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publishing his next long work, "such work not to take the form of a collection of short stories."

John sat for some time dangling the letter between his fingers. He knew nothing of publishers and nothing of the prices paid for books. True, it was a long while since he had handled £20 in a single sum, but the terms offered to him appeared small for so much work. He wrote to Messrs. Beaner and Baske and asked if they could not be a little more generous. They replied that they could not-in this instance. They enclosed a form of transfer of copyright, which John signed, and by return of post he received a check for £20.

The book attracted a great deal of attention; it was not only sensational and funny, it was true. The sales were brisk; twelve thousand copies went off in two months, and the publishers made a very neat thing of selling sheets to an American firm; besides, they sold a big colonial edition, and they sold the Continental rights to Tauchnitz, and they sold the story as a serial to a number of more or less obscure newspapers, which all paid something. So both Beaner and Baske rubbed their hands over that book. But John Chaloner knew exactly how far £20 would go, and he continued to attend upon the lunatic.

There was a reason why the book was true, and the reason was that John Chaloner respected himself when he sat down to write. He had strong views about the dignity of authorship. So when he found that his first venture was successful he set himself to write the very best book he could think of. It was a long book, rather gloomy and very powerful. John knew all the people who were to live in it before he began to write it, and the people actually lived in it when he had done.

Beaner and Baske told him that they did not like the book, but John assured them it was better than his last. Mr. Baske shook his head. "We will hope it may prove so," said Mr. Beaner, with a sour smile. John was to receive a royalty upon every copy of this book which was sold in England-nothing was said about America; and Mr. Beaner and Mr. Baske both assured the author that the royalty was a very handsome one, and that the treatment he was receiving was very handsome altogether. The book was published, and the press notices of it turned John Chaloner's head slightly; at least, they made him think that he had carved out a road to competence and freedom, and he gave up attending on his lunatic. That was three weeks after the book was published. Then came the eternal bread-and-butter question, and John called on his publishers. Mr. Beaner advanced him £20 with a pleasant smile, and said that it would be "all right." John began to take his pleasure a little, and within three weeks the £20 had been spent. Then John Chaloner called upon his publishers again. Mr. Beaner was

not so agreeable, talked vaguely of the book not quite answering expectations, and, when he advanced John the £50 for which he had asked, requested him not only to sign a receipt, but a formal promise that the firm should have "the first refusal" of the next book. John hesitated; but rent and dinner had to be considered, so he signed. And it is easy to picture his astonishment when, six weeks later, he received a statement of account from Messrs. Beaner and Baske, which set forth that only 850 copies of the book had been sold, and that Mr. John Fyvie Chaloner was rather heavily in debt to the firm of Beaner and Baske. John was frightened. He had begun another somber novel, but he set it aside to follow a counsel which he had from Mr. Beaner at their last meeting-and write adventures.

Perhaps the following conversation which had taken place between Mr. Beaner and his partner before Chaloner's second book was published will explain why so few copies of it were sold.

"I don't much like the report on Chaloner's new book," said Mr. Baske. "It's high art, and all that sort of rot, and I don't believe it will sell."

"I don't believe it will," said Mr. Beaner, and he swore at high art. "I've read the beginning and the end of the stuff myself and a good bit of the middle, and the man's left out the blood. If the public learns to expect blood from a man they will take nothing else."

"Quite right," said Mr. Baske. "All the same, though I don't believe in this book, I believe in the chap."

"When he writes adventures," observed Mr. Beaner, "so do I."

"Well, let's make him write blood," said Mr. Baske. "We can just let this book drop quietly and lend the man a little money. His boots and his hat and tie show that he wants money. Then we can make him do what we like."

"Not a bad idea," remarked Mr. Beaner. “And we can make him give us the option of his next, besides telling him what it's to be like. I don't think we can lose much, and his last was meaty. Anyhow, we needn't lend him much. We'll just print a thousand and distribute the type: there'd be over sixty review copies-I mean to prepare the ground for his next blood handsomely, and we can keep a few copies unbound and tell him the total sales are 850. After all, one must teach these authors their business; they've no sense to find it out for themselves."

At first John Chaloner was disgusted at the idea. of another adventure story. of another adventure story. But the more he thought about it the more he warmed to his work. He began to see that much of the material he had rejected in writing his first book was better than the material he had retained. His repugnance for

the work gradually turned to love of it, and thus his masterpiece was fashioned; for it was a masterpiece. He took it to Beaner and Baske; he had no alternative as to that.

Mr. Beaner read it, and Mr. Baske read it. "My word, it's a plum," said the senior partner. "It's a real live plum," said the junior, "and now let's see if we can't get it cheap.

Chaloner called at Beaner and Baske's place of business again and again. He heard a great many excuses, but he could not get a decided answer about the book until two months and a half had passed. Then his total indebtedness to the firm was £150.

"We can give you £150 advance," said Mr. Beaner, at last, "and mind it's a thumping advance, on account of a 15 per cent. royalty running all through; and that's very high, very high. But we have hopes that this book will redeem our losses on the last, you know."

"Oh, but we couldn't possibly before the autumn," replied Mr. Baske.

"What do you mean by the autumn?" asked John with a sigh.

"We can't say exactly," answered Mr. Baske. "Most likely November."

"I can't wait till then," remarked Chaloner.

Mr. Baske shrugged his shoulders. "Well," he said at length, "we're not inclined to go to much more expense about your book, Mr. Chaloner, as to which, frankly, we're doubtful. But if it will suit you best, we'll cry quits over the money advanced, hand you a cheque for £20, and take over the copyright, lock, stock and barrel. But only to oblige you."

"Let me go home and think of it," said Chaloner. "You can always write another one," said Mr. Baske, as he bowed the author out with an agreeable smile.

John went home and thought over it bitterly

"But I owe you one hundred and fifty already," enough; but then-he could always write another said Chaloner, frowning.

"Well, you'll clear yourself," observed Mr. Beaner, "and then there's the royalty."

John sighed, and accepted the bargain. He was very anxious to "clear himself." But there seemed no end to the delays in publication. The autumn and the winter slipped by, the spring season was over, the summer books were being issued, but still Chaloner received no proofs. "My dear sir," said Mr. Beaner, haughtily, in reply to remonstrances, "we know when to publish. That's part of our business. No date is fixed in your agreement. Very well, then. It's in your interests as well as ours that the book should wait for the propitious moment. You really must not try to dictate to us, sir. We shouldn't dream of dictating to you about your part of the business of production."

John had got deeper into debt. Mr. Beaner was more petulant every time he was asked for money— and the sums which were asked were small now.

John lost heart. He began two new novels, but abandoned both before he had written a dozen chapters. He was not only dispirited but unoccupied, and he drank rather freely in consequence. Mr. Beaner's manner had grown so repellant that John Chaloner had recourse on one occasion to a money-lender. He knew it was foolish, but he did it. And soon he was involved to such an extent that he dared not think of his finances, and he grew desperate. One afternoon late in the summer he penetrated into the offices of Messrs. Beaner and Baske. He was kept waiting a long while, but he saw Mr. Baske at last.

"I'll tell you frankly what it is," said Chaloner, "I'm fearfully hard up, and I want you to publish the book as soon as possible."

one. He believed that himself. So he accepted Mr. Baske's offer and sold the copyright. The book was published within six weeks after that, and 50,000 copies of it were sold in three months in England alone. Then Chaloner tried "to write another one." He drank still more freely to drown his anger and disgust, and he could not make his next book live. There was not a spark of inspiration in it. Beaner and Baske rejected it after ten other houses had seen it and condemned it, and by this time Chaloner was once more attendant to a lunatic. He tried two more novels. One was published by a new firm and was a dead failure. The other was rejected by a score of publishers.

Then John Fyvie Chaloner ran away to sea for the third time, and gave up literature and the idea of falling in love and renting a cottage. But those copyrights are still real "properties" to the firm of Beaner and Baske.

MOLECULE, in The Author.

Shelley.

Thou hadst in thee the essence of sweet song-
The spirit-vapor that was wont to thrill,
That clings around us, and that haunteth still,
The tragic element in thee was strong;
Thou wert a seer amid the heedless throng,
Too, too intense for minor minds to grip.
Who seeks thy shore must ever bathe, not dip,
Lured by the thought-waves that thy brain hath flung!
Poetic Wizard! in thy wondrous lay,

What rapture, love, and truth, and light are shown;
Thy "cloud" still sleeps in grandeur o'er our day;
The vigor of the "lark" is all thine own;
The "Cenci" ah! and 66
Adonais," these sway
Passion and pathos that were master-grown!

E. L. T. HARRIS-BICKFORD.

Uncut.

This term, so frequent in booksellers' catalogues, is, we believe, not entirely understood by all collectors. We will endeavor to make the expression clear, and to show its gradations of meaning. In describing a book the term "uncut" refers always to the condition of the edges. We all know books. are printed on large sheets of paper; these, when folded into signatures and stitched and bound, form a book with the leaves "entirely unopened and uncut."

The book is in its pristine state, and naturally, as the most of the pages are not accessible for reading, the book is generally clean. This is why a rare book in such a state is appreciated at double to quadruple the value of an “uncut" copy simply.

When the paper-knife is used, and the leaves are separated at their top and side edges, we have the "uncut" copy still, but not "entirely uncut."

When the top edges of a book are cut off slightly and gilded, with the fore edges left untouched, the book still remains an "uncut" copy, but should be described with "top edges gilt" to warn the collector of the possibility of some vandal binder having cut off the top edges too much and made a "short" copy. We are glad to testify, however, that this is not generally the case, because the person who has a book bound with uncut fore edges is likely to warn the binder to cut the top as little as possible.

Sometimes in folding the printed sheets into signatures it is done in such a way that the leaves are of very uneven sizes, some considerably larger than others. This is generally accidental in English and American books, but the French sometimes so im

appear rough and uncut so as to deceive the unsuspecting collector, who knows the greater value set upon "uncut" copies. Much might be written and many examples cited of the greatly enlarged value of large sized and uncut copies of rare books in comparison with small and cut copies, but that feature is hardly included in the scope of our present view of the subject.

-The Book Lover, 1888.

*

As a rule your genuine bookworm-I mean the man who loves books simply because he can cram his mind with them and literally and letterally gorge himself-has no thought for the proper care of a book. Your may follow his trail through a volume with your eyes shut, crumpled pages, dogears, nail marks, loose signatures, damaged binding, torn leaves and ruin generally. Open your eyes and quite another state of things confronts you, marginal notes in pencil, words and sentences underscored, corrections made, amendments suggested, spots, stains and marks without end. Leigh Hunt was some such a man. He didn't hesitate to use a butter-knife to get inside an uncut book.

Man's Love of Books.

Of all the "crazes" that have ever taken possession of the human mind, from the love of purple and fine linen, and jewels and precious stones, down to the tulip mania and the blue china craze of more modern days, man's love of books has been the most constant and the most ennobling.

There is good reason for this. In his melancholy they have cheered him, in his sorrow comforted

pose the plates upon the sheet that, upon folding, him, in his mirth laughed with him, in his grief

the leaves present this appearance to a marked degree. Several leaves of 16mo size are united with leaves of octavio size. This "fad" can hardly be commended.

When a book is in the above described condition, and the binder under careful instruction cuts down the larger leaves to a size slightly larger than the smaller ones, the knife not shearing the smaller leaves at all, it becomes a debated question whether the book may not still be entitled an "uncut" copy. The fairest technical description would be "with many leaves uncut."

We have not yet reached a "cut" book until we state that the bottom edges of a book must never be gilt in an "uncut" copy." They may be slightly trimmed, leaving a majority of rough-edged leaves, but generally they should be left entirely untouched.

A pernicious practice has arisen of late years of rasping the smooth cut edges of a book with sufficiently broad margins, and thus making the edges

lifted him up, in his loneliness entertained him, in his meditation edified him, in his contentment shared with him, in his longings sympathized with him and in his despair consoled him. "Don Quixote," "Hudibras," "Gil Blas," "Knickerbocker" and "Pickwick" are temples of comedy at whose portals stand no guards to wave back the empty handed.

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The "Meditations of Marcus Aurelius," the 'Maxims" of Epictetus, the "Phaedon of Plato' and the "Imitatio Christi" are religious houses whose doors ask not the creed of the hand which opens them.

It may be said with truth that books are priests without collection boxes, monks without wallets, lawyers without fees, mentors without rods, good fellows without insolence, singers who sing only when asked, and talkers whose tongues wag not unless you will it.

You may dispute them, rail at them, interrupt them, rudely entreat them, cast them from you

they are silent. Indeed they cry out but faintly when you tear them leaf from leaf. They are not puffed up with vanity when clad in costly garments heavy with gold. Tales of wooing, songs of love, read just as sweetly when encased in greasy calf as when bound in costly levant. The lordly folio and the royal octavo take their places in all humility on the shelf beside the modest 12mo or tiny 32mo.

But not only do books become endeared to us for their own sakes, they are the most blessed reminders of those now no more whose dear warm hands once held them. They whisper of the loved givers. They show us their names traced in fond familiar characters. They call our attention to "marked pages" dear to the lost one. They remind us in some way at every turn of the leaf of the quality of the mind, disposition and temperament of the giver-mayhap of the author himself.

So then they serve a double purpose, fulfill a double mission-either of which were enough to endear them to us-linking our affections by bringing our minds into harmony. Unlike the chiseled vase, the polished gem, which in his restless sleep the anxious owner sees rapt from him, the most precious literature of the world may be so humbly dressed in book form that the thief who came for gold and jewels would spurn it with his foot.

Let the world then go on loving books more and more if possible, for, unlike the other riches of this life, they create no jealousies, no heartburnings.

copy of the famous old Nuremberg "Chronicle," of 1493. How rich in matter! What a "field of knowledge" and how "elegant" for those times is this truly wonderful book! Projected nearly four hundred years ago by the Nuremberg physician Hartmann Schedel, who wrote or compiled the text, which professes to be a history of the world from the beginning down to date, and with (what artless simplicity!) certain leaves left blank for the owner and his descendants to continue the chronicle through all time; illustrated with no less than 2200 engravings on wood, executed under the supervision of Michael Wolgemuth, one of the foremost. painters of his age, and William Pleydenwurff, his coadjuter, who, as the text quaintly tells us, were "mathematical men and skilled in the art of painting!" And who can tell? Another consideration forces itself upon the mind. Did not the great Aibert Durer himself have no inconsiderable share in the production of what Thomas Herne calls those "very odd cuts?" For it is an undisputed fact that the young Durer while this volume was in preparation was "serving his time" with his master, Wolgemuth, and learning more than the mere rudiments of the profession he afterward so dignified and glorified.

This much is certain, and it is a curious and remarkable fact that for the first time in the history of the art of wood engraving appears what is known as "cross hatching," that is, the introduction of dark lines crossing each other, which have the effect of giving to the design what the engravers to-day call color. And last, but not least, this capital conjunction is completed and perfected by the famous

Whom they can't ennoble they don't corrupt. No matter how rare the volume, how richly clad, the same contents in more modest dress may rest upon the book shelf of the humblest home. Thank heaven for books; let us have plenty of printer, Anthony Koburger, who if he had printed

them.

-The Book Lover, 1888.

*

The Nuremberg Chronicle.

It is related of Johnson by his pleasant biographer that he said he "loved the old black letter books; they were rich in matter, though their style was inelegant." Deeper read in the earlier writers than the great moralist, an erudite antiquary of our own days observes that "with respect to what is often absurdly denominated black letter learning the taste which prevails in the present times for this sort of reading, wherever true scholarship and a laudable curiosity are found united, will afford the best reply to the hypercriticisms and impotent sarcasms of those who, having from indolence or ignorance neglected to cultivate so rich a field of knowledge, exert the whole of their endeavors to depreciate its value."

These two not quite contradictory criticisms have been brought to my recollection by the sight of a

this book only would have done enough to place his name among the most distinguished of his typographical brethren. Dibdin, in the "Bibliotheca Spenseriana," devotes no less than twenty-six pages to a description of the chronicle, and to his sumptuous pages I refer those of your readers who desire to learn more of it. For my own part, to use the quaint words of the old Berkshire antiquary, “The oftener I consult the chronicle, the, more I wonder at the things in it, and I cannot but esteem the book as extremely pleasant, useful and curious."

Concerning the Honour of Books

Since honour from the honourer proceeds,
How well do they deserve that memorize,
And leave in Books for all posterities

The names of worthies and their virtuous deeds:
When all their glory use, like water-reeds,
Without their element, presently dies,
And all their greatness quite forgotten lies,
And when and how they flourished no man heeds!
How poor remembrances are statues, tombs,
And other monuments that men erect
To princes, which remain in closèd rooms.
Of Books that to the universal eye
Show how they lived-the other where they lie.
JOHN FLORIO (1553-1625.)

Stevenson's First Night in New York.

The proposed demolition of the unsteady little house at 10 West street recalls a footnote in the literary history of New York. The tiny, two-storied, beetle-browed structure will soon be torn down to give place to a warehouse, and its yellow-coated shabbiness, hallowed by a memory, and immortalized by a chapter from the hand of Robert Louis Stevenson, will have passed like a dream. Beneath the very humble roof of 10 West street, Stevenson passed his first night in America. In "An Amateur Emigrant," the gentle Tusitala has described the place, its proprietor, and his fellow-lodgers, with a wealth of detail and an accuracy that would delight the soul of a newspaper reporter.

It was in the fall of 1879 that Stevenson first visited this country. At that time he had contributed a few essays and a fragmentary speech or two to the English periodicals, and readers were beginning to ask, "Who is this Stevenson that writes with such strenuous grace?" The future author of "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" crossed the Atlantic as a second-cabin passenger and mingled freely with the huddling crowd in the steerage. His most intimate fellow-voyager was a Welshman named Jones, who was returning to this country from a visit to his home in Wales, and, guided by Jones, Stevenson went to 10 West street, then called the Reunion House, but to-day a nameless resort for longshoremen. Jones, however, knew the proprietor of the Reunion House, and was proud to act as the guide of a real literary man.

Had Stevenson been left to his own devices he would undoubtedly have selected an establishment with a more inviting aspect, and certainly he would have engaged a more pretentious conveyance than the open emigrant's wagon in which he and Jones rode to their destination. Stevenson's own description of this ride, and his uncouth lodgings, is a vivid picture, the drawing and coloring of which harmonize as well with the shabby frame of to-day as it did twenty years ago. He says, in "An Amateur Emigrant":

"Before noon of the second Sunday we sighted the low shores outside of New York Harbor; the steerage passengers must remain on board to pass through Castle Garden on the following morning, but we of the second cabin made our escape along with the lords of the saloon, and by 6 o'clock Jones and I issued into West street, sitting on some straw in the bottom of an open baggage wagon. It rained miraculously; and from that moment until, on the following night, I left New York, there was scarce a lull and no cessation of the downpour.

"It took us but a few minutes, though it cost us a good deal of money, to be rattled along West street to our destination, Reunion House, 10 West

street; one minute's walk from Castle Garden, the steamboat landings, California steamers and Liverpool ships; board and lodgings per day, $1; single meals, 25 cents; lodgings per night, 25 cents; private rooms for families; no charge for storage of baggage; satisfaction guaranteed to all persons; Michael Mitchell, proprietor.

"Reunion House was, I may go to the length of saying, a humble hostelry. You entered through a long barroom, thence passed into a little diningroom, and thence into a still smaller kitchen; the furniture was of the plainest, but the bar was hung in the American taste with encouraging and hospitable mottoes."

Like all who are unacquainted with the peculiar etiquette of American drinking places, Stevenson's introduction to the pernicious habit of "treating" produced a sensation that was something between a shock and a joke. Touching this matter he says:

"Jones was well known; we were received warmly; and two minutes afterward I had refused a drink from the proprietor, and was going on, in my plain European fashion, to refuse a cigar, when Mr. Mitchell sternly interposed and explained the situation. He was offering to treat me, it appeared; whenever an American barkeeper proposes anything it must be borne in mind that he is offering to treat, and if I did not want a drink I must at least take a cigar. I took it bashfully, feeling I had begun my American career on the wrong foot. I did not enjoy that cigar; but this may have been for a variety of reasons, even the best cigar often failing to please if you smoke three-quarters of it in a drenching rain.”

It is evident that Stevenson's first impression of American hotel luxuries, as represented by the furnishings of the Reunion House, was not of the most agreeable character. He says of the place, with a note of subtile sarcasm:

"I suppose we had one of the 'private rooms for families' at the Reunion House. It was very small, furnished with a bed a chair and some clothes-pegs; and it derived all that was necessary for the life of the human animal through two borrowed lights, one looking into the passage, and the second opening, without sash, into another apartment, where three men fitfully snored, or in intervals of wakefulness drearily mumbled to each other all night long. Jones had the bed; I pitched my camp on the floor; he did not sleep until near morning, and I, for my part, never closed an eye.

"At sunrise I heard a cannon fired, and shortly afterward the men in the next room gave over snoring for good and began to rustle over their toilets. The sound of their voices as they talked was low and moaning, like that of people watching by the sick. Jones, who had at last begun to doze, tumbled and murmured, and every now and then

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