of James Gordon: "At The Warren, November 17th, James Gordon, aged fiftyeight." WRITERS-AND READERS. "LITERATURE, my friend, literature is the force which moves the world." So says Quilpen, from behind a cloud of tobacco-smoke, and out of the recesses of an easy-chair in the smoking-room in that institution of the future, the Authors' Club. In this opinion Quilpen by no means stands alone. The pen, we are told, on good authority, is mightier than the sword-by inference, the ruler of the world. Volumes have been written, volumes are being written, probably volumes will continue to be written, to show that, practically, the destinies of the world are ruled by authors; that it is they who make history, that it is they who, sitting at the helm, steer the ships of the nations. Possibly a humble scribbler may be allowed to ask leave to doubt it-to doubt, that is, if literature really is the force it is supposed to be. It is, no doubt, pleasant to be able to say, as Quilpen is apt to say: "Men of my craft sit above kings, and priests, and princes. Literature is the true source of power." It is nice for Quilpen to be able to say it; but-well, for my part, I doubt it. Qailpen, passing his life as the ornament of a more or less intellectual society, after all only forms one of a set, a clique. He is unconscious of, or ignores, the great world without the great world which, if he only knew it, has never heard of Quilpen, not though Quilpen is the greatest Quilpen that ever lived. John Ruskin somewhere points out what a difference it would make to the world of letters if rich men would only spend on books an appreciable frac tion of what they spend upon their winecellars. The consideration of this observa tion ought to make Quilpen pause when he talks about literature being the source of power, because rich men do not spend that fraction. We are told that this is a reading agetold it every dayfor two in the morning papers. Is it? In what sense? Let the non-writing person examine his or her acquaintance and see. I know a man-a man who is well spoken of, a man who turns out his two, three, or four books a year, besides innumerable articles-who makes no secret of the fact that he never reads anything but the newspapers, and not the leading articles in those. He only skims them for the news. I doubt if, among people who write, this man is in any way remarkable. I have heard of men, whose names, as writers, are familiar in our mouths as household words, who hate reading. It is true that a specialist keeps himself abreast of works treating of his special subject, for the purpose of attending to the joints in his armour. The poet Jones probably pays some attention to the latest poetic utterances of the poet Smith; the popular novelist glances at the newest fiction. But the reading of these gentlemen is done in a more or less commercial spirit. It would be found, if we could only get at the inner secrets of the heart, that the folks who write, read, when they do read, rather for the sake of writing than for the sake of reading. One's own personal experience leads one to believe that a love of reading, for reading's sake, is not a distinctive feature of those who write. Let, therefore, the non-writing person examine his or her acquaintance. If this supposititious person is a man, and his occupation is "the City," does he find that his City friends are readers? Hardly. It is true that they swallow one paper in the morning, and, possibly, another one at night; but, in nine cases out of ten, they simply regard these as trade circulars which keep them abreast of their business. Of course, a hideous murder, a "cause célèbre," commands attention. The taste for these things has always existed. Then there is a "glove-fight," the turf, cricket, and perhaps politics. Possibly a book has advertised itself into a prominent review. "I see there's a notice of So-and-so's new book; seems to give you plenty for the money." Or, "See those extracts from Such-and-such's new poem? They say he's got three hundred guineas for half that number of lines." The average City man has no more intimate relations with literature than that. Or suppose that the acquaintances of the supposititious non-writing person are in trade. Does your baker read? I confess that I have the best of reasons for knowing that my butcher doesn't. He has something better to do, and for that he is prepared to piously "thank Heaven." My butterman is a Dissenter. He disapproves of light literature; he will probably disapprove of this article which is being written now. He subscribes to Mr. Spurgeon's sermons, and reads them during his nap on Sunday afternoon. It is probable that if that it is for the sake of writing that he reads. A doctor reads, occasionally, professional works. It may be doubted whether, if he can help it, a man of law reads even those. As for soldiers, I only knew one soldier who had a taste for books, and I always understood that he was the most unpopular man in his regiment. If the supposititious non-writing person be of the gentler sex-now we come to readers! She knows crowds of them, it is the women who are the readers, just as scurrilous and, surely, untruthful persons in France tell you that it is the women who go to church. Think of the crowds of papers, penny papers, highly respectable penny papers, which cater for women, and which cater only for women. Which pour If the always supposititious non-writing out, for ever and for ever, novels in weekly person be one of the "masses," the "toil-instalments—or whole, in penny numbers ing millions," he will, I honestly believe, which no man ever tries to read, and be able to number as many readers among his acquaintance as he would if he were one of the "classes." Our artisans read, some of them, say five per cent. of them. What they read is a matter for further consideration. The intelligent mechanic studies publications having an educational bearing on his trade, the engineer studies works on engineering, the gardener studies works on gardening-the commercial spirit again! The artisan, being a practical man, wishful to improve his position in the world, confines his attention, for the most part, to printed matter which will aid his getting on." If you descend a step lower among the "masses," you will find that readers-what readers there are !-stick to the Newgate Calendar, and records of what is ironically called "sport," "glovefights," horse-races, and such-like. of could not if he tried. Think of the "fashion papers!" Think of "Mudie's!" Women abound who read seven novels a week. It is two to one that they will not be able to give you the titles of one of them a fortnight afterwards. Ask them if they have read "Lady Lucy's Lingering Last"-they never know. When they have got half-way through the second volume, they think it is the book they read at Brighton, or when they were stopping with the Kites at Birmingham; or wasn't it one of the Tauchnitz volumes which they purchased at Lausanne? They are never certain to the bitter end. If, it may be asked, none of these people do read for reading's sake, who then does? The answer is, just a creature here and there. But they are, relatively, so few in number, that they Tarn to the professions. Take the may be regarded as a pailful of sugar clergy. At first glance one would be in the English Channel. To all practical inclined to exclaim, "You will find the intents and purposes they are non-existent. readers here. If a clergyman, the man In a literary sense, newspapers form the who should be the wisest of men, does not staff of life. The great Quilpen is under read, who does?" Experience teaches us an odd delusion if he supposes that it is that it is advisable to be cautious in his articles which give the newspaper for arriving at conclusions. There are clergy- which he writes its popularity. It may men who read, but they are very far be doubted if any of his very best articles from being the majority. They have-in England, at any rate-ever caught read once-of necessity. Something, they fifty purchasers on any given day. It is alone know what, prevents them read the news they contain which sells the ing now from choice. Here again a peculiarity comes in, which has already been referred to. It will be found, as a rule, that the clergyman who reads, writes -not only sermons, but books, and in the public prints. One cannot but suspect papers, and the way in which the news is served and spiced. Of the books which are read, a good ninety per cent. are works of fiction. We are speaking of the books which are read, not bought. The books which are bought and not read are as the sands of the sea for multitude. And the point of the joke lies in the way in which the reading which is done is done. Who is there who regards reading as a serious exercise? Examine into that man's motives! Be sure that into that man's reading there enters nothing of the commercial spirit. The truth is that books are the companions of our idle hours. They are our playthings. There is nothing which is more certain, yet nothing which a certain school of writers will more virulently deny. We take up a poet-if we take him up at all-to while away a sullen hour, that we may enter with him into the world of dreams. We read а novel for the amusement it provides. Did any one ever know a man who was moved out of the path of life which he had set himself to tread by the perusal of a book? One hears of such people. Just as one hears of a man who knows of a man who knows a man who saw a ghost. Take what is called "serious" reading. It is notorious that the folks who find delight in that are very careful to make sure beforehand that the works they patronise contain nothing which is in any way likely to clash with their preconceived ideas. Can one conceive, for instance, Mr. Brown, of Ebenezer, reading, or allowing any of his family to read, the publications, say, of Messrs. Burns & Oates? Do Radicals find their delight in what their always trathful prophets call Tory "lies"? Or Churchmen in Dissenting "trash"? Think of the temperance tales which are read exclusively by teetotallers. Of the treatises on the evils of gambling which are skimmed by those who never touch a card. Of the theological novels which find their public among those who fondly and wildly imagine themselves to be students of Theology. We are continually being told that thousands of boys have been sent to sea by the mere perusal of "Robinson Crusoe." If the address of one such young gentleman be sent to us, we will enquire into his case by the minute methods adopted by the Charity Organisation Society. We venture, in advance, to hazard an opinion that he will be found to have had an inborn taste for the sea, and that he would just as certainly have become a sailor if "Robinson Crusoe" had never been written. So do not be hasty in condem nation; it is at least doubtful if a good deal of nonsense is not current as to the good which books do, and the evil. "Good books for the young," that is a stock phrase. "The influence of vicious literature upon the masses," that is another. Then there is that black bogey, "the penny dreadful." When I was young I am not ashamed to own it!-I read everything. I read every "penny dreadful" I could lay hands upon. I read "good books" that is "goody" books-and did not particularly like them. I never met a boy or girl who did. One did not mind the story part, what story there was, but the "goody" part one skipped. What is more, even at that tender age, I was conscious that the 66 goody" book presented quite as "vicious" a picture of life as the "penny dreadful"; one couldn't believe those "goody" books were true. I read novels-all sorts of novels-history, plays, sermons, poems, essays, controversial works; I was very fond of controversial works. I was of an enquiring turn of mind; I had a free hand; I read what I chose; and I do strenuously declare that nothing I read ever had an ill effect on me. The only thing which happened was that I gradually began to grow more critical. I began to prefer good works-good in a literary sense-to bad. I know, at the present day, a young lady who, I have reason to suppose, is of the discreet age of twelve. She appears to have a pretty liberal taste in books. A little time ago I caught her reading "The Murder in the Hansom Cab." The day after she was absorbed in one of Mr. Henty's books for boys. Then she gave Miss Yonge a turn. Then it was the "Vicomte de Bragelonne." Now, after a dozen other authors have intervened, it is "A Girl in the Karpathians." I protest that, so far as I am able to judge, and I know her tolerably well, this young lady is as pleasant, and sweet, and wholesome a specimen of English girlhood as you would care to meet. I know other youngsters-plenty of them. I know youngsters who read anything. I know others whose parents and relatives, guardians and friends, take care they don't. The chief difference to be noted between them is that the one set, as a rule, like reading, and the other set don't. No; what moulds the character of the young is a wide subject, and a deep one; but I am pretty sure it isn't books. I am quite sure that on children of an older growth books have no practical influence whatever. With some they are a hobby; with others they aren't; nothing more. Some like them; others do not; there's an end. When Quilpen tells me, with an air of ill-repressed importance, that he intends, soon, to write a book with a purpose-say to put down gambling, or to raise the rate of wages, or to reform the churches-he amuses me. His book on gambling will be taken up by a publisher who makes a spécialité of that kind of thing. If his book on the rate of wages, or on the reform of the churches, is well done, it will sell. Quilpen will have made an honest penny; he may even have gained kudos. I doubt if he will have done much more. at the cardinal sins; they ought to have been crushed beneath the mere weight of damnatory literature. If they have been, then, like truth, they have been crushed to rise again. No, Quilpen, write your book with a purpose; fill it with the well-worn truisms; have a shot at something; let it be well done. The book will sell. Folks will buy it. But, though it sell by the hundred and the thousand, by the million, if you suppose it will move the buyers out of the way in which they are inclined to tread one tittle or one jot, you are not a wise man, my Quilpen. There is only one book which has influenced the lives of English-speaking people. That is the Bible. If you look abroad, or, for the matter of that, at home, you will see what slight influence even that has had. If the Bible has done so little, who is Quilpen that he should do anything at all? I Think of it! Think of the great multitudes of books which have been written for a purpose, purpose, and by acknowledged masters! Think of Tom Hood's "Song of the Shirt!" We were told, by the sort of people who are always imparting to us similar information, that he had struck a Books are playthings. That is the blow at sweating. Had he? Was he conclusion of the whole matter. The himself not sweated to death? Have the companions of our idle hours-as pleasant sweaters gone? Has the evil not grown companions as a man can have. For my more instead of less? Charles Dickens- part I am content that they should be no man takes off his cap to Charles Dickens no more. I never chance upon a book with more humble reverence than the written for a purpose, but I want to present writer! was always tilting at hear the case for the other side. I never evils. The poor law system, the Circum- read of the evils of intemperance, but I locution Office, the Chancery delays, the am inclined to ask if there are no evils cesspool of politics. Is there any im- attendant on too much temperance. provement in these things? * With one wonder! There are some things I think great reform his writings are supposed to I know, though they are not many. I have had something to do-the abolish-like to come upon them in my favourite ment of imprisonment for debt. I was only reading the other day about the great part his writings had played in that reform. But imprisonment for debt isn't abolished. It's only a legal fiction. Go to the debtors' side of Holloway Gaol, and of the country prisons, and see. The impecunious debtor is housed under the same roof, he occupies the same cell, he is treated, to all intents and purposes, in the same way as the convicted thief. How Thackeray gibed at cant and humbug, the affectations of a meretricious society! Has the world grown easier for a poor man to live in since Thackeray died? Has there been any appearance of fruit from the seed he sowed? Consider the mighty mass of volumes which have been hurled * EDITORIAL NOTE.—The answer to this question is not altogether so certain as the writer seems to think. For my own part, I think there is "a good deal to be said on both sides' " of his ingenious argument.-C.D. books, shrewdly written, in pleasant words. When I come upon them, haphazard, in a book, or a paper, by a 'prentice hand, metaphorically, I hug that apprentice to my breast. But when I am told, as some folks tell us, that literature is the lever which moves the world-write me down as one who doubts it. A STRANGE ACQUAINTANCE. A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS. I HAVE no intention of boring any one with a detailed account of the progress of the acquaintance between my new friend Warden and myself. It progressed in an irregular and desultory fashion. Sometimes we did not see each other for a month at a time; sometimes he would drop in upon me two or three nights in the course of a week. Still, taking it all together, we certainly saw a good deal of each other; and, as I think I have said before, the peculiar atmosphere of something mysterious, not to say suspicious, which hung round him by no means repelled me, or caused me to shun his society. He still continued to present the same remarkable admixture of callous indifference and acute nervousness, which had struck me so strangely at the first, though the attacks of the latter became rarer as time went on. One day, having lunched together by appointment—it was some time during the month of August, when the hydrophobia scare was at its height-as we were loung. ing lazily along one of the less fashionable thoroughfares about noon, our ears were suddenly saluted by a cry of "Mad dog!" The effect was electrical on the passers-by, and a general panic and stampede ensued. Every adjacent doorway or place of refuge was rushed for; even the neighbouring lamp-posts were scaled by the more agile. I made a bolt myself for a chemist's shop, which struck me, under the circumstances, as being the most desirable place of refuge possible. I naturally expected that Warden would have followed me; but nothing of the kind. For, as I peered anxiously out between the phalanx of bottles in the window, I beheld him calmly contemplating the scene, in which two policemen, wearing thick gloves, and otherwise protected, were closely pursuing a wretched animal of the mongrel species, which, with bloodshot eyes and lolling tongue, had as yet eluded capture by running from side to side. It seemed to me as I watched him that the dog made straight for that sole spectator; he even appeared to make a snap at him as he passed. But that moment's delay sufficed to bring the cur within reach of his pursuers; a noose was thrown over his head, and, thus secured, the life was soon battered out of his poor, worthless body, which was then hauled away in triumph. "Of all the foolhardy tricks," I began, as I rejoined him. He shrugged his shoulders with an air of the most complete indifference, and made a remark about something else, as he brushed off some of the foam which had fallen on him from the animal's jaws. But I would not let the matter drop so easily. "Why, surely you must know," I exclaimed, with some little irritation, as I remembered my own ignominious retreat in the face of the enemy, "that death by hydrophobia is death in its most horrible form?" "No," he cried, wheeling round suddenly, so as to face me, "there is a far worse fate than that!" "And what may that be?" I asked, rather curious as to the answer. A sort of spasm seemed to cross his face, but he made no answer; and once more the thought struck me: What a strange, unaccountable being the man was! Nothing worth mentioning occurred for some months after this-in fact, not until one evening in the Christmas week when we had arranged to go to the theatre together. Warden called for me at my rooms, and from thence we adjourned to the Lyceum. Our seats had been secured for us, and were in the second or third row of stalls. By-the-bye, I must not forget to mention a remark which Warden made to me on our way to the theatre. I happened to observe that it was my birthday, and on that day I had attained the age of thirty-nine. Warden at first made no reply to this remark of mine, and I thought he had not heard it, when all at once he surprised me by saying: "To-day is also an anniversary with me." "Oh, really," I responded, with some interest, for it was very seldom indeed that he ever volunteered any information concerning himself, even of the most ordinary kind; and but for what I had myself picked up about him, I should have been totally ignorant of everything relating to his history or circumstances. He never spoke of his past, and all I knew of it was by report and my own surmises on the subject, which proved, however, to be very far indeed from the truth. I waited for him to continue, but he did not do so, and I wondered in my own mind as to the probability of the anniversary in question being that of his brother's death-that unfortunate fellow who was drowned. We were about half-way through the play, and the curtain had just fallen after one of the acts, when he touched me on the arm. I had been completely absorbed in the play, and for some time past had almost forgotten my companion's presence. "Do you see that man over there?" pointing to a box which appeared to me to be empty. He spoke in a strange, hoarse whisper, and I noticed that, though personally I had no reason to complain of the heat, the perspiration stood upon his |