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    1. Camp Starts In: 228 Days A desultory correspondence and a few casual visits followed during the next three or four years, and when I was in my very early twenties I persuaded Messrs Greening & Company to invite me to write a book on Hall Caine for a popular series (English Writers of To-day, it was called) they were at that time issuing. Mr Caine, upon being approached by me, put no hindrance in my way, but, on the contrary, consented to give me some assistance in the way of providing me with information and a few letters received by him from eminent men. I spent several week-ends at Greeba Castle and found in Mrs Caine, always charming and ideally gifted with tact, a delightful hostess. My book was quickly written. It was a feeble, bombastic and ridiculous performance. A friend of mine (I thought he was an enemy) called it a prolonged diarrhœa of the emotions. In this book Hall Caine took a very kindly interest, and he provided me with autograph letters written by Ruskin, Blackmore, T. E. Brown and 120Gladstone to insert in my book. But I was, of course, the sole author of the work, and Mr Caine had nothing to do with it save to put me right on matters of fact and to tone down some of my exuberant and sentimental praise. The silly volume, because of its subject, attracted a good deal of attention, both in this country and in America, though it was not published in the States. The Philadelphia Daily Eagle, for example, on the day the book was published, printed a eulogistic cablegram review of it from London. But, for the most part, my monograph was mercilessly slated. Hall Caine, in addition, was abused for consenting to be the subject of it, and I was abused for having chosen him for my subject. One paper headed its review Raising Caine.


      This website template has been designed by Free Website Templates for you, for free. You can replace all this text with your own text. Unless you are something of a musician yourself, you will probably never have heard the name of Julius Harrison, for though he has fame of a kind, and of the best kind, he is scarcely known to the man in the street. Just as Rossetti is primarily a poet for poets, so is Julius Harrison a musician for musicians. Only one word describes him: distinguished. Very distinguished he is, with the refinement and sensitiveness of a poet, the intuition of a novelist, and the waywardness of all men who allow themselves to be governed by impulse.

      • Vivamus at justo ut urna porta pulvinar After dinner (well, neither after nor before dinner) one does not ardently desire a speech of that kind. It fell flat. A fat organist from Bolton (or was it Bacup?) winked me a fat wink. The man on my lefta young musical doctor from Cambridgedug his elbow into my ribs.

      • Pellentesque nunasidp adipiscing sollicitudin dolor id sagittis. Vain men are invariably supersensitive, and for that reason I think Houghton felt every word and act of hostility; but he never showed weakness under opposition, and he could hit back when he thought it worth while.

      • Donec sit amet felis a nibh ornare malesuada. Dear Gerald,If only I had the nice stiff paper and the delicate pen nib, I would try to write a letter to you like the ones you send me. There came a thrill yesterday. As I sat in my little parlour toying with my last months Ulster Guardian, there leapt out of the page your poem, Fashioned of Dreams You Are [reprinted from a magazine]. It was as though the sea between us had suddenly shrunk to a couple of glasses of whisky. I shall never pass a Poets Corner again without looking for you. There are poets here, too. An old-age pensioner describing a wonderful fish he had seen told me that it was a gay and antic fish, fresh and smart and soople. I shall leave for 140home to-morrow evening and see you on Sunday night, and if there is one bottle of red wine left in the world, you and I will surely drag it out of the dust. How the bottles must wonder under their cobwebs at this strange turn of fatethat the Master Butler may either transform them into sparkling phrases and beautiful thoughts through rare fellows like us, or send them to dreary death in the paunch of fools like

      • Etiam et tellus mi, et semper lectus. The occasion of the assembly of these wits was the opening of an institute at Llanystumdwy, the little village near Criccieth, where the Prime Minister spent his childhood days. Mr Lloyd George had given the institute to the inhabitants of the village and was himself to open it publicly the following day.

      • Quisque in purus nec purus feugiat consectetur. Then what are they? I asked. What do you call them?

      • Fusce et ipsum dolor lorem ante, at sollicitudin libero. He gave me a quick, sly look, and we began to talk of John. I am afraid that Epstein must have qualified his opinion of my intelligence, for he asserted, in contradiction to what I was saying, that John was on the wrong tack, and we failed to come to any agreement about this most wonderful of living painters.

      • Etiam et tellus mi, et semper lectus. All this is ancient history now, and I will record only briefly that ultimately Sir Frederick Cowen was, in effect, told (what, no doubt, he already knew) that Richter was the better man and that he (Cowen) must go. But before this decision was made a most severe fight was waged in the city. Cowen conducted, and thousands of partisans came and cheered him to the echo. Richter conducted, and thousands of partisans came and cheered him to the echo. People wrote to the newspapers. Leader writers solemnly summed up the situation from day to day. Protests were made, meetings were organised and held, votes of confidence were passed. London caught the infection, and passed its opinion, its opinions....

      • Vivamus at justo ut urna porta pulvinar. No! No! I dont suggest it for one moment, I interrupted.

      • 11/10/2011

        This is just a place holder, so you can see what the site would look like. Fifteen years is a long time in the literary world, and Charles Marriotts The Column, which threw everybody into fever-heat somewhere about 1902, is, I suppose, forgotten. It was a first novel. Uncritical Ouida loved it; W. E. Henley unbent and wrote a Meredithian letter to its author; W. L. Courtney seized some of his short stories for The Fortnightly Review; and I suppose (though I really dont know this) The Spectator wrote five lines of disapproval. It was a brilliant book; fresh, 135original, provocative. It promised a lot: it promised too much; the author has since written many distinguished books, but none of them is as good as The Column said they would be.

      • 11/19/2011

        Praesent quis nisl in velit imper diet suscipit a id quam. Tophole! said he. I love praise, dont you?

      • 11/19/2011

        Nullam vulputate elementum consequat. Fusce leo felis, bibendum. The presence of the lady typist embarrassed me. She took down in shorthand my questions and Mr Jones replies. Thinking it would be foolish to waste any time on preliminary politenesses, I plunged straight into the middle of my subject. The lady typist sipped her tea in the awkward little pauses that came from time to time. It was not an interview; it was a kind of official statement. It was like the proceedings at a police court. I felt I should be held responsible to a higher authority for every word I spoke.

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