Sacramento daily record-union., 1889-09-28

| why uOIt you Wrlle noNels ne asheu
after moment.
"Oh, can't work them out, you know
[ haven't the patience, and besides I've
| got into my groove on the Raeehorse
| That's good enough for me. Keeps me In
bread and cheese, even in a chop some
times"
His fat sides shook in chuckle.
"Well, if you're so fertile in ideas give
me few"
81 don't know that / can exactly pump
them up at a moments notice like this"
"Well, look in tomorrow night"
81 can't, my dear boy. Pm off to Paris
for the RacehorSe tomorrow shan't be
back for three months. | was coming in
to tell you, but, seeing you look SO down,
put it out of my head"
swell, try and think of one now."
what hurry you're in! You don't
want to begin tonight, surely"
"Well, don't know"
The other stroked the back of his we'll
brushed sleek hair for moment or two,
his face becoming thoughtful the while.
"Well," he said presently, 81 did have
an idea of story the other day, but
don't know that I've thought it out prop
erly. 1t would want lot of filling in"
Lundy looked up expectant. Fisher
knit his brows, hummed. had and after a
preparatory cough or two began his mar
rative. 1t was tale of love and jealousy,
not of very striking or original kind,
but somewhat ingeniously worked out.
For the average novel reader it would
have been as commonplace as cabbage, and
the finale as easily discernible from the
beginning as st. Paul's Cathedral from the
bottom of Ludgate Hill. But before it
was half told Lundy was as interested as
child of eight in fairy tale, or a member
of the Society for Physical Research in a
legend Of haunted house. When the
end was reached-it ended at an altar and
with wedding bells-he threw himself
back in his chair, his cheeks flushed, his
eyes shining.
Bravo" he said, "thats splendid
You ought to throw up the Rdeehorse and
write nothing but fiction, but 1 don't like
the end it ought to end differently"
Fishers face quite fell at the criticism.
Differently! Why2" he asked, show
else would you have it?"
"Well, you know"-Lundy spoke slowly
-'in real life things don't end happily
generally"
'Oh, but they do in novels-real life be
hanged p exclaimed the other. A remark
which proved that he had at least one of
the qualifications of successful novelist
Are you quite sure you'll never use
that plot?"
"Not | p with unmistakable sincerity.
swell, then, do you mind ifI do ?"
"Of course | don't mind, my dear fellow;
but, really it's hardly"-in an embarrass-
ment of apparent modesty-"it' not quite
Pm sure you'll think of something better.
Besides, you're in the blues tonight; you'll
think better of your religious work to-
morrow. Shall post this for you? p
He took up the envelope.
Yes, l suppose it must go in now, but
it's the last. Gong? Well, good-by.
Thank you so much for your plot"
"Oh I'm glad if it amused you. Good
night, old man. I'll look yoE up directly
come back"
AS Fisher shook hands he added "And
/ say, do think twice before you give up
religious essays for fiction. It's grave
STEP"
And when he had closed the door he
opened it again to say: 81 say, Luudy,
wouldn't use that plot if l were you"
why not?"
"Oh, its-it's not good enough"
"All right" was Lundy's answer, and
the door shut out Mr.. Fisher.
Sebastian Lundy took out savings
bank book The balance to his credit was
about G21. He looked at it, put it away
again, and said aloud:
"That'll last l shall work quickly if
work at nothing else. Pll risk it."
Then he sat down and began to write
1t was about II o'clock when he put pen
to paper, and at he flung down the pen
on the last sheet of careful summary of
the story his friend had told him. He
was used to taking notes of sermons, and
this habit served him here. All the
scenes were sketched in their original Or
der, and no detail which bore on the story
was left out. He went to bed-5ut not to
sleep. The characters of the story passed
in procession through his mind. The in
cidents, conversations and trains of events
which were possible to the development of
the plot performed sort of maddening
dance through his tired brain The cold
February dawn was coming over the roofs
before he slept at last, heavily and dream
lessly
At 10 he awoke in sort of panic. What
was it that he had to do-and early?
He sprang out of bed and was in his
bath before he remembered that it was a
novel he had to write.
All that day and for many day after he
wrote and wrote. He wrote all day. He
would get up in the night to write. He
would take his meals by snatches as he
wrote, cropping about for the food with his
Iaft harI with avac apJ nor, cfill ba
paper. He wrote as long as eyes and hand
would serve, and always it was these failed
him. not the brain. He would sometimes
be forced TO let the pen fall in the midst
of a sentence, though that sentence and its
successors only needed writing down. The
hand and the eyes would refuse their of
flee, and he would grudgingly take some
food or sleep. But with all his work he
seemed to himself to make very little pro-
gress, for every now and then he tore up
whole chapters and rewrote them with
tender care and virile energy.
His religious writings had been popular
among editors and the public for the reason
that his piety had upon it the unmistak-
able stamp of truth his religious fervors
were heartfelt, and were of very different
metal from the formal religiosities which
pass current in the columns of the pious
press. A certain simplicity of mind made it
possible to him to write what he felt exactly
as he felt it, without the least disguise or
undue self-consciousness, and this sim
plicity now gave to his story an air of real
ity. He was helped less by his imagina-
tion than by his memory, and he used all
its stores without any of those reservations
which abort the efforts of novel writer's
less simple or more sensitive. Being un-
stuffed with conventional fiction he actu-
ally drew conversations from life, his char
acters spoke in broken sentences, and bad
grammar was as common in the mouth of
his educated hero as it is on the readers
own refined lips.
Lnndy left his letters unanswered-he