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"Yes," Constantly," are the answers to Question 3.

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With respect to criticism of the magazines: "We hear complaints, and we hear the opposite of complaints," responds the Century's spokesman. Encouragement comes from various sources - from sales, of course; from newspaper notices of various kinds, editorial or under book notices; and largely from conversations and letters.

"We think there is a great deal of vitality in the magazine writing of to-day," he continues. And finally—a word that cheers : "There are some indications that the essay is coming again into its own."

"That former editor of the Atlantic who thinks all magazines dully and badly written is a perfectionist," remarks Mr. Perry. "Besides, he forgets the World's Work, which is both amusing and well written."

This will doubtless gratify Walter Page, even when it is added that we were not quoting him, but another "former editor" of the Atlantic. In Mr. Perry's opinion, "there is an endless supply of 'really good' magazine matter. The mistake lies in think

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Mazie V. Caruthers, who had a poem, "The Road to Yesterday," in Lippincott's for June, was born in Norwich, Conn., of a Southern mother and an English father. She began writing verses about ten years ago, her first poem appearing in Puck- a very happy day for her, she says, as every young scribbler realizes. Miss Caruthers has done a little short-story writing, and has written some tales for children, and some historical sketches for the Springfield Republican, but her main work has been writing verse, which has been published in Munsey's, the Harpers' publications, Town Topics, Vogue, Lippincott's, the Delineator, and the New York Times, Sun, and Herald. "The Road to Yesterday" was inspired somewhat by seeing the play of that name in New York, as well as by a habit of personal introspection. On reading this poem,

the editor of the Cosmopolitan wrote to Miss Caruthers, asking her to send on what she had on hand for his examination.

He

Howard R. Garis, whose story, "The Disappearance of Iris Fordyke," appeared in the People's Magazine for June, is a former newspaper man, having been a reporter on the Newark (N. J.) News for twelve years. His early education was obtained in. the schools and academies of Syracuse and East Syracuse, N. Y., and in Newark. has been a farmer, a railroad clerk, a car checker in the railroad freight yards, a printer's devil, a stenographer, and finally settled down to newspaper work. His first published work was a novel, based on the Salem witchcraft craze, and entitled "With Force and Arms." This made something of a hit "literarily," but not financially. About two years ago, finding that his literary efforts took up so much of his time, Mr. Garis gave up his newspaper work, and now devotes himself to writing books for boys and short stories. Four of his boys' books have been published, and two more are to be brought out this fall. He has had books published by the J. B. Lippincott Company, Little, Brown & Co., and Crossett & Dunlap. Some of the books deal with his experiences as a reporter, and others are of the adventure type. He has had nearly a hundred short stories published in various magazines and papers, including the Newark News, the Argosy, the Youth's Companion, Short Stories, Judge's Library, the AllStory Magazine, the Popular Magazine, and the People's. Other tales, having for a central figure Sherman Ford, the detectivemystery-solver, who plays the main role in "Iris Fordyke," will appear in the People's Magazine. His story, "The Yellow Powder," is printed in the August number. Mr. Garis now lives, with his wife and two children, in Verona, N. J., where, between spells of writing, he raises chickens, as he says, "for pleasure, and very little profit."

Elsie Casseigne King, whose poem, "The Moderns," appeared in Lippincott's Maga

zine for June, is a New York woman, now living in Paris. She has had poems published in the Metropolitan, Harper's, the Reader, and several other periodicals. Her work is not hackneyed, and her poems have been praised by good authorities and widely quoted.

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Maude Woodruff Newell, author of the story, The Awakening," published in the Red Book for June, is a Connecticut girl still in her twenties, and lives in Bridgeport. Her first story, "A Daughter of Romany," was published in the Red Book about six years ago. The first number of The MunCompany's magazine, Woman, two years ago, contained "Twenty-three for Skelly," which caused considerable favorable comment. Miss Newell has also had stories in the Smart Set, one, "The Long Hunt," in the July issue, being published under the nom-de-plume, “Jean Elginbrod," which she has used until quite recently. "A Japanese Enchantment," published in the Blue Book for February, has since been dramatized. The baby in "The Awakening" is a real baby. Miss Newell asserts that he is a new story each day himself, and boldly announces her intention of stealing him some day when his mother is n't looking. Almost invariably after the publication of her stories, Miss Newell has received letters concerning them from some one quite unknown to her. At present she is at work on a book, which she hopes to get out next winter.

Charlotte Louise Rudyard, author of "Mater" in Harper's Monthly for May, and Robin Songs," in Harper's Bazar for the same month, is a young writer, a New Yorker, and a graduate, in 1904, of Vassar College, where she was identified with special study in the English branches. She afterward engaged in journalism, having been received on the staff of the Brooklyn Eagle upon the submission of her first article. Later she resigned to continue in the newspaper field as free lance, and latterly has been occupied in editorial work and

magazine writing. Contributions in verse, prose, and literary criticism under her name have appeared in various periodicals, notably Harper's Magazine, the North American Review, Harper's Weekly, Harper's Bazar, the Chicago Post Supplement, and the Bookman. Her recent verses have appeared in Harper's Magazine for February, May, and June, and in Harper's Bazar for February and May. An article in the North American Review of November last discussed the relationship of the man and the woman in Mrs. Humphry Ward's novel, "The Testing of Diana Mallory," and another in Harper's Weekly, in May, 1908, looked forward to the success of Charles Rann Kennedy's drama, "The Servant in the House," then in its first days on the New York stage. Miss Rudyard was born in New York, and lives there at the present time.

Ernestine Winchell, whose story, "Youth's Handicap," in the Woman's Home Companion for June, marks a distinct departure from the writing which she has previously been doing, is Mrs. L. A. Winchell, of Tollhouse, Calif. From her little bungalow half-way up the slope of the Sierras she has loved to weave into romance the fast-disappearing Indian race, and the scarcely less primitive local whites, although the higher types sometimes win her away for a time. She is a very busy woman and has little time for writing, but she hopes soon to have more leisure for such work. Out West and the Pacific Monthly have been appreciative publishers of her local stories.

PERSONAL GOSSIP ABOUT AUTHORS.

Browning. -Two good stories about Robert Browning are told in an article by the late Professor Masson's daughter in the Cornhill Magazine. While visiting her father at Edinburgh in 1884, the poet told how he had gone as a guest to a meeting of a Browning society, and "had sat, unrecognized and unnoticed, in the background and

listened humbly. A heated discussion had taken place on the meaning of some passage; and at last, as no one seemed satisfied, he had diffidently suggested a possible reading. But he had been unmercifully snubbed, and promptly given to understand he knew nothing about it." In an after-breakfast discussion of Romeo's assertion, "What's in a name?" the poet contended that a person's name influenced his whole life and character and profession. And he added in an aside : "I never should have written a line of poetry if I had been called Stubbs!"

Caine. Hall Caine has just finished his novel, "The White Prophet," upon which he has been at work for three years. He is accustomed to start his literary labors at 4.30 a. m., writing steadily from that hour until II o'clock. This particular book he has written through three times. It is a novel of about 200,000 words.

Coleridge. Arthur Coleridge, speaking at the summer festival of the College for Working Women, at which the Bishop of London presided, related that the poet Coleridge once journeyed from Highgate to Holborn to visit a nephew, Sir William H. Coleridge. It was very cold weather, and the poet had on a double-breasted waistcoat which met just below his neck. It was discovered that he had got no shirt. nephew remonstrated with him, to which the poet replied: "I'm very sorry, William, very sorry; but I've forgotten my shirt." Upon this Sir William kindly lent his uncle a shirt, "and," said the speaker, "I regret to say that very necessary garment was never returned to its original owner.". London Evening Standard.

His

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it is in no sense my fault if I cannot give you the book after all at the time appointed. . . . I have worked at the manuscript unremittingly for months. I began it four times. I have done everything in my power to write it, and have done no other work since the first of August, and the result is so utterly unsatisfactory that, after allowing the first three chapters to be sent to you, I decided to cable and throw up the contract. It is the first time I have ever done such a thing, and I am driven to it by the great difficulties of the subject, and not by any neglect. I decline to allow a book so imperfect to go before the public while feeling that by renewed labor I may succeed in the end. . . .

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Yours very truly,

MARION CRAWFORD.

"Laurence Hope."-- How many readers of 'The Stars of the Desert," that book of lovely verse, and its companion volumes, "Indian Love Lyrics" and "Songs from the Garden of Kama," know that the author, Laurence Hope, is dead and that she was a woman?

Laurence Hope was the pen name of Adele Florence Corrie, who afterward became the wife of General Nicholson, who saw much service in India, and was in charge of the Mhow division at the time of his death. For many years they resided in a beautiful bungalow in Madras, and there Mrs. Nicholson loved to dispense hospitality to her chosen friends. She was of a peculiar, unconventional nature, which is reflected in her poetry, and only those who were of the same mind appealed to her. She loved the world of books, occult science, and strongly sympathized with the Mohammedans. Those friends chosen for their brilliancy of mind more than for their material wealth found in her a warm, ardent, generous friend, extremely unconventional in her views, and a woman not at all fond of social gaiety in the usual acceptation of the

term.

She was born in England, and began very early to write verse, but it was not until after her marriage that she wrote anything that was considered worthy of publication. When "Stars of the Desert" made its appearance it attracted widespread attention because of its sensuous beauty and wealth of imagery.

Laurence Hope was devoted to her husband, who was much older than herself, and

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their life together was ideally happy. encouraged her in her literary work, and her verses to him in the beginning of her "Indian Love Lyrics" give a hint of her devotion to him. When he died in 1895, she committed suicide by shooting herself, saying that she found life insupportable without her husband. They were buried in the same grave at Madras, the city where their last days had been passed.

Laurence Hope was one of three sisters, all of whom distinguished themselves in the world of literature. Her youngest sister is Victoria Cross, the author of "Life's Shop Window," and other novels, whose real name is Vivien Corrie.

The above facts seem worthy of publication because they are not generally known, and something about the personality of a writer is always interesting to the readers, and in spite of her defiance of conventions, the poetry of Laurence Hope seems destined to live, and it still holds a unique place in the Modern world of letters. "Croquill,"

Whitman.-Elizabeth Leavitt Keller, the nurse who was summoned at the time of Walt Whitman's last illness, tells in Putnam's Magazine what she found when she went to the little house in which Whitman had lived for some years in Camden.

"I laid aside my wraps," she says, "and in company with Dr. Bucke groped my way up the dark staircase, and, passing through a closetlike anteroom, entered the chamber of the dying poet. The small room was crowded with objects which the dusk of a winter's afternoon did not fully reveal. The only things that stood out vividly were the white pillow and the placid face encircled with snowy hair. Motionless he lay, but when I was presented to him he raised his eyelids, extended his hand, and welcomed me kindly. His brother, his literary executors, and certain other friends, grouped together, were speaking in low tones.

"On entering the dining-room, I was impressed as I have since learned that others have been by its remarkable likeness to the cabin of a ship. . . . As I sat in that little, dimly-lighted den and peered into the still dimmer apartment beyond, I was more

and more struck with the disorder on all sides. My first glance had been one of bewilderment; I now looked with deliberation and amazement at my surroundings. Confusion, dust, and litter- it seemed the accumulation of ages. I afterward learned that for more than two years no books, magazines, or manuscripts had been removed from this, Walt Whitman's peculiar

sanctum.

"There were no bookcases, large shelves, or writing desk; there was no receptacle for newspapers, and, apart from the two overloaded tables, the floor had received all of them. Upon this his general table the daily papers had been dropped when read; the weeklies had followed, and in their turn the monthly magazines. An immense number of periodicals and pamphlets had been received in the course of two years, and all were still here. Almost everything was yellow with age and soiled with the constant tramping of feet.

"The mass, which was nearly solid, was two feet in depth, and had many transverse ridges. Mr. Whitman had never bought stationery; he utilized wrapping papers, old letters, and envelopes, and as he was in the habit of making his poems over and over, afterward tearing up rejected bits. I found, on clearing up, bushels of fine litter, evenly dispersed.

"On the left of the bed the mass of rubbish had reached a height of at least four feet. On investigation, however, there proved to be a lounge underneath. The tables stood like cows in a meadow with the grass up to their bodies; and the legs of the bed, also, were buried out of sight. The only thing that had gone up with time was the imposing easy chair. This, with its white wolfskin, surmounted the pile like a throne. The wolfskin was sadly moth-eaten, as were the old and poor garments that hung upon the walls.

"At one of the tables a bent metal drop light held a chipped argand burner at a dangerous angle, and within this dingy glass shone a feeble ray of light, just making visible the pallid face and hoary hair of the dying man. As I stood on the mass and

looked down, the sight was beyond description. The owner was only a few inches above his worldly possessions; he seemed a part of them, and the picture would have been incomplete without him.

"I began by picking up the newspapers nearest the door, folding them, and stacking them on the landing at the head of the stairs. Little by little I made my way into his room, but it was slow work, and not much could be effected during the first week.

"I continued to put things in order, always desisting when my patient showed the least sign of annoyance. I would often go into the room on the pretext of putting wood in the stove, and I soon learned to perceive just how much or how little I could do. The bound volumes, invariably thrown face downward into the mass, I arrayed upon some shelves in the little room. Many were presentation copies - among them one by Longfellow and one by Tennyson. These shelves were already doing double duty, but in this crowded house there always seemed to be room for a little more.

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Periodicals I piled outside with the newspapers, and as no shred of writing was to be taken out, all the script was made into a mound in one corner of the room. In this confused pile were rolls of manuscript written on different colored bits of paper; many were pinned together. No wonder some one said that Whitman's manuscripts resembled Joseph's coat! In the litter were innumerable letters; thousands of requests for autographs; poems that had been submitted to his criticism; friendly letters from home and abroad; all his business correspondence; postal cards, notes of congratu lation, invitations, envelopes unnumbered, visiting cards, wrapping papers of all brands and sizes, a variety of string of all lengths, and ranging from the fine colored cord which druggists use to the heaviest and coarsest of twine. There were several pieces of rope, coins, pins galore, countless pictures, and many photographs of himself. Strings were interwoven through the accumulated layers that it would take days to come to the ends of them. Moths flew around the room in perfect security, and industrious spiders

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