was

"A Little Centennial Lady," in 1876, followed by articles upon "My Lord Fairfax, of Greenway Court, in Virginia," "The Home and Haunts of Washington," and like topics. In 1878 she wrote "Golden Rod, an Idyl of Mount Desert"; and since then she has published "The Story of Helen Troy," ," "Woman's Handiwork in Modern Homes," "The Old-Fashioned Fairy Book," "Bar Harbor Days," and "Bric-à-Brac Stories." In the Century this last summer appeared, anonymously, "The Anglomaniacs," and it has now been published in book form, and within a month she has given us "Flower de Hundred: The Story of a Virginia Plantation."

She has also been a successful playwright; her "Russian Honeymoon" (an adaptation from the French of Scribe) had a run of many weeks at the Madison-square Theatre, and is still in vogue throughout the country; several of her short comedies have been repeatedly performed with credit by the cleverest of our amateurs; and all the best known of her plays have now been collected and published together.—January Book Buyer.

Jerome. A little beyond Chelsea Barracks is a huge building of yellow brick with red stripes, known as Chelsea Gardens. A door stands invitingly open, with the humorous announcement that trespassers will be prosecuted. This statement is evidently intended to rouse a spirit of contradiction in the human breast, or else to lure one on to mounting the ninety steps which intervene between the ground-floor and the suite of rooms of the English Mark Twain." The walls of this ascent are painted a cheerful blue, while a plum-colored dado checks the light-heartedness which would otherwise be inspired by such a pleasing color. Once within Mr. Jerome's drawing-room, the plumcolored dado is forgotten. Over the trees, facing the house, all London can be seen. Almost opposite, and a little to the right, is the Tower House. To the left, the river shines like

a silver streak in the sun, and beyond the river in the far distance is the Crystal Palace. The "interesting personality" of Mr. Jerome is, at this moment, clad in light trousers, slippers, a boating jacket, and eye-glasses. He might have stepped in from some secluded bower after a nap. In reality he has been sleeping off the effects of a long stretch of work, extending from six o'clock to lunch time. His brown hair is rumpled over his broad, high forehead; somewhat deep-set gray eyes look out with a kindly glance from beneath heavily-hanging brows. He has a thick, drooping

moustache, good straight nose, and rather large head for a man of medium height. Greetings are exchanged; he flings the casement wide; and in the refreshing breeze we sit and talk of many things, the sunlight dancing over the dainty room, with its soft-cushioned chairs, picturesque photographs, and delicate water-colors on the walls. Mr. Jerome could not get any one to look at his books at first, and nothing but the most indomitable perseverance and faith in his own powers could have carried him into the happy haven of successful authorship. "I remember taking the 'Idle Thoughts' to Messrs. Sampson Low & Co. I think I saw Mr. Marston, Sr. He looked at it, said he did n't want to discourage me, but that it was simply rubbish. Field & Tuer took it at length. One hundred thousand copies have been sold up to date. Three Men in a Boat' has now reached the same number." - Magazine and Book Review.

Ohnet. Perhaps no author of the present day has been more criticised than Georges Ohnet; some have accused him of plagiarism, others of want of originality, while all have thrown doubt on his literary talent. And yet, in spite of the critics, his 'Serge Panine," his "Maître de Forges," and other works have run through countless editions, both at home and abroad. No wonder he can afford to snap his fingers at his detractors in presence of such undisputed success. The truth is that he is too moral a writer to satisfy the modern French critic, who revels only in indelicacy and cynicism, and prefers vice to virtue. M. Ohnet assures us he never looks at the newspaper criticisms on his pieces. "I work for the public," he added, "and recognize no other master. So far the public has been on my side, and that is sufficient for me." He has no particular system of working, or, if he has one, it is very simple. "I start," he says, "with an idea which I turn over and over in my mind, until I have woven the beginning, the middle, and the end of my plot. I then sketch out the different characters to be introduced, and the various scenes of action. This done, I set to work, writing for four hours every morning. Sometimes I can write only one or two pages; but when the inspiration is free and easy, I can write a whole chapter at one sitting. Generally speaking, I write my novels in the country, and my plays in Paris. I do not surround myself with documents to work on. I do not want them, since I form my characters and incidents out of my own mind, or according to what I have come across in daily life. I have a good memory, and can remember almost everything I have

seen from childhood. I am not obliged to mount a railway engine, like Zola, who, after all, obtains only a very imperfect view of the scenes which come under his eye, and which are more imaginary than real, though the pictures he paints are marvellously executed." M. Ohnet proceeded to remark that contrary to what has been stated, he never writes his novels with the intention of dramatizing them. He is a novelist first of all; the dramatist comes afterward. He says it is not so easy to dramatize a novel as some persons imagine. The work has to be changed in many important respects. "For example," he continued, "the dénouement in Comtesse Sarah' had to be altered for the stage, while the play of 'Serge Panine' contains many things, notably the great love scene in the third act, which do not exist in the romance." M. Ohnet's next novel will be entitled "Vengeance de Femme," which is half finished. After that he promises us a drama fin de siècle, to be called "La Conquerante," the subject of which will be the history of a tradesman and his family, who rise from a humble shop in Belleville to a princely mansion in the Parc Monceau. He will then rest himself in his country house near Fertesous-Jouarre, and give himself up to the only pastime he loves-la chasse. "With my dog and gun," he concluded, "I am the happiest man in the world." - Paris Letter in the London Globe.

Sheldon. Mrs. May French Sheldon, an English woman well known in literary circles as the translator of Flaubert's "Salammbo," will sail for Africa in February. She will head an exploring party of her own, the primary object being the collection of materials for a book. At present she is visiting friends in Kansas City, Mo. Mrs. Sheldon is a physician of no mean ability, and has also won a reputation as an author and sculptor. She has an enviable position in literary and scientific circles in London, where her husband is the manager of an American banking house. She appears to be thoroughly in earnest in her present intention. She expects to reach Zanzibar in February. Procuring guides, interpreters, and supplies there, she will enter the Dark Continent at Mombassi, and from there she will make her way to the mountain and lake of Kilamajaro, a distance of 400 miles from Zanzibar. Philadelphia Telegraph.

LITERARY NEWS AND NOTES.

E. W. Howe, the Kansas newspaper man and novelist, has been offered $100 for the original manuscript of the “Story of a Country Town," the novel that made him famous.

Eben E. Rexford, the poet, florist, and recluse of Shiocton, Wis., was married recently.

King Kalakaua is writing articles on the labor problem of Hawaii for the San Francisco Examiner. Alexander William Kinglake, the historian of the Crimean war, in his eighty-ninth year, is dying of cancer.

Rudyard Kipling's peculiar Christian name is said to have had its origin in the fact that his father and mother plighted their troth on the banks of Lake Rudyard. Kipling was born December 30, 1865.

The Philadelphia Times remarks: "Mrs. Julia Ward Howe has been buying property near Seattle. She is still so young and vigorous that it would surprise nobody if she proposed to go out to Washington and grow up with the country."

The New York World says that Jacob Beck, of Decatur, Neb., offers a prize of $50 for the best essay on the subject, "What Can the Government do to Promote the Greatest Good to the Greatest Number of People Without Injustice to Any?"

Lord Tennyson is in excellent health. The Hon. Hallam Tennyson writes to a correspondent that, notwithstanding the severe weather and his advanced age, his lordship, who is staying at Farringford, Freshwater, Isle of Wight, takes his usual walk every day.

Mrs. Richard A. Proctor proposes to perpetuate her husband's name by building an observatory on Mission Heights at San Diego, Calif. It is esti. mated that the building with the telescope will cost about $25,000, and the bulk of this sum Mrs. Proctor hopes to raise by lecturing.

One of the busiest literary men is “Oliver Optic ” (W. T. Adams), who has written so many good books for young people. He is editor of Our Little Ones and the Nursery, is writing a serial story, has to write some time this year the fourth volume of his "The Blue and the Gray" series, and has engaged to furnish two volumes for a new series to be issued next season by Lee & Shepard.

Jerome K. Jerome, the humorist, whose books are selling up in the hundred thousands, though many intelligent critics are still sceptical of their merits, is a man of only thirty years. He is of medium stature, rather good looking, and has brown hair that is usually rumpled over his high forehead. His gray eyes are deep set, and he has a thick, drooping moustache, good straight nose, and a large head. He lives in Chelsea Gardens, and his rooms overlook London.

There is talk of a new magazine for New York in the spring, with May Riley Smith as editor.

William Henry Bishop, the novelist, has entered upon his third year of European residence, and does not seem disposed to curtail his stay. He is now living in Verona, in the Palazzina Giusti.

Librarian Spofford thinks that within three years he will be able to move the National Library into the new building going up in Washington.

Dr. D. G. Brinton is preparing a series of lectures on the "Ethnology of Modern Europe," and a work on the ethnology of the American (Indian) race, both of which he hopes to publish in 1891.

A. B. Frost is one of half a dozen American illustrators to whom art has brought handsome fortune, "lettered ease," and rural comfort. He lives on a good-sized farm near Madison, N. J., and dispenses a generous hospitality.

George Meredith, it is said, writes in a little cottage of two rooms standing in the garden of his house. He works in the morning, and after giving his manuscripts to his daughter to copy, proceeds to study and to translate the classics. As for worldly affairs, he is a ward in chancery, and has a moderate fortune.

Jessie Benton Frémont's Christmas gift was the cottage at Los Angeles where she has long lived, now presented to her, with receipts for old debts, by the women of California. The money necessary for the purpose was $10,000.

A well-known syndicate manager says of women as literary workers: "It is an indisputable fact that the best literary work to-day is being done by women, and the most conclusive evidence of this lies in the fact that of the fifteen most successful books published within the past two years, eleven were written by women. In my experience of eight years I have found literary women just, fair, always courteous and obliging, and capable of far better work than men are generally willing to credit to them. I have found their work more evenly meritorious than that of men, while the most successful articles which I have printed, in both newspapers and magazines, came from the pen of women."

Henry Rider Haggard, Esq., J. P., is the full name of the famous author. He is thirty-three years old, but looks more as if he were twenty or twenty-five. He resides in the village of Ditchingham, in the southern division of the County of Norfolk, through which village, near the outskirts of his estate, runs the Waveney Valley railroad.

Mr. Spurgeon devotes only a few hours to the preparation of a sermon, and commits only the headings to paper.

Grace Greenwood is now more closely allied to works of charity than to literary labors, though she still writes a little.

After January 31, the business of Charles Scribner's Sons and Scribner & Welford will all be carried on under the name of Charles Scribner's Sons.

George Bancroft is still seen on Pennsylvania avenue, Washington, on pleasant days, his arm in that of a friend or attendant, walking at a good pace, and conversing constantly. He has entirely lost his memory of immediate events and dates, and his mind is gradually passing away.

Clifford Lanier has resigned his position as superintendent of city schools at Montgomery, Ala., and will devote himself exclusively to literature, fiction, and poetry.

Gustav Freytag, the German novelist, is dangerously ill. His physicians have ordered his removal to a resort for invalids in the southern part of Europe.

Schliemann was thirty-four years old before he knew a word of Greek, and it was not until he was forty-one that he began the study of archæology, in which he was destined to achieve so much distinction.

By an odd coincidence, the Christmas numbers of Scribner's, Harper's, and the Century each contain a story in which a person with the unusual name of Spurlock figures.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer Cruger does most of her literary work on her farm, and to this retreat, which is at Bayville, Long Island, N. Y., and is called "Talesse Farm," she goes for quiet work.

Grant Allen, a Canadian by birth, has won the prize of £1,000 for the best novel, in the competition recently announced by a member of Parliament, George Newnes. Several hundred novels were offered in competition. Mr. Allen's "What's Bred in the Bone won. It is doubtless only a coincidence that its title suggests James Payn's famous novel of twenty years ago.

Some of those who read William Allen Butler's illustrated poem on the Passion play at Oberammergau in Harper's Weekly for December 3 may not remember that the writer just a third of a century ago produced the famous society skit in verse, "Nothing to Wear," a production which ranks among the classics of our native literature.

VOL. III.

It is not the easiest thing in the world for me to bring a story or an article to a satisfactory conclusion. Much has been said in THE WRITER about the opening sentence. Is not the closing sentence of equal importance?

I have had half-a-dozen unfinished manuscripts lying around at a time, because I was at a loss to know how to end them. The plot was carefully laid from beginning to end, and no serious difficulties came up as I glided smoothly through the body of the story; but the finishing touch there was the rub! More scraps went into the waste-basket over the final effort than were used in all of the story besides. I saw that this would not do. I read and studied widely on the art of finishing things. The result was encouraging; but more light is wanted.

Of course, the closing sentence should round

No. 2.

off the production, giving to it the appearance of completeness. This can be done without leaving the impression that all has been said on the subject that it is possible to say. Some of the most successful writers are the ones whose recorded thoughts are full of suggestion of other thoughts. The train of thought suddenly suspended, because the writer could not keep on forever, is taken up by the reader and carried along to further conclusions. Such an article as this would be very appropriately closed with a question.

Then there is another class of writing that requires much deep thought within a limited space. The last sentence should be like a tight fence across the road, which brings the reader to a certain, though not abrupt, standstill. If he gets its true meaning, it will say to him, "Go back over this road, then travel it again, and each time you will find something new."

It is not the perfection of art in authorship to produce a closing sentence that will serve just as well for the opening sentence. Such an exhibition of jugglery appeared recently in a printed article of my own. I was not responsible, however, for the manipulation which produced such a literary curiosity; it would be described in newspaper circles as 'editorial revision."

The advice to young writers, "Stop when you are done," is indeed trite. Every one who has the sense to put two thoughts together into a chain of composition knows that the stopping-place is at the end of the story. But it is not always so easy to know just where the end should be. With the subject for a prize poem before you, heaven and earth are ransacked for the choicest "thoughts that breathe,

and words that burn," but the possibility of condensing so much sweetness into eight words has not occurred to any, except the genius whose "The conscious water saw its Lord and blushed" carries off the prize.

If a plot is properly laid, the situation will itself suggest the proper ending. A rough draft of the story from beginning to end will aid materially in coming to a satisfactory conclusion. With the same earnest thought given to the closing lines that is expended throughout the body of the production, the difficulty will to a great extent vanish.

The copyright law affords protection to "authors, inventors, designers, or proprietors of books. Translators are not named in these laws, and it was doubted for a long time whether a translation might be protected like an original composition.

At last this question was brought before the federal courts in the famous case of Stowe vs. Thomas, in 1853. Harriet Beecher Stowe had employed Hugo Rudolph Hutton, a competent German scholar, to translate "Uncle Tom's Cabin" into German. The story was translated with the aid of Mrs. Stowe's husband, and the authoress secured a copyright for that translation. Not long after this translation was published, a certain Mr. Thomas made another translation of "Uncle Tom's Cabin " into German, which appeared in the Freie Presse, a German daily published at Philadelphia, and afterward this translation of Mr. Thomas appeared also in book form.

Considering this an infringement of her own copyright, Mrs. Stowe sought to prevent the sale of Mr. Thomas' book by a bill for injunction.

The case was argued with much learning and skill by both parties; there being no precedents in the United States, the attorneys resorted to French, Belgian, Prussian, and Italian laws or decisions.

It was contended that the protection the law gave to authors extended over all the United

The court decided that a translation is not an infringement of the copyright of the original, but a new work, and as such, itself a subject of a valid copyright. In delivering the opinion of the court, Judge Grier remarked: "The claim of literary property after publication cannot be in the ideas, sentiments, or the creations of the imagination of the poet or the novelist as dissevered from the language, style, or the outward semblance and exhibition of them. . . The right to multiply the copies of the particular connection of characters which shows to the eyes of another the ideas intended to be conveyed that is what the laws term 'copyright.'" Translations may now be copyrighted. In the application for copyright the translator may claim to be the "author" of the book.

There are always some authors who, seeking gain or glory, would publish their original works as translations from some famous author. Would such pretended translations be protected by copyright? There is no example of such a case in the United States, but the English courts held (in Wright vs. Tallis) that such an imposition on the public, if made for the purposes of gain, would not be protected.

Now, suppose an American work is translated into French, and somebody re-translates it into English. Can he copyright such a re-translation? The answer is, No; he cannot. The reason is that such a re-translation would greatly interfere with the sale of the original book, and injure the author, while a translation into a foreign language is fitted for quite a different class of readers, and can only slightly affect the sale of the original.

From 1853 till 1870 an author could not prevent his book being translated by any one who chose to do so. First, in 1870, Congress enacted that "the authors may reserve the right to translate or dramatize their own works." The author may or may not, at his pleasure,