blance to the title of a previous wishywashy story which happened to strike the public faney. In book - publishing experience goes almost for nothing. I regard every new book I publish as a lottery ticket. Asterisk's first book was a decided hit; I am fifteen hundred dollars out of pocket on his second book. It had far more sense in it, and not so many dollars. It was highly, extravagantly praised, and the former was scarcely noticed. I tell you it is a lot tery. This is why a publisher is willing to pay a new man the same percentage he pays an established author. That does not seem quite fair, you think. But observe: the publisher knows that a fresh book from the established author is pretty certain to sell so many copies, and dead certain not to go beyond that; but the new man!- there's no knowing what the new man may do. He bristles with potential possibilities. He may be a twenty-edition fellow! To come back to the newspapers: I fancy that in most instances a book sells itself without any regard to the critics. -- Author. Then you believe that the public the great public which buys books does not bother itself much about Literary Notices. I agree with you. There are just four persons who read a review, long or short: first, the writer of the review; second, the author reviewed; third, the author's publisher; and fourth, the author's friend, - if the review happens to be unfavorable. I take it that people unacquainted, personally, with authors, publishers, and journalists very seldom, if ever, glance at that busy column in which literary reputations are supposed to be made or unmade. The merchant, I imagine, no more thinks of reading the literary items than an author thinks of turning to the shopping list or the prices current. Yet for all that the merchant may purchase his ten or twenty books in the course of the year, and possibly has his favorite authors. An author really has two distinct reputations: he may rank very high with the critics and very low with the general public, or vice versa. Publisher. You don't seem to think much of the critics. They have always treated you handsomely, if I remember. Author. And I have always treated them handsomely, by trying not to bore them too often. But in discussing this question I set myself aside. I care greatly for criticism. The critical faculty is the very rarest. Epic poets are more plentiful than good critics. The great critics of the world can be counted on the fingers of one hand and not exhaust all the fingers. The really great critic comes only once in a century, if so often as that. He is a rara avis, a white blackbird. During the last four decades, see what a numerous brood of brilliant writers France has produced! - but only one Sainte-Beuve. The world may wait a hundred years for another of his feath er. Publisher. To come nearer home: is n't Threestars a fine critic? Author. He has an analytical mind, and his opinion on a work of philosophy or metaphysics is entitled to the highest respect. No one could discourse more amiably on the age of Confucius. In a narrow groove he is certainly a fine critic; but narrowness is the one thing not permissible in a critic. With the profoundest learning he should have the freshest sympathies and the most catholic tastes. Seneca should not be too heavy, nor Plautus too light. Yet we find men setting up as critics whose sole stock in trade consists of their individual likes and dislikes. By the bye, have you looked over that manuscript which I left with you the other day? explained with accuracy in our Worcester and Webster? It seems to me offensive and depreciatory of a reader's intelligence to annotate passages and allusions in an early writer which would not be thought to need explanation if found in a book of the eighteenth or nineteenth century. Suppose that I am editing Willmott's works, and come to the following passage; shall I annotate it thus: "Think of beholding in a clear glass 1 Macchiavelli 2 living along the lines of his political web; Galileo watching the moon plow 5 her way across the clouds; or Tasso, with Polybius 7 in his hand, marshaling the Knights of Godfrey."9 1 Glass. Mirror. 2 Macchiavelli. Niccolo Macchiavelli was secretary of the Florentine republic for a number of years in the fifteenth century. 3 Political web. Macchiavelli wrote a book on statesmanship which has identified his name with political craftiness, and it renders appropriate the expression "political web." 4 Galileo. An Italian astronomer of the sixteenth century. 5 Plow. This expression is to be taken metaphorically, agricultural implements not being used at so high an elevation. Tasso. An Italian poet who lived in the sixteenth century. His baptismal name was Torquato. His chief work was Jerusalem Delivered. The reader will notice Mr. Willmott's familiarity with Italian history at this period, as exhibited in the freedom with which he mentions the great names of that country. Polybius. A Greek historian of the second century before the Christian era. 8 In his hand. This is a figurative expression. Polybius had died before the time of Tasso, and Mr. Willmott would have the reader understand that one of the books of Polybius was in the hand of the later author, and not the historian himself. Godfrey. The leader of the first Crusade was Godfrey of Boulogne, and he it is to whom Mr. Willmott probably refers, for he became king of Jerusalem, and is celebrated in Tasso's poem. Perhaps I am a trifle generous in my annotations, but I find some that are not entirely unlike them in certain editions of Chaucer. -Scandal, that is, spoken scandal, has doubtless been much mitigated in the course of the last century, as one of the Club set forth in our June conference. The amelioration of life in this respect is an accompaniment of that general improvement in the moral tone of society which has taken place during the last three generations. For there has been improvement in this respect, that is, on the moral side; and there has moreover been a steady setting towards a greater mildness of manners among the whole body social, although the manners of even the best-bred people are not quite so fine now as they were among the same sort of folks in the days of our grandfathers. This class has spared something of its superfluity in manners to those less fortunately placed people who were in need of such endowment. Hence the scandal - monger has for some time been out of favor in decent society. The sort of women who used to go about blackening the reputations of other people, and particularly those of other women, has almost disappeared: partly because such talk would not now be tolerated in society of any pretensions to moral tone or to decorum; and partly because the desire, the willingness, to harm others by bearing witness, false or true, against them has in a great measure been bred out of us by the bettering influences developed in mankind by time and by reflection. When, however, we come to consider the question whether the appetite for scandal has diminished, an answer favorable to our moral improvement is not so easily found. For we have only to look through our newspapers to see that this appetite must be insatiable if it does not find itself fed every day to surfeiting. The supply indicates the demand; in no respect does the cardinal axiom of the dreary science apply so absolutely as in journalism. The publisher of the newspaper is imperative upon this point,inexorable. What our readers" demand, that they must have; what of fends them must be excluded. Judged from this point of view, society in regard to scandal has become like the Turk in regard to dancing: he does not dance himself, but he likes very well to have it done for him. And his vicarious saltation is far higher-kilted, to use a Scotch phrase, than any in which he would personally indulge, unless, indeed, he were to undertake to rival a royal poet whom he much respects, David, in his dance before the ark, "girded only with a linen ephod." So the scandal that is spread before us in print every day shows not only our craving, but how much stronger a dose of this mental stimulant we can take in silence than in colloquial intercourse. Our servants the reporters rake the courts, great and small, the lobbies, the public offices, the vestry-rooms, even, alas, the drawingrooms; and our friends the interviewers pursue, like Horace's Death, æquo pede, every human creature from whom there is the slightest hope of extracting material for a "sensation;" and a sensation in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred is made at the cost of more or less pain (and generally needless pain) to an individual and to his family and friends. And with what sublime indifference to the question of the truth or falsity of his story does our sensation-monger serve us up the dish of savory meat which our soul loveth! Only let there be the least occasion for it, or, above all, the slightest chance that another paper than that for which he labors will be the first to publish it, and if he get a sensational story upon any authority, or upon none, he unfolds his tale, and stings with it. Not that he cares particularly to sting, unless he may happen to have a grudge to satisfy, but simply that he regards mankind as material for and readers of sensation articles. Let any one who looks through the newspapers daily recollect the number of stories, more or less scandalous, which he has seen published during the past year and flatly contradicted by the persons who alone have competent knowledge in the matter, if indeed there be any matter; for, as we all know, stories are constantly published, painful and injurious stories, full of detail which makes them truthful in seeming, which are simply scandal and without foundation in fact. One of the most active dispensers of this sort of scandal is the Boston, New York, or Washington correspondent of some paper outside of those cities. His letters are frequently nothing but scandalous stories, that journals in the places to which they relate would not publish at VOL. XLII. -NO. 250. 16 spondent of the -writes thus." And away a reputation goes; that is, would go, if we had not come to doubt, if not to disbelieve, everything of this kind that is not thoroughly established on grounds known to us. I was shown the other day a long letter in a Washington newspaper filled with a tale of scandal about a well-known gentleman; and the gentleman who showed it to me, who was in a position to know the whole truth, said, "There are twenty-seven assertions in that letter, and just twenty-seven of them are absolutely untrue; the whole story from beginning to end is absolutely false." Nor need a story be slanderous to make its publication the cause of annoyance to those to whom it refers. Their wishes, however, are not in the slightest degree regarded. Only a short time ago the daughter of a friend of my family who lives in the country, who is an entirely private person, and who has no more prominence than is given by wealth, culture, and character, was married. To my friend's surprise, reporters came fifty miles, from New York, and, asking to see him, put him to the question about the whole affair, the ceremony, and the parties to it. He decidedly but respectfully refused to give them any of the particulars about which they were so anxious, and told them that it would be very unpleasant to him and to his whole family to have any public notice taken of the marriage. Vain man! the next day he saw the whole affair set forth in two New York papers, the reporters having fished out the particulars from other parties. And but a short time since I saw announced the birth of a child to a lady who had threatened nothing of the kind for ten years and more, and who was likely to be much annoyed by congratulations upon an event which had not taken place. Now, to marry is not sinful, or to have children criminal; and a story published that one does either or both is not a libel, and therefore is not punishable at the law. But it should be so, unless done by consent of the parties in terested. For stories may not be damaging to business or to reputation, and may be true, and yet may therefore be none the less likely to give pain. No class of men ought to be allowed to give pain to private persons in order that they may make money by gratifying the prurient curiosity of thoughtless women — and men. What we need for the remedying of this evil is a law like the French law, which makes the publication of any purely private and personal matter, however true or however harmless, an offense punishable on the complaint of the party offended. For, O reader, the other and more effectual remedy, which you could begin to apply yourself, will not be applied, I think. It is, not to read scandal, and to let the editor and the publisher of the paper that prints scandal know, in the most effective way, that you find scandal, tattle, and personal gossip offensive. -It is a favorite assertion of the mathematicians that figures cannot lie; yet here are two learned contributors to an educational journal of high rank fairly by the ears over the expression "1800 A. D." One contends that it marks the last year of the eighteenth century; the other rejoins, with a quiet assurance which is suggestive of Mr. Furnivall, that it cannot indicate anything but the first year of the nineteenth century, in other words, that the year 1800 A. D. was the 1801st year of the Christian era. I have been greatly entertained by the argument of the latter writer. In setting up mile-stones, he says, we do not put No. 1 at the starting-point, but at the end of the first mile. 66 In referring to the clock at the beginning of the day, we do not call the time 1 o'clock, but 0 o'clock [do we, though?], and during the first hour we read 0-05, 0-10, etc., until one hour has passed, when we read 1 o'clock." So also the one used to denote a child's age is used not at birth but at the end of the first year. Having elaborated these three examples, the writer asks, " Why do not these same rules apply in the use of dates for marking points or divisions of an era? Why should not the dates 1, 100, or 1800 be understood to denote that one year, one hundred or eighteen hundred years have passed since the beginning of the era?" Apparently he sees no radical difference between separating dates and separated periods. To apply his idea, he says that during the first year of the era one might properly write "April 12;" during the second year, "April 12, 1;” the latter expression indicating that one year and three months have passed, and that the twelfth day of the fourth month of the second year of the era is now reached. I still cling to the delusion of my boyhood, however, and wonder why, if the mile-stone argument is apt for the year, it is not equally so for the day; why, if the 1 shows that one year has passed and the second has been reached, the 12 does not in like manner show that twelve days of the month have passed and the thirteenth has been reached. - This truthful record of what a man has done in and made by literary work during the ten years to January 1, 1878, must be interesting to many, and of service to some, the latter those who think of adopting literature as a profession. In eight principal magazines published in those ten years, and of which five remained in existence on the 1st of January, 1878, I have had nineteen articles, for which my pay was $927. In five weekly publications my work has appeared nine times, and brought me $138. From two daily papers I have received $24 for reviews, and $52 for correspondence. Receipts from the above sources, $1141. Then I wrote a short romance and published it at my own expense, getting the imprint of a book-house in New York. That netted me a profit of $198. During the time named I have written three other books of fiction, published by one of the most celebrated houses in the country. Of all, 4600 copies were printed, and 4500 sold, netting me at ten per cent., as copyright, $562.49, and paying to the publishers $3302.57,- this at wholesale rates, and not deducting expenses of publication; probably the publishers cleared but little more than the author. The sum total of my pay for lit erary labor is $1901.49, and, estimating roughly, it has consumed about a year's or fifteen months' time, at eight hours per day. I have had, fortunately, other occupations by which to eke out a living. Of the four books, three are now out of print. One was republished in England. All appeared over a nom de plume. So did my other writings, except, perhaps, half a dozen, and in omitting my proper name I made a great mistake. Literary work without signature is a bond without interest. Let the young author remember this. Having done now with the figures of this paper, I will give some incidents of my experience with editors and publishers. A manuscript of mine, ordered in December, had lain in an editor's hands three months. This fact I had mentioned to a gentleman who is one of our best and most voluminous magazine writers and novelists. He wrote me, "Mr. Editor spoke most favorably in a recent letter of your but did not explain the delay. By the way, editors are sometimes unreasonable, even the best of them. If the magazine turns out too fastidious, or impracticable, or anything of that sort, why not try the -? Of course would not like this suggestion, but one must live and let live; the world is not for editors alone." Seven months after the letter from which the above is taken was received, the article referred to appeared in print, without resource to the and my friend, writing me again, said, "I read last evening. I have read it through carefully, with entire satisfaction and with great pleasure, and even with surprise. Certainly it is extraordinarily well written, and is the best which I have ever seen in an American periodical. It must attract wide attention to you." It did not, and when published, after eleven months' delay, payment did not come with its appearance in print. But a few lines to the magazine's publishers put me in possession of their check for $75. Without naming any price at the time the article was sent in, I had left that to the fairness of the editor, and I think he treated well enough a comparatively แ unknown writer, though the pay should have been, according to that magazine's custom per page, $104. One of our most popular magazinists wrote me once concerning the very small pay that the had sent me for a story: Thirty dollars was very small pay for six pages, in small print, of matter that was readable, interesting, and worthy of insertion. At the same time, editors pay more for notoriety than for quality. Now there are several publics, and each has its celebrities. I am an old writer for the magazines, and therefore I get more than that, but I did not a few years ago. Even now I dare not ask above $10 a page, believing that that is all a magazine can afford, except for an out-and-out notoriety. A new man must work on, painfully and patiently, for years, every now and then demanding a rise in his wages. There must be bargaining as well as writing. The next time you send a piece to write your price at the top of the MS., thus: 'Price $60,' or, Price $80.' If he declines, send it on to the next, and the next. See how it will come out. I am sorry you find the road of authorship profitless. So it is with nearly all who try it. I am never less than a few hundred dollars in debt, and often wish that I had some other trade, more profitable, machinist's, for instance." - a The editor of a magazine once accepted a contribution of mine in this way: "Your story is not of the kind which has been usually found most attractive to our readers. It is, however, picturesquely conceived, and the interest fairly sustained, and I shall therefore be happy to insert it, paying on publication at five dollars a page." As this story had been returned by and I accepted. It appeared in eighteen months from the date of the editor's letter, and I waited that time for the pay, $73. Meanwhile, I happened in the city where my editor reigned, and, laid flat by an acute attack of impecuniosity, I called at the office of the magazine and begged an advance of $5(!), which was granted. Why tailors and authors must always wait for payment I cannot exactly understand. |