He was succeeded by William Marsden. Demoulas due to her displeasure with her brother-in-law, Arthur S. Demoulas, after he attempted to gain control of the trust that controlled her daughter's shares. This gave Arthur T. Market Basket also faced new competition from discount grocer Wegmans ,  which opened its first Massachusetts store in On the employee front, Arthur T. Demoulas's opponents criticized him for being "openly defiant" of the board of directors and having a "dictatorial" management style.
Demoulas accused Arthur T. Demoulas of "plundering" millions by paying millions in excessive real estate prices for new Market Basket store locations. One example cited in the memo alleged that Arthur T. After the sale, Arthur S. He also accused Arthur T. He and his attorneys argued that the 7.
Arthur T. He argued that Arthur S. Attorneys for Arthur T. In , the Board of Directors hired Mel L. Greenberg, a retired judge, to investigate Arthur S. Greenberg found that there was no wrongdoing by Arthur T. However, he did find that Arthur T. Decades of resentment and legal spats between cousins Arthur S. Demoulas came to a head in mid, when Evans switched loyalties, tipping the majority vote from Arthur T.
Arthur S. Beginning on July 18, , additional protests with as many as 5, employees and customers were held at the company's Tewksbury headquarters and other locations demanding the reinstatement of Arthur T.
The board was reportedly also reviewing additional offers. Demoulas was the only remaining bidder for the All previous offers by outside parties to buy the company had been withdrawn and the board was reportedly "furiously negotiating" with Arthur T. The board denied this report, claiming that several offers were still being considered. On August 27, , the shareholders of Market Basket reached a deal to sell the remaining On December 12, , it was announced that the deal was complete. In their ratings, Consumer Reports ranked Market Basket at 2 among national supermarkets, second only to Wegmans.
As of November , Market Basket currently operates 79 stores within three states - 49 locations in its home state of Massachusetts, 29 stores in New Hampshire, and a single store in Maine. The chain's footprint has expanded greatly in the past 15 years, and now encompasses an area stretching along the New England coastline from Cape Cod to southern Maine, to as far west as just shy of the Vermont and Rhode Island state lines.
The first Maine location opened in Biddeford in August  , while a second Maine store is planned in Westbrook for opening sometime in New projects were stalled from to due to disputes between company president Arthur T. Demoulas and his sisters, and chairman Arthur S. After Arthur T. Demoulas and his sisters gained control of the company in August , he announced that he hoped to open two or three of these stores by the end of the year. Employees who work more than 1, hours a year are eligible to enter profit-sharing program.
Employees also receive benefits, including healthcare and paid sick leave. Market Basket does not use supermarket loyalty cards. Company President Arthur T. Demoulas stated that he wanted "a human being waiting on a human being". Until , Market Basket did not have an official company website or any online presence.
An independent website started by a customer filled the void and contained weekly specials and store locations and hours. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Supermarket chain in New England, United States. Tewksbury, Massachusetts. Main article: Market Basket protests. The Boston Globe. Retrieved August 28, Retrieved August 27, Retrieved August 12, The New York Times. Fall The Georgetown Journal of Legal Ethics.
October 16, Joins Demoulas Family Fight". June 1, Demoulas's personal touch can cut both ways". February 7, Lowell Sun. BBC News. Retrieved August 25, Boston Globe. Archived from the original on August 26, Supermarket News. Archived from the original on July 28, Retrieved June 24, Retrieved June 25, Retrieved July 28, July 19, Then, you see, I have my whip. His conversation was delightful, and he often honoured me with his company at supper, when the toils and perils of the day were o'er.
Upon the whole, though I have since known many other eminent persons, he has left a more marked impression on me than any of them, and it is no wonder that in those youthful days he influenced my imagination. Mopes ' would no more have seen himself in the portrait I drew of him than would the animals under his charge, if their attention had been drawn to them, have recognised their counterfeit presentments outside the show. I also became acquainted with the Earthman and Earthwoman, the slaughterman of the establishment, Mr.
Tredgold its proprietors , and other individuals seldom met with in ordinary society. The adventures of ' Richard Arbour ' were, therefore, cut out for me in a most convenient and unexpected fashion, but I had the intelligence to perceive that though the interest they might excite would be dramatic enough, they would be in danger of dealing too much with the animal world to interest adult readers ; nor would the narrative have made an attractive book for boys, since I felt it would be too full of fun for my spirits were very high in those days to suit juvenile tastes.
I knew little of the world, but had seen much of boys though I had never belonged to the species , and was well aware that, except as regards practical jokes, the boy is not gifted with humour. I accordingly looked about me for some dramatic material of a wholly different kind, and eventually found it in the person of Count Gotsuchakoff. It was a mistake to call such a sombre and serious indi- vidual by so ludicrous a name, but it was a characteristic one. My disposition was at that time lively not to say frivolous , JAMES PAYN 21 and the atmosphere I usually lived in was one of mirth, but, as often happens, it had another side to it, which was melan- choly almost to melodrama.
In after years I found this to be the case in an infinitely greater story-teller, who, while he delighted all the world with humour and pathos, in reality nourished a taste for the weird and terrible, which, though its ghastly face but very rarely showed itself in his writings, was the favourite topic of his familiar and confidential talk.
Tickeracandua himself was not dearer to me than the Count, who was almost entirely the offspring of my own in- vention ; and though I have since seen in Nihilist novels a good many gentle- men of the same type, I venture to think that, slightly as he is sketched, he will bear comparison with the best of them.
The conception of his long years of enforced silence, and even of the terrible moment in which he forgot that he was dumb, owed its origin, if I remember right, to a child's game that was popular in our nursery. It consisted in resisting the temptation to laugh, and the resolu- tion to reply in tones of gravity when such questions as ' Have you heard the Emperor of Morocco is dead? The adaptation of it, in the substitution of speech for laughter, suddenly suggested itself, like any other happy thought. Instead of writing straight ahead, as the fancy prompted, which, in my less ambitious attempts at Fiction like all young writers I had hitherto done, I had all these materials pretty well arranged in my mind before sitting down to write my first book.
The question with its author, however, was how, when it was finished, he was to get it published. I took it to my friend, Robert Chambers, and asked for his opinion about it. Moreover, I mistrusted my ability to do justice to it, remembering what the poet has said about reading one's own productions : The chariot wheels jar in the gates through which we drive them forth.
However, I started with it, and notwithstanding that we were subjected to 'jars' one by the servant, who came to put coals on the fire, just at a crisis, and made me at heart a murderer , the specimen was pronounced satisfactory. I might have taken them, indeed, as a good omen ; for though I have since written more novels than I can count, I have never failed to secure serial publication for every one of them.
I do not had any effect upon its circu- lation, but it was well spoken of, and there was at least one person in the world who thought it a masterpiece. The difficulty, which no one but a young and unknown writer can estimate, was to get a publisher to share in this belief. For many years afterwards I published my books anonymously i. For persons who have enjoyed this experience, mere literary criticism has hence- forth no terrors.
Under these circumstances, I have MR.
Australian Book Review, June-July , issue no. by Australian Book Review - Issuu
There were many reasons for it, no doubt, though the story has since done well enough, but I think the chief of them was the alteration of the title to ' Richard Arbour,' which, contrary to the wishes both of myself and my JAMES FAYN 25 publisher, was insisted upon by a leading librarian.
A mere name is not an attractive title for a book ; though many books so called such as ' Martin Chuzzlevvit ' and ' Robinson Crusoe ' have become immensely popular, they owed nothing to their baptism; and certainly 'Richard Arbour' prospered better when he got rid of his rather commonplace name. A rather curious incident took place with respect to this book, which annoyed me greatly at the time, because I was quite unacquainted with the queer crotchets and imaginary grievances that would-be literary persons often take into their heads.
Somebody wrote to complain that he had written not published a story upon the same lines, and even incidents, as ' The Family Scapegrace,' just before its ap- pearance in the columns of Chambers s Journal, and the delicate inference he drew was that, whether in my capacity of editor or otherwise, I must have somehow got hold of it. He gave the exact date of the conclusion of his own com- position, which was prior to the commencement of my story in the Journal.
Conscious of innocence, but troubled by so disagreeable an imputation, I laid the matter before Robert Chambers. I am one of those methodical individuals who keep a diary. It was a small matter, but proved a useful lesson to me, for there is a great deal of imposture of this kind going on in the literary world ; sometimes," as perhaps in this case, the result of mere egotistic fancy, but also sometimes begotten by the desire to levy blackmail.
The above, so far as I can remember them, are the cir- cumstances under which I published my first novel. I am JAMES PAYN 27 sorry to add that poor Tickeracandua, to whom it owed so much, subsequently met the very fate in reality which I had assigned to him in fiction ; though as good a fellow as many I have met out of a show, he came to the same end as ' Don't Care' did in the nursery story, and was 'eaten or at all events killed by lions.
I was reluctant and timid in dealing with ocean topics when the scheme of that tale came into my head ; I contented myself with pulling off my shoes and socks and walking about ankle deep into the ripples. It is the first sea book I ever wrote, in the sense, I mean, that its successors are sea books : what I have to say, therefore, agreeably to the plan of these personal contributions, will refer to it.
And first, I must write a few words about my own experience as a sailor. I went to sea in the year , when I was a child of thirteen years and a few months old. My first ship was a well-known Australian liner, the ' Dun- can Dunbar,' commanded by an old salt, named Xeatby, who will always be memorable to me for his habit of wear- ing the tall chimney-pot hat of the London streets in all weathers and parallels, whether in the roasting calms of the Equator, or in the snow-darkened hurricanes of the Horn.
I went to sea as a ' midshipman,' as it is termed, though I never could persuade myself that a lad in the Merchant Service, no matter how heavy might be the premium his friends paid for him, has a right to a title of grade or rating that belongs essentially and peculiarly to the Royal Navy. I signed for a shilling a month, and with the rest of us there were ten was called ' young gentleman ' ; but we were put to work which an able seaman would have been within his rights in refusing, as being what is called ' boys' ' duty.
I need not be particular. Enough that the discipline was as rough as though we had been lads in the forecastle, with a huge boat- swain and brutal boatswain's mates to look after us. CLARK RUSSELL stock of eatables for the midshipmen's berth ; but my memory carries no more than a few tins of preserved potatoes, a great number of bottles of pickles, and a cask of exceedingly moist sugar.
Therefore, we were thrown upon the ship's provisions, and I very soon became intimately acquainted with the quality and nature of the stores served out to forecastle hands. I made, but not after the manner of Gulliver, several voyages into remote nations of the world, and in the eight years I was at sea I picked up enough knowledge to qualify me to give the public a few new ideas about the ocean life.
Yet when the scribbling mania possessed me it was long before I could summon courage to write about the sea and sailors. I asked my- self, Who is interested in the Merchant Service? What public shall I find to listen to me? Those who read novels want stories about love and elopements, abductions, NEATBY and the several violations of the sanctities of domestic life. The great mass of readers those who support the circulating libraries are ladies.
Will it be possible to interest ladies in forecastle life and in the prosaics of the cabin? Then, again, I was frightened by the Writer for Boys.
Author of GOLDEN STATE
He was very much at sea. This writer, of a clan numerous as Wordsworth's ' little lot of stars,' warned me off and affrighted me. His paper ship had so long and successfully filled the public eye that I shrank from launch- ing anything real, anything with strakes and treenails, anything with running rigging so leading that a sailor would exactly know what to let go when the order was given. In plain English, I judged that the sea story had been irremediably de- pressed, and rendered wholly ridiculous by the strenuous periodic and Christmas la- bours of the Writer for Boys.
Had he not sunk even Marryat and Michael Scott, who, because they wrote about the sea, were compelled in due course by the publishers to address themselves exclusively to boys! And, still, I would sometimes think that if I would but take heart and go afloat in imagination, under the old red flag, I should find within the circle of the horizon such materials for a book as might recommend it, at all events on the score of freshness.
I could not recollect a book, written by an Englishman, relating, as a work of fic- tion, to shipboard life on the high seas under the flag of the Merchant Service. I excluded the Writer for Boys. I could recall no author who, himself a practical seaman, one who had slept with sailors, eaten with them, gone aloft with them, and suffered with them, had produced a book, a novel call it what you will wholly based on what I may term the inner life of the forecastle and the cabin.
I then lived in a town which overlooks those waters. The crew of the ship had mutinied : they had carried the vessel halfway down Channel, when, discovering by that time what sort of provisions had been shipped for them, they forced the master to shift his helm for the inwards course. The crew of thirteen or fourteen hairy, queerly attired fellows, in Scotch caps, divers-coloured shirts, dungaree breeches stuffed into half Wellingtons, were brought before the magis- trates. I was present, and listened to the men's evidence, and I also heard the captain's story. Samples of the food were produced.
A person with whom I had some acquaintance found me an opportunity to examine and taste samples of the forecastle provisions of the ship whose crew had mutinied. Nothing more atrociously nasty could be found amongst the neglected putrid sweepings of a butcher's back premises. Nothing viler in the shape of food ever set a famished mongrel hiccoughing. Some time earlier than this there had been legislation helpful to the seaman through the humane and impassioned struggles of Mr. Samuel Plimsoll. The crazy, rotten old coaster had been knocked into staves. The avaricious owner had been compelled to load with some regard to the safety of sailors.
Mutinies were incessantly happening in consequence of the loathsome food shipped for sailors' use, and many disasters attended these outbreaks. When I came away from the magistrates' court, after hearing the men sentenced, I found my mind full of that crew's grievance. I reflected upon what Mr. Plimsoll had done, and how much of the hidden parts of the sea life remained to be exposed to the public eye, to the advantage of the sailor, providing the subject should be dealt with by one who had 36 MY FIRST BOOK himself suffered, and very well understood what he sat down to write about.
This put into my head the idea of the tale which I afterwards called ' The Wreck of the " Grosvenor. No writer has as yet touched this ugly feature of the life. Dana is silent. Herman Melville merely drops a joke or two as he rolls out of the caboose with a cube of salt horse in his hand. It has never been made a serious canvas of. And yet deeper tragedies lie in the stinking harness-cask than in the started butt. There are wilder and bloodier possibilities in a barrel of rotten pork, and in a cask of worm-riddled ship's bread, than in a whole passage of shifting cargoes, and in a long round voyage of deadweight that sinks to the wash- streak.
But if I was to find a public I must make my book a romance. I must import the machinery of the petticoat. The pannikin of rum I proposed to offer must be palatable enough to tempt the lips of the ladies to sip it. My pub- lisher would want a market, and if Messrs. Mudie and Smith would have none of me I should write in vain ; for assuredly I was not going to find a public among sailors.
Sailors don't read : a good many of them can't read. Those who can have little leisure, and they do not care to fill up their spare hours with yarns of a calling which eighty out of every hundred of them loathe. So I schemed out a nautical romance and went to work, and in two months and a week I finished the story of ' The Wreck of the " Grosvenor. I think he had been looking into John Houlds worth : Chief Mate,' which some months before this time had been received with much kindness by the reviewers. I sent him the manuscript of ' The Wreck of the " Grosvenor.
Now to send the manuscript of a sea book to a woman! To submit a narrative abounding in marine terms, thunder-charged with the bully-in-our-alley passions of the forecastle, throbbing with suppressed oaths, clamorous with rolling oceans, the like of which no female would ever dream of leaving her bunk to be- hold to submit all this, and how much more, to a lady for an opinion on its merits! Of course, the poor woman barely under- stood a third of what she looked at, and as, obviously, she couldn't quite collect the meaning of the remainder, she pronounced against the whole.
I never regret this. I do not believe that this sea book would ever have cut a figure in my old and esteemed friend's list. Publishers are well known by the public for the sorts of intellectual wares they severally deal in. If I desired a charming story about flirtation, divorce, inconvenient husbands, the state of the soul when it has flown out of the body, the passions of the female heart whilst it still beats hot in the breast, I should turn to my friend's list, well assured of handsome satisfaction.
But I don't think I could read a sea book published by him. I should suspect the marine qualities of a Jack who had run foul of, and got smothered up in, a whole wardrobe of female MRS. The firm offered me fifty pounds for it ; I took the money and signed the agreement, in which I disposed of all rights. Do I murmur over the recollection of this fifty pounds which, with another ten pounds kindly sent to me by Mr.
Marston as the whole of, or a part of, a cheque received from Messrs. Certainly not. The transaction was absolutely fair, and what leaning there was was in my favour. The book was an experiment ; it was published anonymously ; it might have fallen dead. Happily for publisher and author, the book made its way.
I believe it was immediately suc- cessful in America, and that its reception there somewhat in- fluenced inquiry here. American critics who try to vex me say that my books never would have been read in this country but for what was said of them in the States, and for the publicity provided for them there by the twenty-cent editions. How far this is true I don't know ; but certainly the Yankees are handsomer and prompter in their recognition of what pleases them than we are on our side. What they like they raise a great cry over, and the note of so mighty a concourse, I don't doubt, fetches an echo out of distances below the horizon.
I believe it speedily went into a second edition. But before we talk of an edition seriously we must first learn the number of copies which make it. Since this was written, my friend, Mr. One of the most cordial welcomes the story received was from Vanity Fair. I supposed that the review was written by the editor, Mr.
She was a transport, and was in the China war, Her burden was about 1, tons. This picture represents her as a sheer hulk employed in the construction of the Forth Bridge. I saw her towing down Channel in this state in she drew abreast of my house at Deal and I could have wept to witness my old floating home in so miserable a condition. James Runciman was the author.
The critics on the whole were generous. They thought the book fresh. They judged that it was an original piece of work wrought largely out of the personal experiences of the writer. Western Railway in company with sailors, but had never met such seamen as the forecastle hands I depicted. The book is considered my best this, perhaps, because it was my first, and its reputation lies in the memory and impression of its freshness. It is far from being my best. Were it my property I would re- write it. I had quitted the sea some years when I wrote the story, and here and there my memory played me false ; that is to say, in the direction of certain minute techni- calities and in accounts of the internal discipline of the ship.
CLARK RUSSELL 41 Yet, on the whole, the blunders are few considering how very complicated a fabric a vessel is, and how ceaselessly one needs to go on living the life of the sea to hold all parts of it clear to the sight of the mind. Professionally, the influence of the book has been small. I have heard that it made one ship- owner sorry and rather virtuous, and that for some time his harness-casks went their voyages fairly sweet. He is, how- ever, but a solitary figure, the lonesome Crusoe of my little principality of fancy. As a piece of literature, ' The Wreck of the " Grosvenor " ' has been occasionally imitated.
Plimsoll, I understand, has lately been dealing with the subject of sailors' food. I heartily wish success to his efforts. Philosophy and science were the first loves of my youth. I dropped into romance as many men drop into drink, or opium- eating, or other bad practices, not of native perversity, but by pure force of circumstances. And this is how fate or an enterprising publisher turned me from an innocent and impecunious naturalist into a devotee of the muse of shilling shockers.
When I left Oxford in , with a decent degree and nothing much else in particular to brag about, I took perforce to that refuge of the destitute, the trade of schoolmaster. I had always been psychological, and in the space and leisure of the lazy Tropics I began to excogitate by slow degrees various expansive works on the science of mind, the greater number of which still remain unwritten. Nothing daunted by failure, however, I wrote on and on, and made up my mind, in my interval of forced idleness, to print a book of my own at all hazards. When it was finished and carefully revised, I offered it to Messrs.
Henry S. Kegan Paul, their reader, reported doubtfully of the work. But I happened to possess a little money just at that moment, granted me as compensation for the abolition of my office in Jamaica. King reported that the cost of production that mysterious entity so obnoxious to the soul of the Society of Authors would amount to about a hundred guineas. A hundred guineas was a lot of money then ; but, being young, I risked it. It was better than if I had taken it to Monte Carlo, anyway. So I wrote to Mr. Paul with heedless haste to publish away right off, and he published away right off accord- ingly.
I paid it without a mur- mur ; I got my money's worth. The book appeared in a stately green cover, with my name in front, and looked very philo- sophical, and learned, and psy- chological. Poor ' Physiological Esthetics ' had a very hard fate.
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When I come to look back upon the circumstances calmly and dispassionately now, I'm not entirely surprised at its unhappy end. It was a good book in its way, to be sure, though it's me that says it as oughtn't to say it, and it pleased the few who cared to read it ; but it wasn't the sort of literature the public wanted. Darwin, and Herbert Spencer, and the Editor of Mind, and people of that sort, tried my work and liked it ; in point of fact, my poor little venture gained me at once, an unknown man, the friendship of not a few whose friendship was worth having.
But financially, ' Physiological Esthetics ' was a dead failure ; it wasn't the sort of work to sell briskly at the bookstalls. Smith would have none of it. The reviews, indeed, were, almost without exception, favourable ; the volume went off well for a treatise of its kind that is to say, we got rid of nearly copies ; but even so, it left a deficit of some forty or fifty pounds to the bad against me.
Finally, the remaining stock fell a victim to the flames in Mr. Kegan Paul's historical fire, when many another stout volume perished : and that was the end of my magnum opus. Peace to its ashes! In all these matters, however, I speak from memory alone, and it is possible I may be slightly wrong in my figures. Not only did it bring me into immediate contact with several among the leaders of thought in London, but it also made my name known in a very modest way, and induced editors those arbiters of literary fate to give a second glance at my unfortunate manuscripts.
Almost im- mediately after its appearance, Leslie Stephen I omit the Mr. That was the very first money I earned in literature. I had been out of work for months, the abolition of my post in Jamaica having thrown me on my beam -ends, and I was overjoyed at so much wealth poured suddenly in upon me. Meanwhile, I was hard at work in my leisure moments for I have sometimes some moments which I regard as leisure on another ambitious scientific work, which I called ' The Colour-Sense.
Compared with my first un- happy venture, ' The Colour-Sense ' might be counted a dis- tinct success. As it only took me eighteen months to write, and involved little more than five or six thousand references, this result may be regarded as very fair pay for an educated man's time and labour. I have sometimes been reproached by thoughtless critics for deserting the noble pursuit of science in favour of fiction and filthy lucre. If those critics think twenty pounds a year a sufficient income for a scientific writer to support himself and a growing family upon well, they are perfectly at liberty to devote their own pens to the instruction of their kind without the slightest remonstrance or interference on my part.
I won't detail in full the history of my various inter- mediate books, most of which were published first as news- paper articles, and afterwards collected and put forth on a small royalty. Time is short, and art is long, so I'll get on at once to my first novel. I drifted into fiction by the sheerest accident. My friend, Mr. Chatto, most generous of men, was one of my earliest and staunchest literary sup- porters. Some people will have it there is no such thing as ' generosity ' in publishers.
I beg leave to differ from them. I know the commercial value of literary work as well as any man, and I venture to say that both from Mr. Chatto and from Mr. Arrowsmith, of Bristol, I have met, time and again, with what I cannot help describing as most generous treatment. One day it happened that I wanted to write a scientific article on the impossibility of knowing one had seen a ghost, even if one saw one. For convenience sake, and to make the moral clearer, I threw the argument into narrative form, but without the slightest intention of writing a story.
It was published in Belgravia under the title of ' Our Scientific Observations on a Ghost,' and was reprinted later in my little volume of ' Strange Stories. Chatto wrote to ask me whether I could supply him with another story, like the last I had written, for the Belgravia Annual.
I was rather taken aback at this singular request, as I hadn't the slightest idea I could do anything at all in the way of fiction. Still, like a good journalist, I never refuse an order of any sort ; so I sat down at once and wrote a tale about a mummy on the ghastliest and most approved Christmas number pattern. Strange to say, Mr. Chatto again printed it, and, what was still more remarkable, asked for more of the same description. From that time forth, I went on producing short stories for Belgravia ; but I hardly took them seriously, being immersed at the time in biological study.
I looked upon my own pretensions in the way of fiction as an amiable fad of my kind friend Chatto ; and not to prejudice any little scientific reputation I might happen to have earned, I published them all under the carefully veiled pseudonym of ' J. Arbuthnot Wilson. I had sent to Belgravia a little tale about a Chinaman, entitled ' Mr.
Chung,' and written perhaps rather more seriously and carefully than my previous efforts. This happened to attract the attention of Mr. I had been a constant contributor to the Cornhill under Leslie Stephen's man- agement, and by a singular coincidence I received almost at the same time two letters from Mr.
Arbuthnot Wilson, and asking for a short story somewhat in the style of my 'admirable Mr. One was ' The Reverend John Greedy ' a tale of a black parson who reverted to savagery which has perhaps attracted more attention than any other of my short stories. The other, which I myself immensely prefer, was ' The Curate of Churnside. If I recollect aright, the first suggestion to collect and reprint them all in a single volume came from Mr.
They were published as ' Strange Stories,' under my own name, and I thus, for the first time, acknowledged my desertion of my earliest loves science and philosophy for the less profound but more lucrative pursuit of literature. Its reception gave me confidence for future ventures. Acting upon James Payn's advice, I set to work seriously upon a three-volume novel. My first idea was to call it ' Born out of Due Time,' as it narrated the struggles of a Socialist thinker a century in front of his generation ; but, at Mr.
Chatto's suggestion, the title was afterwards changed to ' Philistia. Payn promised to take it into his most favourable consideration for that purpose. He said it would rather repel than attract readers. I was disappointed at the time. I see. Chatto, however, was prepared to accept the undoubted risk of publishing ' Philistia. But the British matron, it seems, likes her novels to ' end well ' ; so I married him off instead, and made him live happily ever afterward.
Chatto gave me a lump sum down for serial rights and copyright, and ran ' Philistia ' through the pages. When it finally appeared in book form, it obtained on the whole more praise than blame, and, as it paid a great deal better than scientific journalism, it decided me that my role in life henceforth must be that of a novelist. And a novelist I now am, good, bad, or indifferent. If anybody gathers, however, from this simple narrative, that my upward path from obscurity to a very modest modicum of popularity and success was a smooth and easy one, he is immensely mistaken.
I had a ten years' hard struggle for bread, into the details of which I don't care to enter. It left me broken in health and spirit, with all the vitality and vivacity crushed out of me. I suppose the object of this series of papers is to warn off ingenuous and aspiring youth from the hardest worked and worst paid of the profes- sions.
If so, I would say earnestly to the ingenuous and aspiring ' Brain for brain, in no market can you sell your abilities to such poor advantage. Don't take to literature if you've capital enough in hand to buy a good broom, and energy enough to annex a vacant crossing. Besant with any pitiful story of rejection at the hands of publishers. If refusal is quite the best thing that can happen to the candidate for literary honours, my fate has not been favourable. No tale of mine has yet passed from publishing house to publishing house. Except the first of the series, my stories have been accepted before they have been read.
In two or three instances they have been bought before they have been written. It has occurred to me, as to others, to have two or three publishers offering terms for the same book. I have even been offered half payment in hand on account of a book which I could not hope to write for years, and might never write at all. Thus the most helpful confession which the more or less suc- cessful man of letters can make for the comfort and cheer of his younger and less fortunate brethren, it is out of my power to offer. But I reflect that this is true of my literary experiences in the character of a novelist only.
I had an earlier and semi-subterranean career that was very different. At eighteen I wrote a poem of a mystical sort, which was printed not at my own risk and published under a pseudonym. Happily, no man will ever identify me behind the romantic name wherein I hid my own. Only one literary man knew my secret. That was George Gilfillan, and he is dead. These were really my first books, and I grow quite hot when I think of them.
At five-and-twenty I came up to London with the manuscript ot a critical work, which I had written while at Liverpool. Somebody had recommended that I should submit it to a certain great publishing house, and I took it in person. At the door of the office I was told to write my own name, and the name of the person whom I wished to see, and to state the nature of my business I did so, and the boy who took my message brought back word that I might leave my manu- script for consideration.
It seemed to me that somebody might have seen me for a minute, but I had expected too much. The manuscript was carefully tied up in brown paper, and so I left it. After waiting three torturing weeks for the decision of the publishers, I made bold to call again. At the same little box at the door of the office I had once more to fill up the same little document. The boy took it in, and I was left to sit on his table, to look at the desk which he had been whittling away with his penknife, to wait and to tremble. After a time I heard a footstep returning.
I thought it might be the pub- lisher or the editor of the house. It was the boy back again. He had a pile of loose sheets of white paper in his hands. They were the sheets of my book. Not quite that, either, for I remember that, as I got to the fresh air at the door, my gorge rose within me, and I cried in my heart, ' By God! I dare say it was all right and proper and in good order. The book was afterwards published, and I think it sold well.
Southern Fried Trouble
It was all a part of the anarchy of things which Mr. Hardy considers the rule of life. But the sequel is worth telling. That editor became my personal friend. He is dead, and he was a good and able man. Of course he remembered nothing of this incident, and I never poisoned one hour of our inter- course by telling him how, when i was young and a word of cheer would have buoyed me up, he made me drink the waters of Marah. And three times since that day the publishing house I speak of has come to me with the request that I should write a book for them.
I have never been able to do so, but I have outgrown my bitterness, and, of course, I show no malice. Indeed, I have now the best reasons for wishing the great enterprise well. But if literary confessions are worth any- thing, this one may perhaps be a seed that will somewhere find grateful soil. Keep a good heart, even if you have to knock in vain at many doors, and kick about the backstairs of the house of letters. There is room enough inside. I wrote and edited-? MY MS. The novel is called ' The Shadow of a Crime,' but title it had none until it was finished, and a friend christened it.
I cannot remember when the story was begun, because I cannot recall a time when the idea of it did not exist in my mind. I think it must be in the nature of imagina- tion that an imaginative idea does not spring into being, that it has no spontaneous generation, but, as a germi- nating conception, a shadow of a vision, always comes floating from somewhere out of the back chambers of memory.
You are waiting for the central thought that shall link together incidents that you have gleaned from among the stubble of many fields, for the motif that shall put life and meaning into the characters that you have gathered and grouped, and one morning, as you awake, just at that moment when you arg between the land of light and the mists of sleep, and as your mind is grappling back for the vanishing form of some delicious dream, a dim 58 MY FIRST BOOK but familiar ghost of an idea comes up unbidden for the hun- dredth time, and you say to yourself, with surprise at your own stupidity, ' That's it!
As usually happens, it came in the shape of a story. One of the oldest legends of the Lake mountains tells of the time of the plague. The people were afraid to go to market, afraid to meet at church, and afraid to pass on the highway. When any lonely body was ill, the nearest neighbour left meat and drink at the door of the afflicted house, and knocked and ran away.
The younger son died, and the body had to be carried over the mountains to be buried. Its course lay across Sty Head Pass, a bleak and ' brant ' place, where the winds are often high. The eldest son, a strong-hearted lad, undertook the duty. He strapped the coffin on to the back of a young horse, and they started away.
The day was wild, and on the top of the pass, where the path dips into Wastdale, between the breast of Great Gable and the heights of Scawfell, the wind rose to a gale. The horse was terrified. The lad followed and searched for it, but in vain, and he had to go home at last, unsatisfied. This was in the spring, and nearly all the summer through the surviving son of the widow was out on the mountains, trying to recover the runaway horse, but never once did he catch sight of it, though sometimes, as he turned homeward at night, he thought he heard, in the gathering darkness, above the sough of the wind, the horse's neigh.
Once more the dead body had to be carried over the fells for burial, and once again the coffin was strapped on the back of a horse.
It was an old mare that was chosen this time, the mother of the young one that had been lost. All went well with the little funeral party until they came to the top of the pass, and though the day was dead calm the son held the rein with a hand that was like a vice. The dale echoed and re- echoed from side to side, and from height to height. The old mare was affrighted ; she reared, leapt, flung her master away, and galloped off. It was a horse with something strapped on its back. When they came up with it they found it was the young horse, with the coffin of the younger son.
They led it away and buried the body that it had carried so long, but the old mare they never recovered, and the body of the mother never found sepulchre. Such was the legend, sufficiently terrible, and even ghastly, which was the germ of my first novel. Its fascination for me lay in its shadow and suggestion of the supernatural. What did he think? What did he feel? What were his superstitions? What be- came of him? Did he die mad, or was he a MAN, and did he rise out of all doubt and terror?
I cannot say how many years this ghost of a conception with various brothers and sisters of a similar complexion haunted my mind before I recognised it as the central incident of a story, the faggot for a fire from which other incidents might radiate and imaginary characters take life. When I began to think of it in this practical way I was about six-and-twenty, and was lodging in a lonely farmhouse in the Vale of St.
The story of that sojourn among the mountains I have told elsewhere. It lives in my memory as a very sweet and sad experience. The poet was a dying man. He spent a few hours of every day in painful efforts to paint a picture. His nights were long, for sleep never came to him until the small hours of the THIRLMERE morning ; his sight was troublesome, and he could not read with ease ; he was in that condition of ill-health when he could not bear to be alone, and thus he and I were much together.
I was just then looking vaguely to the career of a public lecturer, and was delivering a long course of lectures at Liverpool. Seeing this, Rossetti suggested that I should read aloud, and I did so. Many an evening we passed in this way. On the farther side of the vale there were black crags where ravens lived, and in the unseen bed of the dale between lay the dark waters of Thirlmere.
The surroundings were striking to the eye and ear in the daylight, but when night came, and the lamp HALL CAINE was lit, and the curtains were drawn, and darkness covered everything outside, they were yet more impressive to the imagi- nation. I remember those evenings with gratitude and some pain. The little oblong room, the dull thud of the ghyll like faint thunder overhead, the crackle of the wood fire, myself reading aloud, and Rossetti in a long sack painting coat, his hands thrust into its upright pockets, walking with his heavy and uncertain step to and fro, to and fro, laughing sometimes his big deep laugh, and sometimes sitting down to wipe his moist spectacles and clear his dim eyes.
The autumn was far spent, and the nights were long. Perhaps it was not all pleasure, so far as I was con- cerned, but certainly it was all profit. The novels we read were ' Tom Jones,' in four volumes, and ' Clarissa,' in its original eight, one or two of Smollett's, and some of Scott's. Rossetti had not, I think, been a great reader of fiction, but his critical judg- ment was in some respects the surest and soundest I have known.
He was one of the only two men I have ever met with who have given me in personal intercourse a sense of the presence of a gift that is above and apart from talent in a word, of genius. Nothing escaped him. His alert mind seized upon everything. It amazes me now, after ten years' close study of the methods of story-telling, to recall the general principles which he seemed to formulate out of the back of his head for the defence of his swift verdicts. He was always right. He grasped with masterly strength the operation of the two fundamental factors in the novelist's art the sympathy and the ' tragic mischief.
It was an education in literary art to sharpen one's wits on such a grindstone, to clarify one's thought in such a stream, to strengthen one's imagination by contact with a mind that was ' of imagination all compact. But I began to think of it then as a remote possibility, and the immediate surroundings of our daily life brought back recollection of the old Cumberland legend. I told the story to Rossetti, and he was impressed by it, but he strongly advised me not to tackle it.
The incident did not repel him by its ghastliness, but he saw no way of getting sympathy into it on any side. His judgment disheartened me, and I let the idea go back to the dark chambers of memory. He urged me to try my hand at a Manx story. I had been reviving my recol- lection and sharpening my practice of the Cumbrian dialect HALL CAINE 67 which had been familiar to my ear, and even to my tongue, in childhood, and so my Manx ambitions had to wait.
Two years passed, the poet died, I had spent eighteen months in daily journalism in London, and was then settled in a little bungalow of three rooms in a garden near the beach at Sandown in the Isle of Wight. And there, at length, I began to write my first novel. I had grown im- patient of critical work, had persuaded myself no doubt wrongly that nobody would go on writing about other people's writing who could do original writing himself, and was resolved to live on little and earn nothing, and never go back to London until I had written something of some sort.
As nearly as I can remember, I had enough to keep things going for four months, and if, at the end of that time, nothing had got itself done, I must go back bankrupt. Something did get done, but at a heavy price of labour and heart-burning. When I began to think of a theme, I found four or five subjects clamouring for acceptance. There was the story of the Prodigal Son, which afterwards became ' The Deemster ' ; the story of Jacob and Esau, which in the same way turned into ' The Bondman ' ; the story of Samuel and Eli, which, after a fashion, moulded itself ultimately into ' The Scapegoat ' ; and half-a-dozen other stories, chiefly Biblical, which are still on the forehead of my time to come.
But the Cumbrian legend was first favourite, and to that I addressed myself. I thought I had seen a way to meet Rossetti's objection. The sympathy was to be got out of the elder son. He was to think God's hand was upon him. But whom God's hand rested on had God at his right hand ; so the elder son was to be a splendid fellow brave, strong, calm, patient, long-suffering, a victim of unrequited love, a man standing square on his legs against all weathers. It is said that the young novelist usually begins with a glorified version of his own character ; but it must interest my friends to see F2 68 MY FIRST BOOK how every quality of my first hero was a rebuke to my own peculiar infirmities.
M Pettit Above this central figure and legendary incident I grouped a family of characters. They were heroic and eccentric, good and bad, but they all operated upon the hero. Then I began to write. There was the ground to clear with necessary explanations. This I did in the way of Scott in a long prefatory chapter.
Having written it I read it aloud, and found it unutterably MRS. I'ctlit slow and dead. Twenty pages were gone, and the interest was not touched. Throwing the chapter aside I began with an alehouse scene, intending to work back to the history in a piece of retrospective writing. A third time I began, and when the alehouse looked tolerable the retrospective chapter that followed it seemed flat and poor.
How to begin by gripping the interest, how to tell all and yet never stop the action these were agonising difficulties. It took me nearly a fortnight to start that novel, sweating drops as of blood at every fresh attempt. I must have written the first half volume four times at the least. After that I saw the way clearer, and got on faster. At the end of three months I had written nearly two volumes, and then in good spirits I went up to London. My first visit was to J. Cotton, an old friend, and to him I detailed the lines of my story. His rapid mind saw a new opportunity.
xn----dtbhlsdqbbkt.xn--p1ai/img/wo-sie-kaufen-koennen-zithromax-antibiotikum-online-versandhandel.php It was just the thing I wanted for my hero, and I was in rapture, but I was also in despair. To work this fresh interest into my theme, half of what I had written would need to be destroyed! It was destroyed, the interesting piece of ancient juris- prudence took a leading place in my scheme, and after two months more I got well into the third volume.
Then I took my work down to Liverpool, and showed it to my friend, the late John Lovell, a most able man, first manager of the Press Association, but then editing the local Mercury. After he had read it he said, ' I suppose you want my candid opinion? I took it back to London, began again at the first line, and wrote every page over again. At the end of another month the story had been reconstructed, and was shorter by some fifty pages of manuscript. After that I went on to the end and finished with a tragedy.
Then the story was sent back to Lovell, and I waited for his verdict.
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My home or what served for it was now on the fourth floor of New Court, in Lincoln's Inn, and one morning Lovell came puffing and blowing and steaming the good fellow was a twenty-stone man into my lofty nest. He had re-read my novel coming up in the train. That was all the favourable criticism he offered. All save one practical and tangible bit. He offered one unfavour- able criticism. What's the good? Take no more than the public will give you to begin with, and by-and-by they'll take what you give them!
It was prac- tical advice, but it went sorely against my grain. The death of the hero was the natural sequel to the story ; the only end that gave meaning, and intention, and logic to its motif. I had a strong predisposition towards a tragic climax to a serious story. To close a narrative of disastrous events with a happy ending it always seemed necessary to turn every incident into accident. That was like laughing at the reader. Comedy was comedy, but comedy and tragedy together was farce. Then a solemn close was so much more impressive. A happy end nearly always frayed off into rags and nothingness, but a sad one closed and clasped a story as with a clasp.
But all these arguments went down before my friend's practical assurance : ' Kill that man, and you kill your book. Then, thinking my work complete, T asked Mr. Theodore Watts a friend to whose wise counsel I owed much in those days to read some ' galley ' slips of it. He thought the rustic scenes good, but advised me to moderate the dialect, and he propounded to me his well-known views on the use of patois in fiction. A man may know over much of his subject to write on it properly.
I had studied Cumbrian to too much purpose, and did not realise that some of my scenes were like sealed books to the general reader. So once again I ran over my story, taking out some of the ' nobbuts ' and the ' dustas ' and the ' wiltas. In my early days in London, while trying to live in the outer court of a calling wherein the struggle for existence is keenest and bitterest and cruellest, I conceived one day the idea of offering myself as a reader to the publishers.
With this view I called on several of that ilk, who have perhaps no recollection of my early application. I recall my interview with one of them. He was sitting at a table when I was taken into his room, and he never once raised his head from his papers to look at me. I just remember that he had a neck like a three-decker, and a voice like a peahen's. I mentioned the object of my visit. But one of the very best, and quite, I think, the very oldest of publishers now living, received me differently. It was a lovely little place, full of an atmosphere that recalled the publishing house of the old days, half office, half study ; a workshop where books might be made, not turned out by machinery.
I read many manuscripts for that publisher, and must have learned much by the experience. And now that my novel was finished I took it to him first. He offered to publish it the following year. That did not suit me, and I took my book elsewhere. That was wages at the rate of about four shillings a day for the time I had been actually engaged upon the work, sweating brain and heart and every faculty.
Nevertheless, one of my friends urged me to accept it. Within a few hours Mr. Chatto made me an offer which I accepted. The book is now, I think, in its fifteenth edition. The story I have told of many breakdowns in the attempt to write my first novel may suggest the idea that I was merely serving my apprenticeship to fiction. It is true that I was, but it would be wrong to conclude that the writing of a novel has been plain sailing with me ever since. Let me ' throw a crust to my critics,' and confess that I am serving my apprenticeship still. Every book that I have written since has offered yet greater difficulties.
Not one of the little series but has at some moment been a despair to me. There has always been a point of the story at which I have felt confident that it must kill me.