The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1892-10-25
NovELIsTs' ODD MISTAKES.
Writers OF Books Often Get Mixed Il
Their Details.

Their Details.
From the Washington Post.
The average reader who skins over the
many faults in the fiimsy construction Of
the plot.
But often smile at the mAidens that
wander in "lonely woods" ct unearthly
hours Of the night, always clad In "a soft,
white, clinging gown" Now every girl
knows that the average maiden ia too much
afraid Of trAmps and snakes to wander in
''lonely woodsn And then she is not pale,
but unspeakably lovely" after such a
tramp. No, al ordinary girl who spends
half night in "mossyn but damp couch
will wander home in the morning full of
mud and cookie burs, her bangs as straight
as a cable on an avenue car line, and she
herself as cross as q Seventh street police-
man on Saturday evening.
Another odd thing is the way some pen
pushers get mixed 10 their weather reports
Some begin chapter at dawn, there are a
few moments Of conversation and then the
''sun sets in lurid banks behind the distant,
empurpied mountains"
There is one novel, by the Duchess,
think, in which the chapter opens with "a
| thick, drizzling mist sitting down and en-
folding the landscape aid in few
moments the hero ID springing out Of win
dow into the soft, mellow moonlight
Evidently the weather possessed as many
phases as Marshall Wilder's transformation
UableauI.
There IS one song-and it is sweet one
| toO-that furnishes a brilliant example.
! In "Alice, Where Art Thoum one verse
! speaks OF the ''silver rain falling,n while
| the first one announces that the "moon
shines bright and that Its rays tinge the
| forest" These seem, on ordinary occasions,
slightly contradictory statements.
| l have often wondered how long some girls
| could go on sans meat, sans head, sans
| everything for, judging by some of their
writers, neither the hero nor heroine is SUBJ
| Ject to any necessity Of nature. Love is
an excellent thing, a pearl of great price :"
| But man III dirty collar and no break
fast 10 his stomach does not feel like court
| ing the girl who looks as limp as the man
| who bet his last dollar on Sullivan and
went home to find his wife sick and the
| grooer's boy sitting on the stoop with six
| months bill.
The old-fashioned novelist is playing out;
| the old-fsshioned hero has been cremated
| and the old-fashione1 heroine sits in lonely
solitude, forgotten by the busy throng The
waist, the lily flower that tainted at every
breath has passed slowly away. May she
| rest in peace. And in her place is the
strong, healthy, rosy-cheeked, independent
| girl, who can drive her horse and check her
trunks with equal ease and fascinating
| grace. Blood and bounding health speak
from every rounding curve, and the dainty,
simpering lackadaisical maiden Of bushes
tremors and signs dwells In innocuous
deSuetude. let us hope, forever.
There let her rest, by the side OF the hero
| with the short sword and dark gloomy
| eyes," who rode about on borrowed horse
aud whose only object was to disturb the
peace Of the commonwealth. Gone are the
perfect heroes, the faulJless heroines. And
in their place reign men and women-flesh
and blood, with the passions that sink them
| to the brute and elevate them to the di-
| viulty.