Joined to the main body of the narrative were injunctions the most imperative regarding its publication. But even had I chosen to disregard these, there are other reasons which might have impelled me to the same course. As one sitting by his own fireside glows with a deeper content for the sound of the storm without, so we, who live in this golden age of love, may all the more rejoice, seeing how they let their angry passions rise in the brave days of old.
I would say, then, borrowing the language of an old Sunday-school hymn:—
“Authors, attend, while I relate
A new and simple story;
'Twill teach your hearts with thankfulness
To praise the Lord of glory”
that the lines have fallen to you in pleasant places, and that you receive your goodly heritage without having to fight for it.
II.
AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION.
The war between authors and publishers has been a conflict of ages. On the one side, the publisher has been looked upon as a species of Wantley dragon, whose daily food was the brain and blood of hapless writers.
“Devouréd he poor authors all,
That could not with him grapple;
But at one sup he ate them up,
As one would eat an apple.”
On the other side, the author has been considered, like Shelley, “an eternal child” in all that relates to practical business matters, and a terrible child at that—incapable of comprehending details, and unreasonably dissatisfied with results. A definite illustration will sometimes throw more light on a general principle than reams of abstract discussion. But in matters of this sort, definite illustrations are very hard to come at. In any case of trouble between author and publisher, it is for the interest of the latter that it be kept as quiet as possible. Even if he be unquestionably right, and the difficulty be owing solely to the author's inexperience and impracticability, the ill odor of having had a quarrel will hardly be neutralized by any knowledge of its causelessness. The sympathy of the public is more likely to be with the author than with the publisher.
The author also is held to silence by various considerations. The difficulty of getting at the real state of the case, and the misgiving which results from it; the always unpleasant nature of the controversy; the obtrusion of one's private affairs, as if it were a theme of general interest; the uncertainty of any good to be obtained; the fatigue and disgust of the quarrel itself—a thousand circumstances combine to make it appear altogether easier and better to let the matter go than to take the trouble of any adequate presentation or explanation of it. But as he is never quite satisfied, he can never quite let it go; and though there come not a real thunder-storm crashing among the hills, but clearing the skies, there are low mutterings and occasional flashes, which betoken a signal discontent of the elements.
Thus exists the chronic feud between authors and publishers; partly traditional, partly experimental; a matter often for outward jest, but quite as often of deep and serious import. It is a sort of bush-whacking, in which every man whacks on his own account, and frequently does not know that there is any other bushwhacker than himself. So the warfare goes on, but to no end. Nobody learns wisdom from another man's experience, because the other man keeps his experience to himself.
I propose to supply what the theologians call a “felt want,” and to become the historian of a contest all of which I saw, and part of which I was. From the confusions of long misunderstanding I would fain evolve an intelligent and lasting peace. “When,” in the language of Dr. Johnson, “I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on my book, however defective, and deliver it to the world with the spirit of a man that has endeavored well.” If it be instigated by any other motive than pure benevolence, the fact will doubtless appear in its progress. Should my little cask of oil be poured out in vain upon the stormy waters—should I, instead of soothing their rage, be whelmed beneath it—there remains the consoling assurance that no one else is involved in my fate.
It would be hypocritical to apologize for the intrusion of private affairs upon public notice, when it is notorious that there is nothing the public so dearly loves, nothing upon which it so eagerly fastens, nothing which it so greedily devours, as private affairs. Indeed, the privacy of affairs seems to be sometimes the only element of interest they possess, and the delight which the public finds in them is proportioned to the amount of good manners it was necessary to sacrifice in order to get at them.[1]
I give fair warning that this narration is not intended to be of interest or value to any but authors and publishers. A log-book is not generally considered very entertaining reading, yet it may be scanned with great eagerness by those who are following the track it chronicles. This is simply the log-book of a desperate voyage, a careful knowledge of which may prevent many a young mariner from being drawn into it himself.
III.
RISE AND PROGRESS OF SUSPICION IN THE SOUL.
One day in December, 1767, happening to want more money than was due me,[2] I recollected having seen, a few weeks before, an article in the “Segregationalissuemost,”[3] on the “Pay of Authors,” which said:—
“In regard to books, the common percentage paid by publishers to average writers is ten per cent. upon the retail price of the book; the copies given to the press for notice not being included in the estimate. Thus, for an edition of a volume whose retail price is $1.00, the account would be made up thus: Suppose 1,000 copies to be printed, of which 90 are distributed to the press, and otherwise given away for notice, and the balance sold, the publishers would owe the author (1,000–90 = 910 copies, at 10c. each)