THE SKETCHER.

Otago Witness, Issue 1971, 14 November 1889, Page 31

THE SKETCHER.

COMING MEN: MR FRANK BARRETT.

One of the most interesting novels of the summer season is " Under a Strange Mask," by Mr Frank Barrett, who has for some time been coming steadily to the front, and may now be fairly included in .the list of exceptionally popular authors Mr Barrett may infer from the cordial reception of his latest works that he wisely decided to pursue a literary vocation. This was not always his intention, though as a youngster he started with the desire to become a literary man. He commenced as a contributor to the Hornsey Hornet, the proprietor of which gave him the warmest encouragement. He told him that he could not have too much of his work. Availing himself of this opening, young Barrett supplied him weekly with four or five pages of prose and verse, with illustrations, and at times was permitted to edit the paper. It was not a remunerative business. The only payment he remembers receiving was a brace of pheasants one Christmas, orders for the theatre, and all the magazines he reviewed. About that time he modelled a statue in pipeclay of Mr Lionel Brough and sent it to him. This led to a friendship with the genial actor which has never cooled. It was Mr Brough who advised Mr Barrett to write a book, as journalism kept him threadbare. The advice was taken, and a collection of imaginative stories was published under the title of " Fantdccini." The reviewers spoke well of the book, and predicted a brighb future of the author, which had the result of overthrowing Mr Barrett's besetting diffidence, and causing him to dream of making hundreds a year. But at this juncture his publisher failed, and he found himself no richer by novel writing than he had been as a journalist.j ournalist. He still filled up his spare time, and let off his superflous fancies, by pottering in 'clay. A couple of caricatures on his publisher's chimney piece attracted the attention of Mr G-. A. Sala, who wrote to him, saying he should like to make the acquaintance of the man who modelled "A Pharisee " and wrote " Fantoccini." They met in Gower street, and Mr Sala earnestly advised him to leave literature to those who had learnt how to make it pay and devote himself to clay. "In Paris or Vienna you would make your fortune, and you ought to make a respectable living in London. Art is waking up. You have the whole field to yourself. There's not another man in England could do this," said gala, holding up the figure of a girl skating, ( that Mr Barrett had brought in his pocket, at arm's length. Mr Barrett went home by Lambeth, getting a "ball" of clay there. Two humorous groups he took to Mr Tooth, who accepted them without demur, and found a prominent place in his gallery to exhibit them. But it was three years before | they went off. An art dealer in the Strand said, looking at a specimen of Mr Barrett's work, "Do me something in this way that will serve as a paper weight or hold matches, and I can sell 'em by the gross." That task was beyond him. Yet it was evident to him that art must be made subservient to utility for English buyers to purchase his work in London ; and equally so that he must earn enough to live on. He made a jar with figures and foliage in high relief, and a Flemish boor smoking on the cover. A Faience dealer in Waterloo place saw it, and ordered 20. Elated with this success, Mr Barrett took his jar to Mortlock, in Oxford street, who told him he would take all the work he coulcf produce, and asked him to design knife-handles, mirror-frames, granitures de cheminee, and anything that could be made in clay. Mr Barrett consulted with the potter in Lambeth, who bad burned his figures. He agreed to go into partnership, and build a kiln expressly for burning "colours and Mr Barrett's new ware. While the kiln was building, Mr Barrett worked night and day, and by the time it was ready he had four rooms choke full of ware for firing. A single piece was put in the kiln for trial, The burning was admirable. The kiln was filled with all he had made ; there was room for as much again and he set to work to produce— living meanwhile, on about Is 6d a day, got by an occasional magazine article. At length the kiln was full. It was fired and burned well for six hours ; then there was a rumble and a crash ; the whole kiln had fallen in, and all was lost. "Write another novel, Frank," said his unfortunate but kindly old publisher, 1 "and try another publisher. Many of my writers have done well by turning their backs on me." He wrote another novel, " Lieutenant Barnabas," and offered it to him. "Take it to the best man in the trade," he said. He took it to Mr Bentley. Mr Bentley read it, and gave him £60 down for it. Then he thought his fortune was really made. There was not a dissentient ] voice amongst the reviewers when " Barna- / bas " was published ; all praised it, and, as before, prophesied great things for the author, who now threw aside clay and stuck to the pen, producing the next year " A Prodigal's Progress," for which he got £80, and " Honest Davie," which Mr Bentley bought for £100. The critics were again unanimous in their praise of these books ; but somehow they did not run into second editions. It seemed to Mr Barrett that the success was as great as the merib, but this was not Mr Bentley's opinion nor that of his friends. "You think you are a fool, Frank," said one, " but you don't know where your folly, lies. You are publishing your novels in one edition when you might first run them through a magazine and double your income. You are writing about a past age when the public demand stories of to-day, and you are writing for the critics when you ought to be writing for the general reader." This admirable advice was taken to heart, and the next story Mr Barrett wrote was "Folly Morrison," a dramatic story of life as he knew it. This stpry realised the friend's prognostication— it more than doubled the author's income. Since then he has stuck to dramatis stories of modern life with 'rapidly increasing advantage. He has only once gone, away from modern life, and that was in his story of adventure, "The Admirable Lady "Biddy Fane." The success of that book convinced him that both the public and the critic can advantageously be, written for at the same time. It is on very. original, lines, and proves that Mr Barrett oao -write about the sea,; as if

he had been brought up a sailor, and is, in fact, a stirring and brilliant romance of the ocean, with a powerful love element. His last story is " Fettered for Life," now in the press for publication in three volumes. Although Mr Barrett has given up the idea of winning fame as a sculptor, he still makes u£e of his modelling tool, and produces sketches of the characters whose lives Ihe has to deal with in his novels. Those [ made for " The Admirable Lady Biddy Fane" are excellent. The author himself says he that the modelling test is an admirable one, and often suggests potentialities in a face that might otherwise have been overlooked. When he has not one of these figures before him he writes facing a glass, that he may see in his own face how his characters would look under the influence of the emotions he feels. Mr Frank Barrett is a Bohemian by birth and education. He inherits his artistic talents from his mothsr, who was an artist and musician of the finest taste. There are two thing 3he abhors — tippling and gentility. When he is in London he can be found at the Savage Club, but his vagabond instinct and an unspeakable sorrow make him a wanderer during the best of the year, and the globetrotter discovers him at one time in Corsica, at another in Italy, again in Luxemburg or Flanders, but most frequently in the northern part of France, where his happiest memories live.