The Arkansaw traveler., 1884-12-13
ANECDOTES OF AUTHORS.
Tcompiled for Literary Life.l

' anywhere to De met with in ouT world 3, uresert-a grim, tall, broad bottomed, yellow skinned man, with brows like pre- cipitous cliffs, and huge, black, dull, wearied, yet unweaEible looking ey es un- der them :; amphorous, projecting nose, and the angTiest shut mouth have any where seen. A droop on the side of the upper lip is quite masuff-hke-msgnih- cent to look upon it is so quiet withal 1 guess should like i'll to be that mans nigger. However, he IS a right clever man in his way, and has husky sort of fun in him, too; drawls in a handfast, didactic manner about 'our republican institutions and so plays his part."
 Lord Byrons money troubles are re- lated very fully in series of his letters published in the AMenG1m. ~Isuopose it will end" he writes to Hanson, " in my marrying Golden Dolly or blowing my brains out: it does not matter which, the remedies are nearly alike"
 Here is curious and amusing story about Mir. Black, the novelist, which he might have incorporated into one of his novels. It would have filled volume easily. Condensed, 1t assumes this state ment: MT. Black being on a rambie near Dunollie castle, suddenly took it into his head to have swim. He took off all that was necessary, etc, and plunged in. As he was returning 10 where his clothes were, judge his horror on seeing a young lady sitting down on a boulder, reading, from the appearance of the binding, one of his own novels. M1. Black coughed, ahem'd, etc, but ali 10 TO purpose the fair ore still kept her eyes upon the fascinating page. After the lapse of nearly half an hour, a man came up with a gun, and seeing Mir. Blacks black head bobbing up and down, exclaimed !: "Hech a seal, i" and brought his gun to his shoulder. This was too much for Mir. Blacks nerves, and roaring out. "For heavens sake, don't fire. I'm a real man." he tossed propriety to the winds, and ran for it. The lovely young lady was around the corner like a flash ot lightning.
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox, the poetess, pub lished her first psem when she was four teen. Speaking of this time, she said /: groped my way up. When l began to write didn't know a soul connected with the press-not even country editor. l did not even know where but two or three well-known literary papers and magazines were published. A little girl of my own age went to a bookstore and copied off the addresses of several of them for me, and sent out poems to most of them, coolly requesting the editors to send me their papers as pay for the poems if they accepted them. The very first one sent to responded favor ably"
 Here comes Emerson: A man of medium height; well-shaped head, rather prominent nose, light complexion, and mild, sleepy. dreamy look in his eyes. While other men are thinking, Emerson is dreaming and writing his d,eams on paper. In 1857, he is dream ing dream he calls " Nature and Man Thinking" In I338 it is "Litlrary Ethics;" in IS4I, Man the Reformer,' y and " The Method of Nature" are the subjects of his meditation. In IS46 he aspired to the Mount of the Muses. He afterward published several volumes of poems, but he never gained great potoriety as poet. He published many essays which have given him great noto- riety, chiefly for the same reason th at Poe's /" Raven "is noted, because 1t means everything in general, nothing in particu- lar. Emerson was born in Boston m 1893, and died in 1882.
 Since General Grant met with his losses last year, he has turned to his pen for so- lace, as many a man has done when trouble overlook him. "l had DO idea that SO much pleasure could be got out of the inkstand," he said the other day to a friend. "I have always found writing to be irkseme l never wrote any thing but what was absolutely neces- sary. But since picked up the pen last spring, and began to set down the things that remember that may possibly be of interest to some body, have found it more entertaining than almost anything else have ever done"
 A good story about the novelist, Cap tain Marryat, which has never yet ap- peared in print, has come to us from a strange source. It is an heirloom in the gardeners trade. The old sea-dog, Cap tain Manyat on leaving the stormy brine, did not leave behind him his stormy temper. He brought it with him, and carefully preserved it. to little cot tage at Wimpledon. There he employed an old gardener, nearly eighty years of age, a man who had been his fathers gardener, in a most peculiar capacity. Every Saturday night, Captain Marryat, dressed in shoe buckles and frilled shirt, would come out of the house and give his gardener a guinea, and then proceed to give him a good thrashing. This pro gramme was carried on for years. But one night the old gardener, weakened, felt that he was not as young as he might be. "Cap'n," said he remonstra,ingly, me be gettin' too auld for this to last alway. Why, sir, aw'm nearly eighty, an ma bones be growin' stiff. They do moist crack, when ye strike. Beatings should cease when a soul gets to be eighty" "Damn your eyes, man '" roared the captain, that's just the time they should begin. "- 7He Lnglesfds.
 A chambermaid at the Asquam house, Holderness, New Hampshire, made bold