities of Authors. In order to meditate at their ease, many writers demand that nothing be allowed to bother them. They insist on solitude. Montaigne, when he felt inspired, rushed from his dwelling and shut himself up in an old tower which no one but himself ever entered. Jean-Jacques Rousseau meditated out in the fields, in the sunshine, while gathering herbs and flowers. In order not to hear any sound from without, he used to cover his head with hay, or to stop up his ears with cotton wool.

Others can compose only while walking about. Victor Hugo, in the fever of composition, walked about grumbling. He wrote while standing up, dropping the sheets of paper on the floor, where they piled up. In our days many authors prefer to walk about. Catulle Mendès paced up and down, then went to his table to write. Jean Lombard

walked about a great deal. Mistral, the great Provençal poet, composes while walking about. That is not sufficient for Haraucourt, who, before taking up his pen, has a round or two at boxing, nor for Richepin, who exercises with dumbbells or on the trapeze.

On the other hand, some men absolutely avoid all movement, owing doubtless to their natural weakness and, to stimulate the circulation in the brain, assume a horizontal attitude. Such was the case with Descartes, who remained motionless lying down, and Cujas, who could only work profitably when stretched at full length on his stomach on the carpet.

Some like warmth. Milton, for instance, was always wrapped up in an old woolen mantle when he wrote Paradise Lost." Sardou never abandoned his black velvet cap. To make the blood flow to his head, Schiller placed his feet on ice and Chateaubriand walked about with naked feet on the icy tiles of his room when he dictated an article to his secretary.

So far as clothes are concerned, the most convenient are usually adopted. Buffon was an exception. He could work only in ceremonial dress with a lace ruffle on his shirt, silk cuffs and sword at his side. Dumas wrote in baggy trousers and flannel shirt. Théophile Gautier wrote in a dressing-gown with a small cap on his head. Coppée preferred a lounge coat; Balzac, a monk's cloak; Catulle Mendès, both winter and summer, was not at his, ease for writing except in shirtsleeves.

A whole category of writers - Théophile Gautier, Baudelaire, François Coppée, Ceaccini could not work except when there were cats in the room. Gautier had as many as twelve or fifteen. Léon Cladel wrote only while in a granary wearing sabots and accompanied by his dogs. At intervals he would walk about attended by his canine companions.

Brain stimulants are very much in favor. One of the favorites is coffee. Lortzing drank soup tureens of it while composing his melodies. Balzac, also, made an abuse of it. De Musset, Poe, Verlaine, and many

others gave their preference to alcohol. Schubert composed his beautiful sonatas only after swallowing glass after glass of Rhine wine. Tobacco smoke is also very much used. Flaubert could not write a word until he had smoked three or four pipes, or half a dozen strong cigars. Daudet smoked a very great deal. Perfumes were greatly in favor with Baudelaire, Théophile Gautier, Loti, and Maizeroy. Byron needed, to be able to write, to smell the odor of truffles. Cooper acted on the sense of taste by filling his mouth with honey pastilles or liquorice jujubes. Carolus Duran and Aimé Morot stimulated themselves before picking up their brushes by playing, the former the piano, the latter the organ. Darwin played the violin.

In regard to the hour which is regarded as the most propitious for work, marked differences exist. While the morning was the most satisfactory time for Victor Hugo, it is to be remarked that Littré only began to work in the evening after dinner, until four or five o'clock in the morning. Balzac made night out of day by writing by the light of two candles. Catulle Mendès was one of the few authors who wrote in the afternoon, at the time when the process of digestion renders the brain heavy. - Paris Edition New York Herald.

What Have You Done with Your Language?— I have often fancied, in penitential moments, a day of judgment for us who write, when we shall stand in flushed array before the Ultimate Critic and answer the awful question, "What have you done with your language?" There shall be searchings of soul that morning, and searchings of forgotten pages of magazines and "best sellers" and books of every sort, for the cadence that may bring salvation. But many shall seek and few shall find, and the goats shall be sorted out in droves, condemned to an eternity of torture, none other than the everlasting task of listening to their own prose read aloud. The Atlantic Monthly, for July.

Anthony Hope on Dialogue.- Anthony Hope gave some advice about writing conversations, in the course of a talk to the members of the London Times Book Club a couple of nights ago. His recipe was as follows:

"As few long conversations as possible, and as many short ones.

"Let dialogue break up the narrative and the narrative cut short any tendency to prolixity in the dialogue.”

The tendency, Hope said, was to let the characters speak more for themselves than for the author to speak for the characters, and that made for naturalness, drama, conciseness, and shapeliness.

"Speeches," he observed, "are not true dialogue, and you can't make them such by putting in a succession of them. Interruption is essential to dialogue to give it its true character."

He expressed the opinion that, regarded technically, the most perfect dialogue occurred in "Tristram Shandy," and good modern examples were to be found in the "Voces Populi" of Mr. Anstey and in the works of Mr. Jacobs.-Hayden Church's London Letter.

Deep

In Behalf of Rhythmic Prose. We have stifled our language, we have debased it, we have been afraid of it. But some day it will reassert itself, for it is stronger than we, alike our overlord and avatar. in the soul of man dwells the lyric impulse, and when his song cannot be the song of the poet it will shape itself in rhythmic prose, that it may still be cadenced and modulated to change with the changing thought and sound an obligato to the moods of the author's spirit. How wonderful has been our prose, grave and chastely rich when Hooker wrote it, striding triumphant over the pages of Gibbon on tireless feet, ringing like a trumpet from Emerson's white house in Concord, modulated like soft organ music heard afar in Newman's lyric moods, clanging and clamorous in Carlyle, in Walter Pater but as the soft fall of water in a marble fountain while exquisite odors flood the Roman twilight and late bees are murmurous, a little of all, perhaps, in Stevenson! We, too, we little fellows of today, could write as they wrote, consciously, rhythmically, if we only cared, if we only dared. We ask for the opportunity, the encouragement. Alas! that also means a more liberal choice of graver subjects, and a more extensive employment of the essay