AN AUTHOR SINGULAR EXPERIENCE.

Evening Star, Issue 11455, 24 January 1901, Page 1

AN AUTHOR SINGULAR EXPERIENCE.

Through Mr - Christia-Murra-y, wio-is»at present responsible for the ‘Handbook’ of the Referee,’ “ svanan-of letters whose work has been for the most part hpaginatiw, 0 ' but who, all the same, is “a trained and competent observer, ’’ publishes *a recent experience.when finishing a,-book under pres®°re.: —You might have thought that the Devil himself had turned debt collector, I was so besieged for money. My book was within three days’ work if completion, and to finish it meant satisfaction to, my creditors and a handsome surplus for a muchneeded holiday. I was in the last thronged thoroughfare of my I was on tire to get to the end of it. I had caught a cold, and was brain-clogged, sore-of body, and generally good for nothing. I caught a new cold on top-oLthe old one, -andbecamo curiously inspired. I have never-in my life been conscious of such, a-sense of brilliance and faculty. Yon know, of course, the theory of the incubation-of insanity, where, as a consequence of the earliest disturbance of brain tissue, the subject, Jiithert-oia stupid or dull man, is -awakened to new perceptions, and becomes an orator, or a wit, or a poet. I take it that some-similar process was acting in my . own case, but my safe return to normal d illness saves me from -any fear that the said process is likely to be continuous. When you come to read the closing chapters of my -book, you will, I am sure, be forfed to-acknowledge that they are the work of a sane man; but the fact is that whilst they are written here at my desk they were written to my own clear perception in the smoking saloon of a train on the Canadian Pacific. I did not write a line without the consciousness of the decorations of the car—its light maple woodwork, its clear windows, its door opening at- the rear and commanding a full view of the landscape. The feeling was at first a little eerie, and I looked about m© often to assure myself that I was actually in my own workshop. I was writing for dear life all the time, and you, as a pretty swift craftsman, will know what it means when I tell you that I had to get -through a stint of 16,000 words in three-days. All the time I was absorbed in my work and all the time the rushing train bore me on. ■ Oddly enough, I reversed the journey I -had really made in coming home; for 1 started from Montreal. I saw Ottawa with a strange distinctness, pegging away at my work, be it understood, all the time, and never being for a second beguiled from it. A particular view of Lake Superior, with, an extraordinary fine cloudscapc, was singularly clear. The prairie was in flower. Winnipeg, and Donold, and Banff, and all the places you know, were as clear to my mind as if I had passed through them, and details I had forgotten came back astonishingly. I had a glorious time through the Rockies and the Selkirks—Glacier, Kicking Horse River, Fraser Canon, and all—and tho impression was so vivid that I believe I know them all as well now as if I had recently passed them for the second time with an interest and enjoyment as great as they awakened on my return journey. My book, as you will by-and-bye see, ends with a big catastrophe, an emotional incident which, if I had handled it properly, should be very strong. I want to insist on this, because it is necessary to convey the truth that I was never absent in thought or feeling from my work whilst I made this wonderful journey. Memory and observation were keenly active on this imaginary flight, and at tho same time, mind you—for it was no question of jerks and pauses and intermissions —at the same time all my voluntary faculty was concentrated upon my work. Now, there is a physiological nut for you, and if you can crack it I should like to see the kernel.” In the one-thousandth number of ‘TitBits’ Mr David Christie Murray tells an interesting story as to how his novel ‘ Time’s Revenges’ came to be written. He says: “ Whilst I was staying at some small inland town in New Zealand, I received a visit from a gentleman of the name of Blackmorc. He brought, mo a suggestion which he. thought, might be of use tome, and it came in the form of a personal experience of his own. A friend of his, a fruitgrower in Tasmania, had sent him some dozens of preserves of various kinds from -his farm, and in order to prevent the pots from breaking he wrapped each one in paper, and also filled up tho intervening space between them with paper. Mr Blackmore found to his surprise, and interest that the sheets thus employed were official records of the old Cascode Prison, long since dismantled. It transpired that these records had been sold for waste paper, and that-some of them related to the affairs of men yet living, who had been restored to liberty, and had since built up for themselves honest, and in some cases, exceptionally honorable reputations. There was one set of documents in particular which might have been nsed to destroy the character of a man who had achieved great wealth and a position in which he was universally and deservedly respected. Here was a seed for a story, and in due time it grew, and was transplanted into the Southampton street Garden, where it flourished for a brief half-year.” The final sentence refers to the fact that ‘ Time’s Revenges ’ ran serially in ‘ Tit-BLts ’ for six months.