eer.

Many people have consulted me about publishing poems, novels, and
essays. As I was known to have actually got books published in England,
and to be a professional journalist and reviewer, I dare say some of
those who applied to me for encouragement thought I was actuated by
literary jealousy; but people are apt to think they have a plot when
they have only an incident, or two or three incidents; and many who can
write clever and even brilliant letters have no idea of the
construction of a story that will arrest and sustain the reader's
attention. The people who consulted me all wanted money for their work.
They had such excellent uses for money. They had too little. They were
neither willing nor able to bear the cost of publication, and it was
absolutely necessary that their work should be good enough for a
business man to undertake it. I am often surprised that I found English
publishers myself, and the handicap of distance and other things is
even greater now. If stories are excessively Australian, they lose the
sympathies of the bulk of the public. If they are mildly Australian,
the work is thought to lack distinctiveness. Great genius can overcome
these things, but great genius is rare everywhere. Except for my friend
Miss Mackay (Mrs. F. Martin), I know no Australian novelist of genius,
and her work is only too rare in fiction. Mrs. Cross reaches her
highest level in "The Masked Man." but she does not keep it up, though
she writes well and pleasantly. Of course poetry does not pay anywhere
until a great reputation is made. Poetry must be its own exceeding
great reward. And yet I agree with Charles Kingsley that if you wish to
cultivate a really good prose style you should begin with verse. In my
teens I wrote rhymes and tried to write sonnets. I encouraged writing
games among my young people, and it is surprising how much cleverness
could be developed. I can write verses with ease, but very rarely could
I rise to poetry; and therefore I fear I was not encouraging to the
budding Australian poet.

There was a column quite outside of The Register to which I liked to
contribute for love. That was "The Riddler," which appeared in The
Observer and in The Evening Journal on Saturdays. It brought me in
contact with Mr. William Holden, long the oldest journalist in South
Australia, who revelled in statistical returns and algebraical problems
and earth measurements, but who also appreciated a good charade or
double a