“Then my answer must mainly depend on the exact height of the principles.”
“On the how much?” inquired Frere, considerably mystified.
“On the exact height of the principles, sir,” returned Mr. Nonpareil with dignity. “I possess a regular scale, sir, which I have had worked out minutely, proceeding from the broad outlines of Christianity to the most delicate shades of doctrine, and descending even to the smallest points of the canon law. Such an ecclesiological table is most important in our line. Public opinion, sir, fluctuates in such matters, just like the funds, up one week, down the next, up again the next. Now I’ll just give you an instance. There was a little work we published, I dare say you’ve seen it, ‘Ambrosius; or, The Curate Confessed.’ It was thought rather a heavy book when it first came out. The public would not read it; the trade did not like it; it hung on hand, and I expected to lose from £200 to £300 upon it. Well, sir, the Surplice question began to be agitated. Fortunately, the author had made Ambrosius preach in a white gown. I immediately advertised it freely, the thing took, we sold 3000 copies in a fortnight, and instead of losing £300 I made £600. But that’s not all, sir. Shortly after that the Rev. Clerestory Lectern, one of the very tip-top ones, went to Rome, and took his three curates, a serious butler, and the family apothecary with him. This made a great sensation, convulsed the public mind fearfully, and brought on a general attack of the ultra-protestant epidemic. Accordingly, I sent for the author of ‘Ambrosius,’ offered him terms he was only too glad to jump at, shut him up in the back-shop with half a ream of foolscap and a bottle of sherry, and in little more than a week we printed off 5000 copies of ‘Loyoliana; or, The Jesuit in the Chimney Corner.’ The book sold like wild-fire, sir. A second edition was called for and went off in no time, and I believe I might have got through a third, only Lord Dunderhead Downhill joined the Plymouth Brethren and married his kitchen-maid, which brought public opinion up again several degrees and spoiled the sale; but I made a very nice thing of it, altogether.”
So saying, Mr. Nonpareil rubbed his hand gleefully, pushed his hair off his forehead, and looked at Rose as if he longed to coin her into money on the spot. After a pause he inquired abruptly, “What’s the name, ma’am?”
“The name of my tale?” began Rose, slightly flurried at the conversation so suddenly taking a personal turn. “I thought of calling it ‘Helen Tremorne.’”
“Very gogd, ma’am—very good,” returned Mr. Nonpareil approvingly; “euphonious, aristocratic, and vague. Just at this time, a title that does not pledge a book to anything particular of any kind is most desirable. About how long do you suppose it will be?”
“Mr. Frere thought it would make two small volumes about the size of a work called ‘Amy Herbert,’ I believe,” replied Rose.
“Quite right, ma’am, quite right, a very selling size, indeed,” was the answer; “clever book, ‘Amy Herbert,’ very. So much tenderness in it, ma’am; nothing pays better than judicious tenderness; the mothers of England like it to read about—the daughters of England like it—the little girls of England like it—and so the husbands of England are forced to pay for it. If you recollect, ma’am, there’s a pathetic governess in ‘Amy Herbert,’ who calls the children ‘dearest’—well imagined character, that. She’s sold many a copy has that governess. May I ask does ‘Helen Tremorne’ call anybody ‘dearest’?”
“I really scarcely remember,” said Rose, hiding a smile behind her muff.
“It would be most desirable that she should, ma’am,” returned Mr. Nonpareil solemnly. “Some vindictive pupil, if possible, ma’am—the more repulsive the child, the greater the self-sacrifice—people like self-sacrifice to read about—they call such incidents touching; and just at the present moment pathos sells immensely. Pray, ma’am, may I ask are you high or low?”