A SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR AT WORK.

Temuka Leader, Issue 1112, 31 May 1883, Page 1

A SUCCESSFUL AUTHOR AT WORK.

It was, writes 1 Dagonet ’ in the Referee, my proud privilege the other day to see a successful author at work. Like most people, I suppose, X imagined heretofore that authors wrote with consummate ease, received untold gold, and lived, with cigars in their mouths, on the fat of the land, Imagine my astonishment when I saw this author tearing bis hair, cursing his fate, wishing he was dead, and looking positively suicidal, and all about an idea that would not come out as he wanted it to. Fancy the things that read so easily being brought forth with mental and bodily anguish, and groans, tears and bad language ! Whoever would have thought it ? I watched this author a rt one watches a strange fish at the Aquarium. I flattened my nose against bis glass case—that is to say against his library window. When he had done tearing his hair and having paroxysms of rage, he jumped and shrieked aloud that ho would never write another line as long as he lived —that he would sell all he had and retire to a cottage and live unhonored and unknown, but in peace. Then he flung his pen and his paper and his inkpot into the fireplace with terrific force, and rushed into the street, slamming the door after him. He distinctly stated as the door closed that he was going to drown himself in the Thames. I pursued him and informed the policeman on duty. The policeman laughed. ‘ Lor, sir,’ he said, ‘he won’t hurt himself. He's ahorther. Why, there ain’t a day ’ardly as he don’t come out of his house for to hang hisself or to drown hisself, or to chuck hisself under a cab wheel, but he don’t. He goes up the street, a-cursin’ that loud, and a-bullyin’ somebody as ain’t to be seen, and presently he comes back as quite as a lamb and let’s hisself in with his latch-key just like a hordiuary Christian. Look, ’ere he comes.’ The policeman was right; the author was returning all smiles to his home, I followed him in, and saw him seat himself at his desk, and work away like a nigger. The train of thought had returned and the author was happy. But fancy if the train of thought had not returned ! lam glad I have seen an author at work. It will make me more kindly disposed to them as a class, more tolerant of their little foibles. The treadmill must be nothing to a literary career,