These
tomes now rival the works of the brothers Hocking in the stationer's shop.
Their standard is decidedly above the average, owing largely to the fact
that the guide-in-chief of Messrs. Nelsons happens to be a genuine man of
letters. I am told that Messrs. Nelsons alone sell twenty thousand volumes
a week. Yet even they have but scratched the crust. The crust is still
only the raw material of a new book public.
* * * * *
If it is cultivated and manufactured with skill it will surpass
immeasurably in quantity, and quite appreciably in quality, the actual
book public. One may say that the inception of the process has been
passably good. One is inclined to prophesy that within a moderately short
period--say a dozen years--the centre of gravity of the book market will
be rudely shifted. But the event is not yet.
H.G. WELLS
[_4 Mar. '09_]
Wells! I have heard that significant monosyllable pronounced in various
European countries, and with various bizarre accents. And always there was
admiration, passionate or astonished, in the tone. But the occasion of its
utterance which remains historic in my mind was in England. I was, indeed,
in Frank Richardson's Bayswater. "Wells?" exclaimed a smart, positive
little woman--one of those creatures that have settled every question once
and for all beyond reopening, "Wells? No! I draw the line at Wells.
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