A-writer in the "New York Book Review" records an interesting chat which took place not long.ago between himself - and Mr. H. G. Wells at the distinguished author's flat in Whitehall Place. Mr. Wells said: "I am now at work on the kind of writing that I used to do, the sort of thing which provides me with the most fun. My men like Gods' marked a definite transition. I'm going back to my early manner. There will be more Mr. Pollys, more and better Mr. Hoopdrivers, more Food of the Gods—yes!. at: least, 1 hope so."
More years ago than most of us care to remember, although it was only in 1911, there appeared a book entitled Memoirs of Li Hung-chang."" Some people thought at the time—again one is old enough to remember—that it was not an altogether intimate life-story for so picturesque a Chinaman as Li Hung. It now comes out (says a London literary journal) that it was written by somebody else, and it is even doubtful if Li Hung inspired eny it. If all that be so, the book is merely one of those picturesque inventions with which every literature of the world is adorned. In America, where the Memoirs appeared first, it is going to be reprinted as_ being frankly "The Spurious Memoirs of Li Hung -chang."
Baroness Orczy thinks that in her newest novel, "The Honourable Jim," she has discovered another character who may be as popular as her Scarlet Pimpernel." When a novelist has discovered one popular hero, he or she is always in pursuit of another, and one can only hope that the Baroness has nid 'a second good capture. Anyhow, she has found " period in English history which is very fruitful of romance because if is that of the English Revolution and the English Republic with Oliver Cromwell as our Protector.
If you know the writings of Anatole France, either in French or in the translation issued by John Lane, you will know. that they include a costermonger character called Jerome Crainquebille. He was a' fellow who went about pushing his barrow before him and crying "'Cabbages, Turnips, Carrots." Anatole France has been asked to allow the name "Crainquebille" to be used for a paper which is being founded in Paris by. the street traders who sell fruit from open carts. He has expressed his entire willingness that there should be such a paper, and, indeed, he feels flattered at the compliment that its name will always convey to him.
Joseph Conrad's new novel, "The Rover," will be published early next month. It is a story of Toulon in the heroic days of Napoleon and Nelson.
Mr. H. A. Gwynne, Editor of the ''Morning Post," has written a novel. It is, as might be expected, a political novel. In the author's own words: "It has been said that if it were possible to get seven men in England to agree on any political measure it could be enacted without difficulty." This is the theme of Mr. Gwynne's story, and a very good story it makes. Mr. Gwynne's book is called "The Will and the Bill." His political opinions may be forceful, and in many quarters unpopular, but his knowledge from long experience of the politician as a species is authentic. Such intimate sources he has drawn upon for a very amusing and somewhat caustic story.
Cricket has inspired much admirable prose and verse, but the literature of football is still very meagre. Mr. Sydney Hor-ler, of course, writes excellent football ~'ories, and a first-rate humorov poet, T. Harrison, has recently been contributing clever football parodies to the "Glasgow Evening Times." There is a particularly good one, the parody of Omar Khayyam The ball no notice takes of cries and and ''obs!?"
But trundles meekly at the players toes, But he who stands around and shouts advice, He knows about it all—He knows—
HE Knows! j Graceless people, those literary critics! One of them has actually been daring, in a London evening paper, to poke fun at the style of no less formidable a giant of the circulating library than Mr. A. S. M. Hutchinson. To support his irreverent. attack, he went so far as to quote a single extraordinarily tortuous and involved sentence, consisting of no fewer than one hundred and thirty-six words, from Mr. Hutchinson's lately published volume of short stories. Really, it is hard to understand what some of these carping censors expect. It is coming to something, indeed, when they presume to demand perfect literary style and impeccable English as part of the necessary equipment of a best-seller!
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.