Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1889-10-13

subjects. remember that I wanted inror
nation on the copyright law, for the plot
of one of my novels had been taken BY som,
dramatic thief, and had q mind to fgh
him. Collins was very full, very precise
and very emphatic on that subject, having
paid bitterly for his special knowledge ovel
two of his own stories, "The Woman il
White" and ''The New Msgdalen." He wa
quite sure that had not leg to stand on
though, of course, he Joined his wall with
mine against the iniquitous law that recog
nized copyright in words and none II
ideas.
AN ADMIRER oE DUMAS.
Then he talked of French writers, and he
said something that cannot remember OF
how he met with Victor Hugo whose PLAYS,
no less than his novels, he admired. But
the elder Dumas among French novelists
was clearly the god of his idolatrv, and
''The Three Musketeers" was his ideal of a
great story. He had been many times in
the way of meeting Dumas, but had never
done so. Then he talked Of Scott, whom he
valued beyond words of fappraisement, think
ing "The Bride of Lammermoor" the great
est of all prose tragedies. Something he
said, too, of Dickens, but only in the charac-
ter OF a near and dear friend, with per-
ceptible sinking of the soft voice and melt
ing of the gentle eyes. Charles Reade was
also mentioned in relation of the memoir
that had then been newly published, and
the impression left with me was that the
rougher side of Reade's character had never
been seen by Collins except as the whole
world saw it in the squabbles of the news
papers.
He was always kindly of nature, always
alert of mind, always enthusiastic of spirit.
His letters were as full of pith as his con-
versation. Nothing came out in these letters
more frequently than the boyish delight in
his work. 1t was not done easily, but with
great and often grievous labor-labor of con-
ception, of construction, and of repeated
writing and rewriting-and yet he held to
it, clung to it, and when torn from it by
sickness returned to it in health with the
fercest eagerness of the literary aspirant.
Never was authorship less of trade to any
author, though he was competent business
man, and knew how to make the most of his
market. To write stories was a passion to
him, and he was as much slave to it when
he was beginning the story which he left un-
finished at his death as he had been 25 years
earlier, before fame had come to him, or
fortune seemed within his grasp. had good
reason to know how much his work took
out of him, for saw him repeatedly while
he was writing ''The Legacy of Cain" and
''Blind Love" After the first of these he
seemed utterly prostrated and incapable of
even the least bodily exertion. 1 then prayed
of him to take rest, and he laughed and said,
physician, heal thyself." When I saw
him again soon afterward he was deep In
"Blind Love-" 1 demonstrated, and he
asked how it was with me. Unluckily
fell an easv prey to his retort, so we laughed
together at the dunderheadedness we shared
in common. Then, as 1 remember, he told
me of another iriend-a very unliterary one
as 1 gathered-who had demonstrated in an
other fashion (and vastly more effectively
the day before. On hearing that Collins
had begun new story on the head of one
that had nearly killed him, this discerning
soul had said, "Wilkie, you're a clever fel-
low, very clever fellow, though you try to
deceive people. But know what's wrong
with you-you're mad"
HIS STOCK OF STORIES.
Wilkie had many good stories, and he
told them well and in manner altogether
his own. Wilkes style was quiet, but en-
phatic, precise, and perhaps slow, the points
cumulative in their effect and most carefully
led up to, and ending always in complete
success. The pistol never missed fire when
Wilkie pulled the trigger. His memory
was strong, and his store of good things was
very plentiful.
Some of his stories concerned his own
novels and their readers, and recall one of
them that relates to the woman in White"
Immediately after the production of that
book, when all England was admiring the
arch villainy of the Fat Fosco, the author
received letter (Which still exists) from a
lady who has since figured very largely in
public view. She congratulated him upon
the success with somewhat icy cheer, and
then said, "But, Mr.. Collins, the great fail
ure of your book is your villain. Excuse me
if 1 say you really do not know villain.
Your Count Fosco is at least a very poor
one, and when next you want character of
that description trust you will not disdain
to come TO me. know villain, and have
one in my eye at this moment, that would
far eclipse anything have ever read of in
books-don't think I am drawing upon my
imagination. The man is alive and con-
stantly under my gaze. In fact he is my
own husband!"
These were the lady's words as nearly as
L can remember them. Shall say who she
was? She was the wife OF the late Lord
Lytton. And this mention OF the "Woman
in White" reminds me of a story which
may or may not have heard fiom Wilkes
own lips, but seems nevertheless veracious.
After the story had been written (or partly
written, for Wilkie told me one day that
down to "Rlind Love" he had never been
more than five instalments ahead of his
printers) and the time had come to begin
its serial publication, title had not yet
been found. A story could not be pub
lished without title, but neither the author
nor his friends could hit on one that seemed
suitable Dickens had been appealed to,
and had failed. So had Forster, who was
prolific in good titles. Wilkie was in de-
spair. The day was approaching when the
story must begin in "AIl the Year Round"
So one day the novelist took himself off to
Broadstairs, determined not TO return until
a title had been found. He walked for
hours along the cliff between Kingsgate and
what is called Bleak House; he smoked
case of cigars, and all to no purpose; then,
vexed and much worl by the racking of his
brains, he threw himself on the grass as the
sun went down. He was lying facing the
North Foreland Lighthouse, and half in
bitter jest, half unconsciously, he began to
apostrophise it thus
you are ugly and stiff and awkward
you know you are; as stiff and as weird as
my white woman-white woman-woman in
white-the title, by Joyel"
1t was done; title had been hit upon,
and the author went back to London de-
lighted. Dickens was much pleased with
the name, and the story began its career.
Such is said to have been the origin of one
of the finest titles any novel ever had-at
least the story sounds much like one of
Wilkie Collins.
NO FAITH IN REVIEWERS.
He wrote the book, and was quite ex-
hansted at the end of IL So he made ar