Books and Persons | Page 8

as the book of the season in general literature, Dr. Nicoll [Now
Sir William Robertson Nicoll] has already come a fearful cropper, and
he must regret it. I would give much to prevent him from afflicting the
intelligent when the solemn annual moment arrives for him to make the
reputation of a novelist.

GERMAN EXPANSION

[_18 July '08_]
I think I could read anything about German Colonial expansion. The
subject may not appear to be attractive; but it is. The reason lies in the
fact that one is always maliciously interested in the failures of pompous
and conceited persons. In the same way, one is conscious of
disappointment that the navy pother has not blossomed into a naked
scandal. A naked scandal would be a bad thing, and yet one feels
cheated because it has not occurred. At least I do. And I am rather
human. I can glut myself on German colonial expansion--a wondrous
flower. I have just read with genuine avidity M. Tonnelat's
"L'Expansion allemande hors d'Europe" (Armand Colin, 3 fr. 50). It is a
very good book. Most of it does not deal with colonial expansion, but
with the growth and organization of Germania in the United States and
Brazil. There is some delicious psychology in this part of the book.
Hear the German Governor of Pennsylvania: "As for me, I consider that
if the influence of the German colonist had been eliminated from
Pennsylvania, Philadelphia would never have been anything but an
ordinary American town like Boston, New York, Baltimore, or
Chicago." M. Tonnelat gives a masterly and succinct account of the
relations between Germans and native races in Africa (particularly the
Hereros). It is farcical, disastrous, piquant, and grotesque. The
documentation is admirably done. What can you do but smile when you
gather from a table that for the murder of seven Germans by natives
fifteen capital punishments and one life-imprisonment were awarded;
whereas, for the murder of five natives (including a woman) by
Germans, the total punishment was six and a quarter years of prison. In
1906 the amazing German Colonial Empire cost 180 millions of marks.
A high price to pay for a comic opera, even with real waterfalls! M.
Tonnelat has combined sobriety and exactitude with an exciting
readableness.

The Book-Buyer
[_22 Aug. '08_]
In the month of August, when the book trade is supposed to be dead,
but which, nevertheless, sees the publication of novels by Joseph
Conrad and Marie Corelli (if Joseph Conrad is one Pole, Marie Corelli
is surely the other), I have had leisure to think upon the most curious of

all the problems that affect the author: Who buys books? Who really
does buy books? We grumble at the lack of enterprise shown by
booksellers. We inveigh against that vague and long-suffering body of
tradesmen because in the immortal Strand, where there are forty
tobacconists, thirty-nine restaurants, half a dozen theatres, seventeen
necktie shops, one Short's, and one thousand three hundred and
fourteen tea cafés, there should be only two establishments for the sale
of new books. We are shocked that in the whole of Regent Street it is
impossible to buy a new book. We shudder when, in crossing the virgin
country of the suburbs, we travel for days and never see a single
bookshop. But whose fault is it that bookshops are so few? Are
booksellers people who have a conscientious objection to selling books?
Or is it that nobody wants to buy books?
Personally, I extract some sort of a living--a dog's existence--from the
sale of books with my name on the title-page. And I am acquainted
with a few other individuals who perform the same feat. I am also
acquainted with a large number of individuals who have no connexion
with the manufacture or distribution of literature. And when I reflect
upon the habits of this latter crowd, I am astonished that I or anybody
else can succeed in paying rent out of what comes to the author from
the sale of books. I know scarcely a soul, I have scarcely ever met a
soul, who can be said to make a habit of buying new books. I know a
few souls who borrow books from Mudie's and elsewhere, and I
recognize that their subscriptions yield me a trifle. But what a trifle! Do
you know anybody who really buys new books? Have you ever heard
tell of such a being? Of course, there are Franklinish and
self-improving young men (and conceivably women) who buy cheap
editions of works which the world will not willingly let die: the Temple
Classics, Everyman's Library, the World's Classics, the Universal
Library. Such volumes are to be found in many refined and strenuous
homes--oftener unopened than opened--but still there! But does this
estimable practice aid the living