“Why did I every marry?” retorted Mr. Sparrow. They flew away together, quarrelling. DO WRITERS WRITE TOO MUCH? ON a newspaper placard, the other day, I saw announced a new novel by a celebrated author. I bought a copy of the paper, and turned eagerly to the last page. I was disappointed to find that I had missed the first six chapters. The story had commenced the previous Saturday; this was Friday. I say I was disappointed and so I was, at first. But my disappointment did not last long. The bright and intelligent sub-editor, according to the custom now in vogue, had provided me with a short synopsis of those first six chapters, so that without the trouble of reading them I knew what they were all about. “The first instalment,” I learned, “introduces the reader to a brilliant and distinguished company, assembled in the drawing-room of Lady Mary’s maisonette in Park Street. Much smart talk is indulged in.” I know that “smart talk” so well. Had I not been lucky enough to miss that first chapter I should have had to listen to it once again. Possibly, here and there, it might have been new to me, but it would have read, I know, so very like the old. A dear, sweet white-haired lady of my acquaintance is never surprised at anything that happens. “Something very much of the same kind occurred,” she will remember, “one winter when we were staying in Brighton. Only on that occasion the man’s name, I think, was Robinson.” We do not live new stories—nor write them either. The man’s name in the old story was Robinson, we alter it to Jones. It happened, in the old forgotten tale, at Brighton, in the winter time; we change it to Eastbourne, in the spring. It is new and original—to those who have not heard “something very like it” once before. “Much smart talk is indulged in,” so the sub-editor has explained. There is absolutely no need to ask for more than that. There is a Duchess who says improper things. Once she used to shock me. But I know her now. She is really a nice woman; she doesn’t mean them. And when the heroine is in trouble, towards the middle of the book, she is just as amusing on the side of virtue. Then there is a younger lady whose speciality is proverbs. Apparently whenever she hears a proverb she writes it down and studies it with the idea of seeing into how many different forms it can be twisted. It looks clever; as a matter of fact, it is extremely easy. _Be virtuous and you will be happy_. She jots down all the possible variations: _Be virtuous and you will be unhappy_. “Too simple that one,” she tells herself. _Be virtuous and your friends will be happy if you are not_. “Better, but not wicked enough. Let us think again. _Be happy and people will jump to the conclusion that you are virtuous_. “That’s good, I’ll try that one at to-morrow’s party.” She is a painstaking lady. One feels that, better advised, she might have been of use in the world.