Douglas, tender and true," referred to Mary Queen of Scots, as had been reported, she said no, it was just a little ballad that came into her head, and she had used the name Douglas because it seemed convenient. People often imagined things about her writings that she had never thought of.
As it was not yet time for the train, we once more returned to the house. Of a statuette of Carlyle on the table she said, "Yes, that is Carlyle; it is very good;" she did not know Ruskin, whose name some talk on art introduced, except from reading of him in the papers. In reference to a writer of the same name, she said she was a very bright and clever woman, but that as she (Mrs. Craik) always signed hers "By the Author of John Halifax," they need not be confounded. She had told this lady it was better to write to "the Saturday" and disclaim the authorship of her last book (probably "Mrs. Jardine," though she did not mention it by name), as they always cut her up. She spoke also with interest of another female novelist. Then, after some general remarks on both sides about Americans as travellers, we rose to leave. She accompanied us to the gate, shook hands, and bade us good-by. And so ended an afternoon with one of the purest, kindliest, and best-beloved of modern English novelists,—an afternoon which in the light of memory seems one of the pleasantest we spent during that two months' sojourn in England.
Looking afterwards at a marble bust of Queen Victoria, with its finely-set head, taken while something of youthful beauty and delicacy of features still lingered about her face, we were struck with its likeness to Mrs. Craik.
I have just finished reading "Our Monthly Gossip" in the September Lippincott's, and I have been much interested and amused. But none of the writers have solved the problem, though Robert Waters's call for a book made up of "Rejected Contributions" is good. Such a book might be a financial success. He says he would like to see what stuff these articles are made of. Now, if Mr. Waters is in earnest, and really wishes to read some "Rejected Contributions," I think I can accommodate him. If he will pay the postage both ways I will send him a bushel of "Rejected Contributions," and he may read and return them at his leisure. I can assure him that they are the real "Rejected,"—that they have been rejected by all the leading magazines in the United States. As to why we poor authors keep on writing, that is easily answered. We cannot help it. We feel restless and uneasy; great thoughts, or humorous thoughts, come to us, and stay with us—haunt us, as it were—until we write them down. But, says the objector, "Why do we send them to the magazines?" Because in every breast there is always a grain of hope that "this" or "that" story will be accepted.
A year or two ago I read in Harper's Bazar an account of the woman who writes under the nom de plume of "John Strange Winter." She, it seems, was an unsuccessful writer at first, and when she wrote the story called "Bootles's Baby" she sent it all around before she could find an editor that would buy it. One day she was walking in the street with a companion, when she saw a horse cast a shoe. She picked it up, saying, "It is a sign of good luck," and carried it home, when she found a note from a leading editor telling her that "Bootles's Baby" was accepted. From that day on she has been rich and prosperous. Now, my dear four thousand eight hundred friends, here is what we must do in order that our stories may be accepted and our pockets filled with dollars. We must find a horseshoe. Mahala B. Chaddock.
