The rate of production has most
decidedly declined, and upon the whole novels are written with more care
now than ever they were. I should doubt if any novel was written at
greater speed than the greatest realistic novel in the world, Richardson's
"Clarissa," which is eight or ten times the length of an average novel by
Mrs. Humphry Ward. "Mademoiselle de Maupin" was done in six weeks. Scott's
careless dash is notorious. And both Dickens and Thackeray were in such a
hurry that they would often begin to print before they had finished
writing. Publishers who pride themselves on the old charming personal
relations with great authors ought not to be so ignorant of literary
history as the gentleman who unpacked his heart to a sympathetic _Daily
Mail_.
ST. JOHN HANKIN
[_1 July '09_]
I was discussing last week the insufficiency of the supply of intelligent
playwrights for the presumable demand of the two new repertory theatres;
and, almost as I spoke, St. John Hankin drowned himself. The loss is
sensible. I do not consider St. John Hankin to have been a great
dramatist; I should scarcely care to say that he was a distinguished
dramatist, though, of course, the least of his works is infinitely more
important in the development of the English theatre than the biggest of
the creaking contrivances for which Sir Arthur Wing Pinero has recently
received honour from a grateful and cultured Government.
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