A contribution like the following was not accepted, although the author had a great deal of learning, and other valuable qualifications to recommend him. An epic poem to run as a serial through six months of the magazine—to occupy six pages monthly, printed double column; the subject to be devoted to a description of Indian life. For quite different reasons the following proposal was also rejected—a series of six papers on “Rogues,” in which every type of wickedness was elaborately discussed. Neither of these subjects was in the least suitable for the magazine to which they were offered, and the writers who sent them made the grand mistake of knowing nothing of the periodical to which they offered their contributions. Their work, however excellent it may have been, was useless to us, and a glance at our magazine would have told them this, for themselves.
Different classes of contributors
Another class of would-be contributor is the utterly silly person who thinks that it would be great fun to have something in print, and imagines that this desirable result can be attained with no labour or previous study. On a certain summer’s afternoon, my co-editor and I were startled by hearing violent giggles outside the office door. Presently two blushing, rosy-faced girls entered. The spokeswoman said she didn’t know our magazine at all—she had never written anything before in her life, but she and her friend thought they would like to make an attempt, if we would give them something to do. We were to suggest a subject, they did not mind in the least what they wrote about. I need scarcely say that the services of these accomplished ladies were not secured.
The obtuse
The obtuse, though earnest-minded aspirant is also a hopeless example. Her utter lack of perception as to what is necessary for periodical literature makes it useless to argue with her, and hopeless to advise her. I recall a case in point. I was asked to give advice on the desirability of the applicant’s resigning a good post as resident governess with a large salary, in favour of literature.
I inquired if she had had much experience as a writer, and if she had been encouraged by the success of her books.
The lady in question stared at me with round eyes.
“I have never printed a word in my life,” she said; “but I am tired of teaching, and should like to take up literature. I have brought a little article with me, which you may care to see. The subject I am sure ought to interest—it is on Hamlet.”
I gently begged my would-be contributor not to throw up the certainty of earning a comfortable living as a governess until she had tested her powers a little further. I promised to read her expositions on Hamlet, and she withdrew. I need scarcely say what the result of my perusal was.
An amateur’s treatment of Hamlet was scarcely likely to possess anything fresh to recommend it. I was obliged to return the Paper with the mildest of hints that this subject was rather used up. Why must beginners in the great Art of Literature try to give their puny ideas on those giant problems over which the greatest minds have thought and puzzled, and thought and puzzled in vain? Nobody wants their poor little ideas, which are after all only feeble reflections of the thoughts of greater minds. Such papers are only suited for Amateur Essay Societies.