LITERARY GOSSIP

Press, Volume LXXI, Issue 21512, 29 June 1935, Page 17

LITERARY GOSSIP

There are, perhaps, readers still who will warm to Dr. G. C. Richards's tribute to Cicero, whom hj« lias made the subject of a recent book: Who does not admire the calmness of mind that enabled Cicero, when dark clouds hung over his closing years, to compose these precious essays that continue to delight? He was humane beyond the standards of v his time, kind, generous, cultured, forgiving, and never vindictive* of a purity of character unusual in that age, while his record as a provincial governor is something to marvel at when one thinks of Verre* and others like him. Cicero always held that philosophy, by which he meant culture, was an essential element in the forming of an orator. "My own talents for speaking," he says in the "Orator," "or whatever value may be ascribed to it. has been fed not in the workshop of rhetoric, but in the alleys of the Academy." These works show a wide acquaintance with the orators of Greece and Rome, they are characterised by the great sanity and kindliness of judgment, and the references of Cicero to himself, as an acknowledged exponent of the art, are in good taste and even modest As the fiction editor of a great newspaper, Mr Cecil Hunt may be accepted as a wise counsellor, both when he encourages and when he warns beginners in authorship. Extracts, bright and dark, from his book, "Author-Biography":

The difficulty of securing a reading to-day is negligible. There is too much talent in unexpected places for any alert publisher to ignore a manuscript just because it comes from an unknown source. Aspirants may be certain that their manuscript has been carefully considered unless its very appearance reflects upon the mentality of the writer. Not every one is read all through. The Infantile people who gum certain leaves together or misplace later pages to check whether they have been read, deserve the report that they may possibly get: It is not necessary to eat the whole of an egg to know that it is bad. The difficulty of finding acceptance of novel manuscripts has increased with the years. The percentage of accepted authors among those writing must be lower than it was 50 years ago. The number of participants has increcied incredib'y: so has the number oi books published, but not in equal ra'.io. Nowadays a person is more likely to be notable for not having written a novel than for having produced a bock. It is the fact that many really competent books nowadays are not published because they lack that extra something which lifts them above the others and increases the chances of success* Competition is fierce, particularly among the legions who have still to arrive among novelists whose work is definitely sought after by editors and publishers and by a considerable public. . . . A very famous publisher told me recently that his firm would in future publish no first novels. The risk, he said, was too great. A first novel does well if it sells a thousand copies, but if the publisher spends anything appreciable on adver'ising, he needs a sale of fifteen hundred to prevent a loss on the transaction. Actually, of course, very, very few first novels are ever published. They may be advertised as such, and it imolies no deception upon the part oi the publisher. The facts are that most writers produce at least one book which never sees the light of day. They like you to think that their first published effort, particularly if it be well received, is their first written effort.

A letter from the Literary Supplement of "The Times": De Qnincey and Lamb Sir. —In the early years of this century it was my good fortune to see a good deal of Miss Emily de Quince?, the surviving daughter of the "Opiumeater." She was a member of St. John's Presbyterian Church. Kensington. of which I was minister—a small, fragile-looking la y in the middle sixties. with a quick mind and alert expression. 1 have recently come across two letters from her containing intimate references to her father, in which I think not a few admirers of his work may be interested. A few words will explain the circumstances which led to her writing. She had been our guest at a luncheon party, at which some reference was made to Charles Lamb, an excellent Life of whom had recently been published by Mr E. V Lucas. This caused an altogether unexpected outburst from our friend, who was persuade that a derogatory reference to her father in that book was based on a mistaken identification. Two days later she wrote a letter from which I copy relevant extracts: "In Lucas's Life he tells how Charles Lamb gave an amusing description of scmeorie who is called 'a little man* and sometimes 'a little insect.' The letter as far as I remeftiber, mentions no name. I think it was only part of a letter, but Mr Lucas, for some reason unknown, comes to the conclusion that it was my father. He says, probably de Quincey—Lamb describes the 'little man' or 'insec.' coming to pcur out his news about his late marriage, and gives one plainly to understan' that the 'little man* talked in a loose, obscene manner about the event. If it really was my father telling of his marriage to the girl he was heart and soul in love with, it must be a story distorted by Lamb's having given way to his miserable frailty. Never did 1 hear an unseemly word come out of his mouth. I remember so well in the evening he would often read aloud to us. He read exquisitely, but every now and then he would pull up short, 'Oh, this we may leave out.' v-hen rea'ing some of Pope. "My father was certainly rather an alarming person to deal with from his outrageous eccentricities, but still a charming memory to look back upon. A delightful but naughty, wayward rhild that wanted a whipping at times, but always sweet and tender, so frail, so very light thai when I nursed him ! n his last illness I uspd to lift him in my arms like a child." From the second letter which came a little later: "It has always been a wonder to us why. amongst a great number of lovine and admiiinff frien "s. my father sometimes excited such a curious, bitter filing amongst certain people. I think 1 have solved the problem My father very often received most kind and flatterine letters from many parts of the world: but to him writing was pn abomination. He had a hatred of the modern steel pen. A quill was a necessity, and the more steel pens came into use the worse the quills r*rew. One case goes to my heart. Some young father in the full pride of 'he birth of his fi r st baby wrote from Australia to sav that the baby, a son, was to be called after him. *WouH he write some thought or some grand iruth that I msv teach my son in after life?" My father sa'd with a weary vo'ce. 'How can on° wite truths with these horrible nens? Truths are low with me jus* now Do vou th'nk a couole of li?s wculd answer?' I begged him to write to the poor, proud rather He was always 'going to writ"' something but it went out of his memory, and 1 fear poor de Quiacey Lloyd, if he lives, is without either the truth or the fuple of lie:;." The rest of this letter seeks to correct Mrs Oliphant's account of the relation between the d-> Quincey :amily and John Blackwood. < C ANDERSON SCOT 3& ... .Westminster College, CmMd** . 4