aforesaid; and one is tempted to say with the eloquent counsel of Mrs. Bardell, "The jury want none of the impressions on your mind, Mr. Winkle." A popular story-writer gives us pleasant sketches which make housework look delightful, and almost persuade "the lady who does her own work" that it is no trouble to have company. One of her characters, a young woman who had the independence to become a house-servant when her early employment of sewing failed, has followed the usual course of sending a poem to a popular magazine, and has received the customary check. The mistress speaks of the necessity of engaging a new servant, saying to the maid, "Of course, if you can write such verses as those, I cannot expect you to remain in my kitchen.” The poem, there given, does not, to all readers, justify the anxiety of the mistress. Pamela McArthur Cole. EAST BRIDGEWATER, Mass. A NOVELIST'S VISION. The popular novelist was sitting alone by the dying embers of his steam-heater. The completed manuscript of his novel (opus 608) lay before him on the table, and, to gain rest by a change of occupation, he was thinkingthinking of the Copyright Bill. But How long he sat there he never knew. suddenly he saw a train of figures a train such as the Czar of Russia so often ukases to Siberia. He raised his head, and the first of that miserable cortege thus addressed him : "Nay, start not. You know us all. We have come in behalf of ourselves and of the public. We are weary; they are fatigued; and we think you must, perhaps, be a little tired yourself." "Who are you?" asked the novel-writer. "We are your faithful servants - the Character and Psychological touches." "Ah!" said the novelist. "And you?" "I am And in that breathless instant, while hanging between life and death, all the events of his existence passed in detail before his mental vision.' You remember me?" "Alas- yes!" said the unhappy writer; "you have served me oft. And your friends?' Then one by one the shades came forth and spoke: "I," quoth the second, "am as old a friend. I am 'In that moment of keen agony she was conscious of the most trifling details of his costume, even counting the buttons on his coat.' You must know me; I often take another form that of As he spoke these words, she aimlessly watched the struggles of a poor fly caught in the web of a cruel spider."" "Yes, yes, I know," groaned the author. "Next!" "I am He had a dim recognition that all this had happened ages before'; and this is my friend, He felt that no man had ever loved a woman as he loved her!'" "I recognize you— and you certainly deserve retirement," acknowledged the novelist, with a groan. Then several more crowded near. "I am 'The old Berserker spirit,' and 'I see red' when the blood rushes to my brain; though I sometimes assume the disguise, 'It was the working within him of the spirit of some dead ancestor in the days when' various things took place," spoke another shade, in the costume of the Norwegian-Danish marauders. Then came a white-faced lady, who merely murmured: "You see in me the well-worn 'So great was the shock that she was stunned into a stony calmness'; none have worked not know me? 'It was his boyhood's home. But how small was the little home how narrow the dooryard!'" "Enough," said the author. "You shall be retired on half pay," and another portion of the manuscript fed the flames. "What are the claims of others when compared to mine?" asked a haughty beauty, frou-frouing to the front. rest of his manuscript into the fire, and covered his face. "Go!" he cried; "I can bear no more! There are others, I see - but I need no introduction. There is His victim was within his grasp, but somehow the desire for revenge, so long nourished, was gone'; and I see also 'He had attained the goal; but his success was as a Dead-sea apple in his mouth.' But I can bear no more, as I remarked a few lines above. You rest, I rest, the public rests." Alas!-it was but a dream a vision of the There was a tone of triumph in her voice. night. Marrons glacés did it. And it was justified. Tudor Jenks. "And you-?" began the victim. "I am 'Her womanly intuition, surer than reason!" " LITERARY BUTTERFLIES. In these days when literature is looked upon by so many merely as a clever accomplishment; when a certain proficiency in literary expression is so general as to be thought nearly an indispensable adjunct to a good education-young writers are prone to forget that genuine literature may be something more, and, in fact, must be something more and better than the facile expression of airy fancies and trifling conceits, the only purpose of which is to while away an idle hour for the reader, and add a few dollars to the writer's income. Literature with a purpose may sound like an old-fashioned idea; but that is the sort of literature that lives. It is argued that "the public wants to be amused"; but there is a great world which never appears in "public" that wants to be helped, and uplifted, and made better. The writer who ceases to think of people in the mass, and appeals to them as so many separate individuals, each with a burden to bear or a task to fulfil, or a high ideal to attain the writer who looks at his work as something that shall help these men and women in their work to-day and put them in better - heart to work to-morrow, - this is the writer whose work will live. How many ambitious authors are striving, and watching, and waiting for the success that never comes, because they themselves will never fetch it. They write bright little poems, and whimsical sketches, and stirring stories of adventure. These are frequently accepted and paid for; they are, perhaps, copied in the papers, and what? Nothing. That is the end of it; now and hereafter. The work neither lives in literature nor has that more precious, if less coveted, immortality in the hearts of those who have been aided and strengthened by a word fitly, though not so exquisitely, spoken. Few and far between are those so gifted in speech as to embalm their trivial thoughts in perfect language for future generations; but there is hardly one of us that has not both the ability and the opportunity to say a helpful and encouraging word to our fellow-men; to discover some new star in the heaven of practical truth, and name it for posterity. Literary reputation can never be built nor literary character formed-upon those light and pretty little versicles and entertaining anecdotes which come so easily and find so ready a market. Though "butterfly literature" may seem to pay now, it will not pay in the long run; and it will never bring an enduring name. The world will not stop long to listen to musical jingles about "Baby's Shoestring," or about "How the little daisies grow." After people have read the "Personal Gossip" and the "Winged Witticisms" the paper is thrown away. Genuine fame will never respond to burlesque novelettes or lackadaisical "love" stories, so-called, written by people who don't know what the word means, or "encounters with a grizzly" by men who never saw a bear outside of a menagerie, or boy stories by those who never were boys and would n't recognize the animal at sight. Literary trivialities are not of necessity unworthy from an ethical point of view; butterflies have their place in nature's economy, but it is not an heroic niche. These bright little sayings, whose only purpose is entertainment, are chased for an idle moment, and forgotten. If you have a word to say,- no matter how plain and commonplace it may seem, a.word that shall help some one to do something or be something better than before, that is the word to say, the word that people are waiting for. Never mind if it be only a cake recipe; if it is a better cake or a better way of making it, that is something worth telling. The poetry of life is a pocket brochure, but the prose is in ponderous volumes and always waiting for a translator. What have you learned about the every-day problems that men and women are wrestling with in their own households? Have you found a key to some of the mother's puzzles that turn up in the cradle and keep on appearing in the nursery and the school-room? Do you know the answer to some of the housekeeper's conundrums? Tell it. Above all, have you, through the experience of an earnest, thoughtful life, learned a way out of any of the difficulties which beset the minds and spirits of all earnest, thoughtful men and women, however plain and ordinary their lives may outwardly appear? Speak! Disclose the secret, or recall it if it has been forgotten. Say the word—be it ever so old-fashioned, or blunt, or inadequate whose purpose is to help; whose aim is to reach and answer the homely, practical, crying needs of living men and women. That is the word that may bring you fame, if fame is what you want. And if so won, you will deserve it; for your words will not have been born in the shallow pool of ink upon your pen, but will have arisen from the deeper fountain of the heart. NEW YORK, N. Y. Wolstan Dixey. A MODEL EDITOR. I have no intention of trying to convey the idea that there is but one model editor; I've experienced the pleasure of hearing from scores of them. However, I cannot help thinking that if all the "brethren of the press" would emulate the example of one from whom I lately received a letter, greater satisfaction would be felt by both parties concerned, and the editor himself would escape being deluged with inquiries concerning accepted manuscripts. The aforesaid letter contained the following:"Your manuscript has been accepted. It is to be published in our first issue in January; a copy of the paper will be mailed to your address, and you will receive a check at the end of the month in which it appears." Nothing essential was left unsaid; I had no need to ask questions, and, consequently, my mind was at ease in regard to that manuscript. Of course, I understand that in most cases it is impossible for an editor to tell when he will find it convenient to publish a certain årticle; but he can let us know when it has been published by sending a copy of the paper containing it, and under all circumstances he can inform us when he means to pay for the work that he has accepted. If my story should appear early in the month, and by the 20th I have received nothing in payment therefor, I am certainly led to believe that something is decidedly wrong. On the other hand, if I have been told that this particular journalist settles with all contributors at the end of the month, the delay does not alarm me. To prevent erroneous conclusions should be the aim of all well-meaning editors. EAST NORWICH, N. Y. S. Fennie Smith. THE HEROINES OF MODERN FICTION. Aside from their actual significance, certain classes of feminine names are often connected with special traits or environments; and a noticeable similarity of plot is outlined in the careers of their possessors. The name of Margaret, for example, appears to be a favorite one with authors. Heroines so named are either single women of sterling character, devoting their lives to benevolent enterprises, or attractive widows of independent fortune, who unite themselves to philanthropic professional men with brilliant prospects. Letitia, Tabitha, Kezia, and Selina are uncrowned martyrs, whose many noble qualities of mind and heart are hidden behind rugged exteriors, their lives' happiness blighted by a vessel foundered in mid-ocean, a lost loveletter, a hasty word, a slight misunderstanding, or a pair of laughing eyes and a head of sunny ringlets. They usually reside by themselves in the ancient family homestead, to which affectionate relatives flock to be nursed through the measles or typhoid fever, or when their own homes are overflowing with company. Withered roses are kept reverently laid away between the leaves of old Bibles, or Oriental shawls in chests of sandal-wood. Anise seeds or sprigs of sweet marjoram are carried to church on Sundays; parrots or Angora cats inhabit their living rooms; and chrysanthemums, lilacs, and wallflowers beautify their door-yards. Sometimes there is a younger sister, Hetty or Hiliary, whose sportive propensities are an unfailing source of anxiety or censure. Dorothy, Hortense, Monica, and Victoria are orphan, or half-orphan, English heiresses, who dwell with indulgent chaperones in picturesque manor-houses in the country, and are looked up to as oracles by admiring villagers. Their days are spent in founding hospitals for invalid children, and in superintending the erection thereof; in district visiting, accompanied by huge mastiffs, bearing baskets of jellies and hot-house grapes; in "spins upon the downs" in pursuit of oxygen; in practising instrumental duets with the surgeon's daughter; in protracted horse-back excursions; and in playing croquet with handsome young curates, whom they afterward marry, to the intense satisfaction of all concerned. Moll, Meg, Liz, Kit, or Nance are the heroines of frontier life or mining-camps; and usually fal desperately in love with finelooking, boyish surveyors, or chief engineers, whose affections are subsequently discovered to be in the keeping of society belles in the nearest metropolis. Despair takes possession of the unfortunate maidens. Leaving their comfortless log cabins, they wander for hours through primeval forests, seeking from kindly Mother Nature balm for their wounded sensibilities. While brooding drearily one morning, in a grove of giant pines, mysterious voices are overheard plotting the murder of the object of adoration on account of bags of gold known to be in his guardianship. Then ensues a terrible struggle in the mind of the horrified listener; shall he be warned in season, or be allowed to spill his innocent blood, to the unspeakable anguish of his affianced bride? Right finally triumphs Intelligence of his impending doom is secretly conveyed to the unsuspecting victim, and armed men overpower the would-be assassins, and promptly lodge them in the county jail. Search is then vainly made for the fair deliverer; but a few days later the body of a woman is found floating in the river. Samanthy, Mirandy, Betsy Jane, Sary Ann, and Belindy are the shining lights of backwoods villages. Large waists and long tongues are as invariably portions of their anatomy, as are limp calico gowns and sun-bonnets part of their customary apparel. They are brimming over with Yankee "faculty"; delighting to "toss up a sponge-cake," or to "throw together" an appetizing custard; and appear never more in their elements than when presiding over a quilting-party, or when directing the preliminaries of a wedding or a funeral. There are few rules, however, without exceptions. Thus a Theresa may prove an incorrigible tomboy, or a Rosamond pose in the guise of an ogress, who is held in reverential awe by the entire neighborhood. But "Certain names always awake certain prejudices," or, more properly speaking, certain pre-judgments. OAKLAND, Calif. Bertha F. Herrick. THE WRITER'S MATERIAL. Some one said in the Atlantic, a few years ago, that the writer, of all shopkeepers, finds it hardest to get free from the tether which binds him to his occupation. "Wherever he goes his mind must still be gathering in the interest of a recondite and incalculable fund technically known as material." This bee-like industry is an indispensable condition of success in literary work. For every imaginable fact or bit of description, any striking incident in history, any felicitous use of words, will be of use to the speaker or writer some day. Only let it be sharply apprehended and properly classified and kept long enough, and it will become valuable. Happy is he whose mind can do this work without the troublesome help of scrap-books, boxes, pigeon-holes, portfolios, envelopes, and the thousand and one labor-saving and labormultiplying devices which stationers and literary bureaus are so glad to sell to him. But somewhere, either in the strong box of the mind or in the drawers of his desk, the would-be writer must have an ever-growing fund of material. The other day I came across an illustration of the use and value of "material" in a novel from a writer whose success has been due to the faithful way in which she has reproduced real life and blended it with striking and fanciful plots. It is good enough to be quoted. "The minister sat for some time absently in the place where he had been wont to sit, as if absorbed with his own thought or entranced with the dying strains of music which pealed through the church, until the last guest had passed out from it. "Finally, he looked up and saw the faces of two intruding rag-muffins, also listening, and regarding him, awestruck, with great, curious, wondering eyes. "Smiling, the minister arose, and putting an arm over the shoulder of each, he walked with them down the flower-strewn and softly-lighted aisle, and thus attended and thus smiling, he, too, passed out, forever, from the church his great fame and talents had adorned.” The novel is "Leon Pontifex," by Sarah Pratt (McLean) Green. In one of my scrap-books I find the following |