His publishers told him that it was only the
libraries that bought any fiction, with the exception of volumes by certain
popular authors--and yet he saw at these booksellers novels by numbers of
people who could not lay claim to the success that "Reuben Hallard" had
secured for its writer.
The reviews came in slowly, and, excepting for the smaller provincial
papers, treated him with an indifference that was worse than neglect. "This
interesting novel by Mr. Westcott"--"A pleasant tale of country life by the
author of 'Reuben Hallard.' Will please those who like a quiet agreeable
book without too much incident."
One London weekly review--a paper of considerable importance--took him
severely to task, pointed out a number of incoherences of fact, commented
on carelessness of style and finally advised Mr. Westcott, "if he is ever
to write a book of real importance to work with greater care and to be less
easily contented with a superficial facility."
But worse than these were the opinions of his friends. Henry Galleon was
indeed gone, but there were a few--Mrs. Launce, Alfred Lester, William
Trent, Alfred Hext--who had taken a real and encouraging interest in him
from the beginning. They took him seriously enough to tell him the truth,
and tell him the truth they did. Dear Mrs. Launce, who couldn't bear to
hurt anybody and saw perhaps that he was taking the book a great deal more
hardly than he had taken the others, veiled it as well as she could:--"I do
think it's got splendid things in it, Peter dear--splendid things.
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