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The Man of Letters as a Man of Business .........................................................................................................1

William Dean Howells .............................................................................................................................1

I think that every man ought to work for his living, without exception, and that when he has once avouched

his willingness to work, society should provide him with work and warrant him a living. I do not think any

man ought to live by an art. A man's art should be his privilege, when he has proven his fitness to exercise it,

and has otherwise earned his daily bread; and its results should be free to all. There is an instinctive sense of

this, even in the midst of the grotesque confusion of our economic being; people feel that there is something

profane, something impious, in taking money for a picture, or a poem, or a statue. Most of all, the artist

himself feels this. He puts on a bold front with the world, to be sure, and brazens it out as Business; but he

knows very well that there is something false and vulgar in it; and that the work which cannot be truly priced

in money cannot be truly paid in money. He can, of course, say that the priest takes money for reading the

marriage service, for christening the newborn babe, and for saying the last office for the dead; that the

physician sells healing; that justice itself is paid for; and that he is merely a party to the thing that is and must

be. He can say that, as the thing is, unless he sells his art he cannot live, that society will leave him to starve if

he does not hit its fancy in a picture, or a poem, or a statue; and all this is bitterly true. He is, and he must be,

only too glad if there is a market for his wares. Without a market for his wares he must perish, or turn to

making something that will sell better than pictures, or poems, or statues. All the same, the sin and the shame

remain, and the averted eye sees them still, with its inward vision. Many will make believe otherwise, but I

would rather not make believe otherwise; and in trying to write of Literature as Business I am tempted to

Literature is at once the most intimate and the most articulate of the arts. It cannot impart its effect through

the senses or the nerves as the other arts can; it is beautiful only through the intelligence; it is the mind

speaking to the mind; until it has been put into absolute terms, of an invariable significance, it does not exist

at all. It cannot awaken this emotion in one, and that in another; if it fails to express precisely the meaning of

the author, if it does not say HIM, it says nothing, and is nothing. So that when a poet has put his heart, much

or little, into a poem, and sold it to a magazine, the scandal is greater than when a painter has sold a picture to

a patron, or a sculptor has modelled a statue to order. These are artists less articulate and less intimate than

the poet; they are more exterior to their work; they are less personally in it; they part with less of themselves

in the dicker. It does not change the nature of the case to say that Tennyson and Longfellow and Emerson

sold the poems in which they couched the most mystical messages their genius was charged to bear mankind.

They submitted to the conditions which none can escape; but that does not justify the conditions, which are

none the less the conditions of hucksters because they are imposed upon poets. If it will serve to make my

meaning a little clearer we will suppose that a poet has been crossed in love, or has suffered some real

sorrow, like the loss of a wife or child. He pours out his broken heart in verse that shall bring tears of sacred

sympathy from his readers, and an editor pays him a hundred dollars for the right of bringing his verse to

their notice. It is perfectly true that the poem was not written for these dollars, but it is perfectly true that it

was sold for them. The poet must use his emotions to pay his provision bills; he has no other means; society

does not propose to pay his bills for him. Yet, and at the end of the ends, the unsophisticated witness finds the

transaction ridiculous, finds it repulsive, finds it shabby. Somehow he knows that if our huckstering

civilization did not at every moment violate the eternal fitness of things, the poet's song would have been

given to the world, and the poet would have been cared for by the whole human brotherhood, as any man

The instinctive sense of the dishonor which moneypurchase does to art is so strong that sometimes a man of

letters who can pay his way otherwise refuses pay for his work, as Lord Byron did, for a while, from a noble

pride, and as Count Tolstoy has tried to do, from a noble conscience. But Byron's publisher profited by a

generosity which did not reach his readers; and the Countess Tolstoy collects the copyright which her

husband foregoes; so that these two eminent instances of protest against business in literature may be said not

to have shaken its money basis. I know of no others; but there may be many that I am culpably ignorant of.

Still, I doubt if there are enough to affect the fact that Literature is Business as well as Art, and almost as

soon. At present business is the only human solidarity; we are all bound together with that chain, whatever

interests and tastes and principles separate us, and I feel quite sure that in writing of the Man of Letters as a

Man of Business, I shall attract far more readers than I should in writing of him as an Artist. Besides, as an

artist he has been done a great deal already; and a commercial state like ours has really more concern in him

as a business man. Perhaps it may sometimes be different; I do not believe it will till the conditions are

In the meantime I confidently appeal to the reader's imagination with the fact that there are several men of

letters among us who are such good men of business that they can command a hundred dollars a thousand

words for all they write; and at least one woman of letters who gets a hundred and fifty dollars a thousand

words. It is easy to write a thousand words a day, and supposing one of these authors to work steadily, it can

be seen that his net earnings during the year would come to some such sum as the President of the United

States gets for doing far less work of a much more perishable sort. If the man of letters were wholly a

business man this is what would happen; he would make his forty or fifty thousand dollars a year, and be able

to consort with bank presidents, and railroad officials, and rich tradesmen, and other flowers of our

plutocracy on equal terms. But, unfortunately, from a business point of view, he is also an artist, and the very

qualities that enable him to delight the public disable him from delighting it uninterruptedly. "No rose blooms

right along," as the English boys at Oxford made an American collegian say in a theme which they imagined

for him in his national parlance; and the man of letters, as an artist, is apt to have times and seasons when he

cannot blossom. Very often it shall happen that his mind will lie fallow between novels or stories for weeks

and months at a stretch; when the suggestions of the friendly editor shall fail to fruit in the essays or articles

desired; when the muse shall altogether withhold herself, or shall respond only in a feeble dribble of verse

which he might sell indeed, but which it would not be good business for him to put on the market. But

supposing him to be a very diligent and continuous worker, and so happy as to have fallen on a theme that

delights him and bears him along, he may please himself so ill with the result of his labors that he can do

nothing less in artistic conscience than destroy a day's work, a week's work, a month's work. I know one man

of letters who wrote today, and tore up tomorrow for nearly a whole summer. But even if part of the

mistaken work may be saved, because it is good work out of place, and not intrinsically bad, the task of

reconstruction wants almost as much time as the production; and then, when all seems done, comes the

anxious and endless process of revision. These drawbacks reduce the earning capacity of what I may call the

highcost man of letters in such measure that an author whose name is known everywhere, and whose

reputation is commensurate with the boundaries of his country, if it does not transcend them, shall have the

income, say, of a rising young physician, known to a few people in a subordinate city.

In view of this fact, so humiliating to an author in the presence of a nation of business men like ours, I do not

know that I can establish the man of letters in the popular esteem as very much of a business man after all. He

must still have a low rank among practical people; and he will be regarded by the great mass of Americans as

Perhaps not; and yet I would rather not have a consensus of public opinion on the question; I think I am more

There is this to be said in defence of men of letters on the business side, that literature is still an infant

industry with us, and so far from having been protected by our laws it was exposed for ninety years after the

foundation of the republic to the vicious competition of stolen goods. It is true that we now have the

international copyright law at last, and we can at least begin to forget our shame; but literary property has

only fortytwo years of life under our unjust statutes, and if it is attacked by robbers the law does not seek

out the aggressors and punish them, as it would seek out and punish the trespassers upon any other kind of

property; but it leaves the aggrieved owner to bring suit against them, and recover damages, if he can. This

may be right enough in itself; but I think, then, that all property should be defended by civil suit, and should

become public after fortytwo years of private tenure. The Constitution guarantees us all equality before the

law, but the lawmakers seem to have forgotten this in the case of our infant literary industry. So long as this

remains the case, we cannot expect the best business talent to go into literature, and the man of letters must

As I have hinted, it is but a little while that he has had any standing at all. I may say that it is only since the

was that literature has become a business with us. Before that time we had authors, and very good ones; it is

astonishing how good they were; but I do not remember any of them who lived by literature except Edgar A.

Poe, perhaps; and we all know how he lived; it was largely upon loans. They were either men of fortune, or

they were editors, or professors, with salaries or incomes apart from the small gains of their pens; or they

were helped out with public offices; one need not go over their names, or classify them. Some of them must

have made money by their books, but I question whether any one could have lived, even very simply, upon

the money his books brought him. No one could do that now, unless he wrote a book that we could not

recognize as a work of literature. But many authors live now, and live prettily enough, by the sale of the serial

publication of their writings to the magazines. They do not live so nicely as successful tradespeople, of

course, or as men in the other professions when they begin to make themselves names; the high state of

brokers, bankers, railroad operators, and the like is, in the nature of the case, beyond their fondest dreams of

pecuniary affluence and social splendor. Perhaps they do not want the chief seats in the synagogue; it is

certain they do not get them. Still, they do very fairly well, as things go; and several have incomes that would

seem riches to the great mass of worthy Americans who work with their hands for a livingwhen they can

get the work. Their incomes are mainly from serial publication in the different magazines; and the prosperity

of the magazines has given a whole class existence which, as a class, was wholly unknown among us before

the war. It is not only the famous or fully recognized authors who live in this way, but the much larger

number of clever people who are as yet known chiefly to the editors, and who may never make themselves a

public, but who do well a kind of acceptable work. These are the sort who do not get reprinted from the

periodicals; but the better recognized authors do get reprinted, and then their serial work in its completed

form appeals to the readers who say they do not read serials. The multitude of these is not great, and if an

author rested his hopes upon their favor he would be a much more embittered man than he now generally is.

But he understands perfectly well that his reward is in the serial and not in the book; the return from that he

may count as so much money found in the roada few hundreds, a very few thousands, at the most.

I doubt, indeed, whether the earnings of literary men are absolutely as great as they were earlier in the

century, in any of the Englishspeaking countries; relatively they are nothing like as great. Scott had forty

thousand dollars for "Woodstock," which was not a very large novel, and was by no means one of his best;

and forty thousand dollars had at least the purchasing powers of sixty thousand then. Moore had three

thousand guineas for "Lalla Rookh," but what publisher would be rash enough to pay twentyfive thousand

dollars for the masterpiece of a minor poet now? The book, except in very rare instances, makes nothing like

the return to the author that the magazine makes, and there are but two or three authors who find their account

in that form of publication. Those who do, those who sell the most widely in book form, are often not at all

desired by editors; with difficulty they get a serial accepted by any principal magazine. On the other hand,

there are authors whose books, compared with those of the popular favorites, do not sell, and yet they are

eagerly sought for by editors; they are paid the highest prices, and nothing that they offer is refused. These

are literary artists; and it ought to be plain from what I am saying that in belleslettres, at least, most of the

best literature now first sees the light in the magazines, and most of the second best appears first in book

form. The oldfashioned people who flatter themselves upon their distinction in not reading magazine fiction,

or magazine poetry, make a great mistake, and simply class themselves with the public whose taste is so

crude that they cannot enjoy the best. Of course this is true mainly, if not merely, of belleslettres; history,

science, politics, metaphysics, in spite of the many excellent articles and papers in these sorts upon what used

to be called various emergent occasions, are still to be found at their best in books. The most monumental

example of literature, at once light and good, which has first reached the public in book form is in the

different publications of Mark Twain; but Mr. Clemens has of late turned to the magazines too, and now

takes their mint mark before he passes into general circulation. All this may change again, but at present the

magazineswe have no longer any reviewsform the most direct approach to that part of our reading

public which likes the highest things in literary art. Their readers, if we may judge from the quality of the

literature they get, are more refined than the book readers in our community; and their taste has no doubt

been cultivated by that of the disciplined and experienced editors. So far as I have known these they are men

of aesthetic conscience, and of generous sympathy. They have their preferences in the different kinds, and

they have their theory of what kind will be most acceptable to their readers; but they exercise their selective

function with the wish to give them the best things they can. I do not know one of themand it has been my

good fortune to know them nearly allwho would print a wholly inferior thing for the sake of an inferior

class of readers, though they may sometimes decline a good thing because for one reason or another they

believe it would not be liked. Still, even this does not often happen; they would rather chance the good thing

New writers often suppose themselves rejected because they are unknown; but the unknown man of force and

quality is of all others the man whom the editor welcomes to his page. He knows that there is always a danger

that the reigning favorite may fail to please; that at any rate, in the order of things, he is passing away, and

that if the magazine is not to pass away with the men who have made it, there must be a constant infusion of

fresh life. Few editors are such fools and knaves as to let their personal feeling disable their judgment; and

the young writer who gets his manuscript back may be sure that it is not because the editor dislikes him, for

some reason or no reason. Above all, he can trust me that his contribution has not been passed unread, or has

failed of the examination it merits. Editors are not men of infallible judgment, but they do use their judgment,

The young author who wins recognition in a firstclass magazine has achieved a double success, first, with

the editor, and then with the best reading public. Many factitious and fallacious literary reputations have been

made through books, but very few have been made through the magazines, which are not only the best means

of living, but of outliving, with the author; they are both bread and fame to him. If I insist a little upon the

high office which this modern form of publication fulfils in the literary world, it is because I am impatient of

the antiquated and ignorant prejudice which classes the magazines as ephemeral. They are ephemeral in form,

but in substance they are not ephemeral, and what is best in them awaits its resurrection in the book, which,

as the first form, is so often a lasting death. An interesting proof of the value of the magazine to literature is

the fact that a good novel will have wider acceptance as a book from having been a magazine serial.

I am not sure that the decay of the book is not owing somewhat to the decay of reviewing. This does not now

seem to me so thorough, or even so general as it was some years ago, and I think the book oftener comes to

the buyer without the warrant of a critical estimate than it once did. That is never the case with material

printed in a magazine of high class. A welltrained critic, who is bound by the strongest ties of honor and

interest not to betray either his employer or his public, has judged it, and his practical approval is a warrant of

Under the regime of the great literary periodicals the prosperity of literary men would be much greater than it

actually is, if the magazines were altogether literary. But they are not, and this is one reason why literature is

still the hungriest of the professions. Twothirds of the magazines are made up of material which, however

excellent, is without literary quality. Very probably this is because even the highest class of readers, who are

the magazine readers, have small love of pure literature, which seems to have been growing less and less in

all classes. I say seems, because there are really no means of ascertaining the fact, and it may be that the

editors are mistaken in making their periodicals twothirds popular science, politics, economics, and the

timely topics which I will call contemporanies; I have sometimes thought they were. But however that may

be, their efforts in this direction have narrowed the field of literary industry, and darkened the hope of literary

prosperity kindled by the unexampled prosperity of their periodicals. They pay very well indeed for literature;

they pay from five or six dollars a thousand words for the work of the unknown writer, to a hundred and fifty

dollars a thousand words for that of the most famous, or the most popular, if there is a difference between

fame and popularity; but they do not, altogether, want enough literature to justify the best business talent in

devoting itself to belles lettres, to fiction, or poetry, or humorous sketches of travel, or light essays; business

talent can do far better in drygoods, groceries, drugs, stocks, real estate, railroads, and the like. I do not think

there is any danger of a ruinous competition from it in the field which, though narrow, seems so rich to us

The most of the material contributed to the magazines is the subject of agreement between the editor and the

author; it is either suggested by the author, or is the fruit of some suggestion from the editor; in any case the

price is stipulated beforehand, and it is no longer the custom for a wellknown contributor to leave the

payment to the justice or the generosity of the publisher; that was never a fair thing to either, nor ever a wise

thing. Usually, the price is so much a thousand words, a truly odious method of computing literary value, and

one well calculated to make the author feel keenly the hatefulness of selling his art at all. It is as if a painter

sold his picture at so much a square inch, or a sculptor bargained away a group of statuary by the pound. But

it is a custom that you cannot always successfully quarrel with, and most writers gladly consent to it, if only

the price a thousand words is large enough. The sale to the editor means the sale of the serial rights only, but

if the publisher of the magazine is also a publisher of books, the republication of the material is supposed to

be his right, unless there is an understanding to the contrary; the terms for this are another affair. Formerly

something more could be got for the author by the simultaneous appearance of his work in an English

magazine, but now the great American magazines, which pay far higher prices than any others in the world,

have a circulation in England so much exceeding that of any English periodical, that the simultaneous

publication can no longer be arranged for from this side, though I believe it is still done here from the other

I think this is the case of authorship as it now stands with regard to the magazines. I am not sure that the case

is in every way improved for young authors. The magazines all maintain a staff for the careful examination of

manuscripts, but as most of the material they print has been engaged, the number of volunteer contributions

that they can use is very small; one of the greatest of them, I know, does not use fifty in the course of a year.

The new writer, then, must be very good to be accepted, and when accepted he may wait long before he is

printed. The pressure is so great in these avenues to the public favor that one, two, three years, are no

uncommon periods of delay. If the writer has not the patience for this, or has a soul above cooling his heels in

the courts of fame, or must do his best to earn something at once, the book is his immediate hope. How slight

a hope the book is I have tried to hint already, but if a book is vulgar enough in sentiment, and crude enough

in taste, and flashy enough in incident, or, better or worse still, if it is a bit hot in the mouth, and promises

impropriety if not indecency, there is a very fair chance of its success; I do not mean success with a

selfrespecting publisher, but with the public, which does not personally put its name to it, and is not openly

smirched by it. I will not talk of that kind of book, however, but of the book which the young author has

written out of an unspoiled heart and an untainted mind, such as most young men and women write; and I

will suppose that it has found a publisher. It is human nature, as competition has deformed human nature, for

the publisher to wish the author to take all the risks, and he possibly proposes that the author shall publish it

at his own expense, and let him have a percentage of the retail price for managing it. If not that, he proposes

that the author shall pay for the stereotype plates, and take fifteen per cent. of the price of the book; or if this

will not go, if the author cannot, rather than will not do it (he is commonly only too glad to do anything he

can), then the publisher offers him ten per cent. of the retail price after the first thousand copies have been

sold. But if he fully believes in the book, he will give ten per cent. from the first copy sold, and pay all the

costs of publication himself. The book is to be retailed for a dollar and a half, and the publisher is very well

pleased with a new book that sells fifteen hundred copies. Whether the author has as much reason to be so is

a question, but if the book does not sell more he has only himself to blame, and had better pocket in silence

the two hundred and twentyfive dollars he gets for it, and bless his publisher, and try to find work

somewhere at five dollars a week. The publisher has not made any more, if quite as much as the author, and

until a book has sold two thousand copies the division is fair enough. After that, the heavier expenses of

manufacturing have been defrayed, and the book goes on advertising itself; there is merely the cost of paper,

printing, binding, and marketing to be met, and the arrangement becomes fairer and fairer for the publisher.

The author has no right to complain of this, in the case of his first book, which he is only too grateful to get

accepted at all. If it succeeds, he has himself to blame for making the same arrangement for his second or

third; it is his fault, or else it is his necessity, which is practically the same thing. It will be business for the

publisher to take advantage of his necessity quite the same as if it were his fault; but I do not say that he will

At one time there seemed a probability of the enlargement of the author's gains by subscription publication,

and one very wellknown American author prospered fabulously in that way. The percentage offered by the

subscription houses was only about half as much as that paid by the trade, but the sales were so much greater

that the author could very well afford to take it. Where the bookdealer sold ten, the bookagent sold a

hundred; or at least he did so in the case of Mark Twain's books; and we all thought it reasonable he could do

so with ours. Such of us as made experiment of him, however, found the facts illogical. No book of literary

quality was made to go by subscription except Mr. Clemens's books, and I think these went because the

subscription public never knew what good literature they were. This sort of readers, or buyers, were so used

to getting something worthless for their money, that they would not spend it for artistic fiction, or indeed for

any fiction all, except Mr. Clemens's, which they probably supposed bad. Some good books of travel had a

measurable success through the book agents, but not at all the success that had been hoped for; and I believe

now the subscription trade again publishes only compilations, or such works as owe more to the skill of the

editor than the art of the writer. Mr. Clemens himself no longer offers his books to the public in that way.

It is not common, I think, in this country, to publish on the halfprofits system, but it is very common in

England, where, owing probably to the moisture in the air, which lends a fairy outline to every prospect, it

seems to be peculiarly alluring. One of my own early books was published there on these terms, which I

accepted with the insensate joy of the young author in getting any terms from a publisher. The book sold,

sold every copy of the small first edition, and in due time the publisher's statement came. I did not think my

half of the profits was very great, but it seemed a fair division after every imaginable cost had been charged

up against my poor book, and that frail venture had been made to pay the expenses of composition,

corrections, paper, printing, binding, advertising, and editorial copies. The wonder ought to have been that

there was anything at all coming to me, but I was young and greedy then, and I really thought there ought to

have been more. I was disappointed, but I made the best of it, of course, and took the account to the junior

partner of the house which employed me, and said that I should like to draw on him for the sum due me from

the London publishers. He said, Certainly; but after a glance at the account he smiled and said he supposed I

knew how much the sum was? I answered, Yes; it was eleven pounds nine shillings, was not it? But I owned

at the same time that I never was good at figures, and that I found English money peculiarly baffling. He

laughed now, and said, It was eleven shillings and nine pence. In fact, after all those charges for composition,

corrections, paper, printing, binding, advertising, and editorial copies, there was a most ingenious and wholly

surprising charge of ten per cent. commission on sales, which reduced my half from pounds to shillings, and

handsomely increased the publisher's half in proportion. I do not now dispute the justice of the charge. It was

not the fault of the halfprofits system, it was the fault of the glad young author who did not distinctly inform

himself of its mysterious nature in agreeing to it, and had only to reproach himself if he was finally

But there is always something disappointing in the accounts of publishers, which I fancy is because authors

are strangely constituted, rather than because publishers are so. I will confess that I have such inordinate

expectations of the sale of my books which I hope I think modestly of, that the sales reported to me never

seem great enough. The copyright due me, no matter how handsome it is, appears deplorably mean, and I feel

impoverished for several days after I get it. But then, I ought to add that my balance in the bank is always

much less than I have supposed it to be, and my own checks, when they come back to me, have the air of

No, we literary men must learn, no matter how we boast ourselves in business, that the distress we feel from

our publisher's accounts is simply idiopathic; and I for one wish to bear my witness to the constant good faith

It is supposed that because they have the affair altogether in their hands they are apt to take advantage in it;

but this does not follow, and as a matter of fact they have the affair no more in their own hands than any other

business man you have an open account with. There is nothing to prevent you from looking at their books,

except your own innermost belief and fear that their books are correct, and that your literature has brought

The author is not to blame for his superficial delusion to the contrary, especially if he has written a book that

has set everyone talking, because it is of a vital interest. It may be of a vital interest, without being at all the

kind of book people want to buy; it may be the kind of book that they are content to know at second hand;

there are such fatal books; but hearing so much, and reading so much about it, the author cannot help hoping

that it has sold much more than the publisher says. The publisher is undoubtedly honest, however, and the

The English writers seem largely to suspect their publishers (I cannot say with how much reason, for my

English publisher is Scotch, and I should be glad to be so true a man as I think him); but I believe that

American authors, when not flown with flattering reviews, as largely trust theirs. Of course there are rogues

in every walk of life. I will not say that I ever personally met them in the flowery paths of literature, but I

have heard of other people meeting them there, just as I have heard of people seeing ghosts, and I have to

believe in both the rogues and the ghosts, without the witness of my own senses. I suppose, upon such

grounds mainly, that there are wicked publishers, but in the case of our books that do not sell, I am afraid that

it is the graceless and inappreciative public which is far more to blame than the wickedest of the publishers. It

is true that publishers will drive a hard bargain when they can, or when they must; but there is nothing to

hinder an author from driving a hard bargain, too, when he can, or when he must; and it is to be said of the

publisher that he is always more willing to abide by the bargain when it is made than the author is; perhaps

because he has the best of it. But he has not always the best of it; I have known publishers too generous to

take advantage of the innocence of authors; and I fancy that if publishers had to do with any race less

diffident than authors, they would have won a repute for unselfishness that they do not now enjoy. It is

certain that in the long period when we flew the black flag of piracy there were many among our corsairs on

the high seas of literature who paid a fair price for the stranger craft they seized; still oftener they removed

the cargo, and released their capture with several weeks' provision; and although there was undoubtedly a

good deal of actual throatcutting and scuttling, still I feel sure that there was less of it than there would have

been in any other line of business released to the unrestricted plunder of the neighbor. There was for a long

time even a comity among these amiable buccaneers, who agreed not to interfere with each other, and so

were enabled to pay over to their victims some portion of the profit from their stolen goods. Of all business

men publishers are probably the most faithful and honorable, and are only surpassed in virtue when men of

Publishers have their little theories, their little superstitions, and their blind faith in the great god Chance,

which we all worship. These things lead them into temptation and adversity, but they seem to do fairly well

as business men, even in their own behalf. They do not make above the usual ninetyfive per cent. of

failures, and more publishers than authors get rich. I have known several publishers who kept their carriages,

but I have never known even one author to keep his carriage on the profits of his literature, unless it was in

some modest country place where one could take care of one's own horse. But this is simply because the

authors are so many, and the publishers are so few. If we wish to reverse their positions, we must study how

to reduce the number of authors and increase the number of publishers; then prosperity will smile our way.

Some theories or superstitions publishers and authors share together. One of these is that it is best to keep

your books all in the hands of one publisher if you can, because then he can give them more attention ad sell

more of them. But my own experience is that when my books were in the hands of three publishers they sold

quite as well as when one had them; and a fellow author whom I approached in question of this venerable

belief, laughed at it. This bold heretic held that it was best to give each new book to a new publisher, for then

the fresh man put all his energies into pushing it; but if you had them all together, the publisher rested in a

vain security that one book would sell another, and that the fresh venture would revive the public interest in

the stale ones. I never knew this to happen, and I must class it with the superstitions of the trade. It may be so

in other and more constant countries, but in our fickle republic, each last book has to fight its own way to

public favor, much as if it had no sort of literary lineage. Of course this is stating it rather largely, and the

truth will be found inside rather than outside of my statement; but there is at least truth enough in it to give

the young author pause. While one is preparing to sell his basket of glass, he may as well ask himself whether

it is better to part with all to one dealer or not; and if he kicks it over, in spurning the imaginary customer

who asks the favor of taking entire stock, that will be his fault, and not the fault of the question.

However, the most important question of all with the man of letters as a man of business, is what kind of

book will sell the best of itself, because, at the end of the ends, a book sells itself or does not sell at all;

kissing, after long ages of reasoning and a great deal of culture, still goes by favor, and though innumerable

generations of horses have been led to water, not one horse has yet been made to drink. With the best, or the

worst, will in the world, no publisher can force a book into acceptance. Advertising will not avail, and

reviewing is notoriously futile. If the book does not strike the popular fancy, or deal with some universal

interest, which need by no means be a profound or important one, the drums and the cymbals shall be beaten

in vain. The book may be one of the best and wisest books in the world, but if it has not this sort of appeal in

it, the readers of it, and worse yet, the purchasers, will remain few, though fit. The secret of this, like most

other secrets of a rather ridiculous world, is in the awful keeping of fate, and we can only hope to surprise it

by some lucky chance. To plan a surprise of it, to aim a book at the public favor, is the most hopeless of all

endeavors, as it is one of the unworthiest; and I can, neither as a man of letters nor as a man of business,

counsel the young author to do it. The best that you can do is to write the book that it gives you the most

pleasure to write, to put as much heart and soul as you have about you into it, and then hope as hard as you

can to reach the heart and soul of the great multitude of your fellowmen. That, and that alone, is good

The failures in literature are no less mystifying than the successes, though they are upon the whole not so

mortifying. I have seen a good many of these failures, and I know of one case so signal that I must speak of

it, even to the discredit of the public. It is the case of a novelist whose work seems to me of the best that we

have done in that sort, whose books represent our life with singular force and singular insight, and whose

equipment for his art, through study, travel, and the world, is of the rarest. He has a strong, robust, manly

style; his stories are well knit, and his characters are of the flesh and blood complexion which we know in our

daily experience; and yet he has failed to achieve one of the first places in our literature; if I named his name

here, I am afraid that it would be quite unknown to the greatest part of my readers. I have never been able to

account for his want of success, except through the fact that his stories did not please women, though why

they did not, I cannot guess. They did not like them for the same reason that they did not like Dr. Fell; and

that reason was quite enough for them. It must be enough for him, I am afraid; but I believe that if this author

had been writing in a country where men decided the fate of books, the fate of his books would have been

The man of letters must make up his mind that in the United States the fate of a book is in the hands of the

women. It is the women with us who have the most leisure, and they read the most books. They are far better

educated, for the most part, than our men, and their tastes, if not their minds, are more cultivated. Our men

read the newspapers, but our women read the books; the more refined among them read the magazines. If

they do not always know what is good, they do know what pleases them, and it is useless to quarrel with their

decisions, for there is no appeal from them. To go from them to the men would be going from a higher to a

lower court, which would be honestly surprised and bewildered, if the thing were possible. As I say, the

author of light literature, and often the author of solid literature, must resign himself to obscurity unless the

ladies choose to recognize him. Yet it would be impossible to forecast their favor for this kind or that. Who

could prophesy it for another, who guess it for himself? We must strive blindly for it, and hope somehow that

our best will also be our prettiest; but we must remember at the same time that it is not the ladies' man who is

There are of course a few, a very few, of our greatest authors, who have striven forward to the first place in

our Valhalla without the help of the largest readingclass among us; but I should say that these were chiefly

the humorists, for whom women are said nowhere to have any warm liking, and who have generally with us

come up through the newspapers, and have never lost the favor of the newspaper readers. They have become

literary men, as it were, without the newspapers' readers knowing it; but those who have approached literature

from another direction, have won fame in it chiefly by grace of the women, who first read them, and then

made their husbands and fathers read them. Perhaps, then, and as a matter of business, it would be well for a

serious author, when he finds that he is not pleasing the women, and probably never will please them, to turn

humorous author, and aim at the countenance of the men. Except as a humorist he certainly never will get it,

for your American, when he is not making money, or trying to do it, is making a joke, or trying to do it.

I hope that I have not been hinting that the author who approaches literature through journalism is not as fine

and high a literary man as the author who comes directly to it, or through some other avenue; I have not the

least notion of condemning myself by any such judgment. But I think it is pretty certain that fewer and fewer

authors are turning from journalism to literature, though the entente cordiale between the two professions

seems as great as ever. I fancy, though I may be as mistaken in this as I am in a good many other things, that

most journalists would have been literary men if they could, at the beginning, and that the kindness they

almost always show to young authors is an effect of the selfpity they feel for their own thwarted wish to be

authors. When an author is once warm in the saddle, and is riding his winged horse to glory, the case is

different: they have then often no sentiment about him; he is no longer the image of their own young

aspiration, and they would willingly see Pegasus buck under him, or have him otherwise brought to grief and

shame. They are apt to gird at him for his unhallowed gains, and they would be quite right in this if they

proposed any way for him to live without them; as I have allowed at the outset, the gains ARE unhallowed.

Apparently it is unseemly for an author or two to be making half as much by their pens as popular ministers

often receive in salary; the public is used to the pecuniary prosperity of some of the clergy, and at least sees

nothing droll in it; but the paragrapher can always get a smile out of his readers at the gross disparity between

the ten thousand dollars Jones gets for his novel, and the five pounds Milton got for his epic. I have always

thought Milton was paid too little, but I will own that he ought not to have been paid at all, if it comes to that.

Again, I say that no man ought to live by any art; it is a shame to the art if not to the artist; but as yet there is

The literary man has certainly no complaint to make of the newspaper man, generally speaking. I have often

thought with amazement of the kindness shown by the press to our whole unworthy craft, and of the help so

lavishly and freely given to rising and even risen authors. To put it coarsely, brutally, I do not suppose that

any other business receives so much gratuitous advertising, except the theatre. It is enormous, the space given

in the newspapers to literary notes, literary announcements, reviews, interviews, personal paragraphs,

biographies, and all the rest, not to mention the vigorous and incisive attacks made from time to time upon

different authors for their opinions of romanticism, realism, capitalism, socialism, Catholicism, and

Sandemanianism. I have sometimes doubted whether the public cared for so much of it all as the editors gave

them, but I have always said this under my breath, and I have thankfully taken my share of the common

bounty. A curious fact, however, is that this vast newspaper publicity seems to have very little to do with an

author's popularity, though ever so much with his notoriety. Those strange subterranean fellows who never

come to the surface in the newspapers, except for a contemptuous paragraph at long intervals, outsell the

famousest of the celebrities, and secretly have their horses and yachts and country seats, while immodest

merit is left to get about on foot and look up summer board at the cheaper hotels. That is probably right, or it

would not happen; it seems to be in the general scheme, like millionairism and pauperism; but it becomes a

question, then, whether the newspapers, with all their friendship for literature, and their actual generosity to

literary men, can really help one much to fortune, however much they help one to fame. Such a question is

almost too dreadful, and though I have asked it, I will not attempt to answer it. I would much rather consider

the question whether if the newspapers can make an author they can also unmake him, and I feel pretty safe

in saying that I do not think they can. The Afreet once out of the bottle can never be coaxed back or cudgelled

back; and the author whom the newspapers have made cannot be unmade by the newspapers. They consign

him to oblivion with a rumor that fills the land, and they keep visiting him there with an uproar which attracts

more and more notice to him. An author who has long enjoyed their favor, suddenly and rather mysteriously

loses it, through his opinions on certain matters of literary taste, say. For the space of five or six years he is

denounced with a unanimity and an incisive vigor that ought to convince him there is something wrong. If he

thinks it is his censors, he clings to his opinions with an abiding constance, while ridicule, obloquy,

caricature, burlesque, critical refutation and personal detraction follow unsparingly upon every expression,

for instance, of his belief that romantic fiction is the highest form of fiction, and that the base, sordid,

photographic, commonplace school of Tolstoy, Tourguenief, Zola, Hardy, and James, are unworthy a

moment's comparison with the school of Rider Haggard. All this ought certainly to unmake the author in

question, and strew his disjecta membra wide over the realm of oblivion. But this is not really the effect.

Slowly but surely the clamor dies away, and the author, without relinquishing one of his wicked opinions, or

in anywise showing himself repentant, remains apparently whole; and he even returns in a measure to the old

kindness: not indeed to the earlier day of perfectly smooth things, but certainly to as much of it as he merits.

I would not have the young author, from this imaginary case, believe that it is well either to court or to defy

the good opinion of the press. In fact, it will not only be better taste, but it will be better business for him to

keep it altogether out of his mind. There is only one whom he can safely try to please, and that is himself. If

he does this he will very probably please other people; but if he does not please himself he may be sure that

he will not please them; the book which he has not enjoyed writing, no one will enjoy reading. Still, I would

not have him attach too little consequence to the influence of the press. I should say, let him take the celebrity

it gives him gratefully but not too seriously; let him reflect that he is often the necessity rather than the ideal

of the paragrapher, and that the notoriety the journalists bestow upon him is not the measure of their

acquaintance with his work, far less his meaning. They are good fellows, those poor, hardpushed fellows of

the press, but the very conditions of their censure, friendly or unfriendly, forbid it thoroughness, and it must

Whether the newspapers will become the rivals of the magazines as the vehicle of literature is a matter that

still remains in doubt with the careful observer, after a decade of the newspaper syndicate. Our daily papers

never had the habit of the feuilleton as those of the European continent have it; they followed the English

tradition in this, though they departed from it in so many other things; and it was not till the Sunday editions

of the great dailies arose that there was any real hope for the serial in the papers. I suspect that it was the vast

demand for material in their pagestwelve, eighteen, twentyfour, thirtysixthat created the syndicate,

for it was the necessity of the Sunday edition not only to have material in abundance, but, with all possible

regard for quality, to have it cheap; and the syndicate, when it came into being, imagined a means of meeting

this want. It sold the same material to as many newspapers as it could for simultaneous publication in their

Sunday editions, which had each its special field, and did not compete with another.

I do not think the syndicate began with serials, and I do not think it is likely to end with them. It has rather

worked the vein of interviews, personal adventure, popular science, useful information, travel, sketches, and

short stories. Still it has placed a good many serial stories, and at pretty good prices, but not generally so

good as those the magazines pay the better sort of writers; for the worse sort it has offered perhaps the best

market they have had out of book form. By the newspapers, the syndicate conceives, and perhaps justly, that

something sensational is desired; yet all the serial stories it has placed cannot be called sensational. It has

enlarged the field of belleslettres, certainly, but not permanently, I think, in the case of the artistic novel. As

yet the women, who form the largest, if not the only cultivated class among us, have not taken very cordially

to the Sunday edition, except for its social gossip; they certainly do not go to it for their fiction, and its fiction

In fact the newspapers prefer to remain newspapers, at least in quality if not in form; and I heard a story the

other day from a charming young writer of his experience with them, which may have some instruction for

the magazines that less wisely aim to become newspapers. He said that when he carried his work to the

editors they struck out what he thought the best of it, because it was what they called magaziny; not

contemptuously, but with an instinctive sense of what their readers wanted of them, and did not want. It was

apparent that they did not want literary art, or even the appearance of it; they wanted their effects primary;

they wanted their emotions raw, or at least saignantes from the joint of fact, and not prepared by the fancy or

The syndicate has no doubt advanced the prosperity of the short story by increasing the demand for it. We

Americans had already done pretty well in that kind, for there was already a great demand for the short story

in the magazines; but the syndicate of Sunday editions particularly cultivated it, and made it very paying. I

have heard that some shortstory writers made the syndicate pay more for their wares than they got from the

magazines for them, considering that the magazine publication could enhance their reputation, but the Sunday

edition could do nothing for it. They may have been right or not in this; I will not undertake to say, but that

In spite of the fact that short stories when gathered into a volume and republished would not sell so well as a

novel, the short story flourished, and its success in the periodicals began to be felt in the book trade: volumes

of short stories suddenly began to sell. But now again, it is said the bottom has dropped out, and they do not

sell, and their adversity in book form threatens to affect them in the magazines; an editor told me the other

day that he had more short stories than he knew what to do with; and I was not offering him a short story of

A permanent decline in the market for a kind of literary art which we have excelled in, or if we have not

There are other sorts of light literature once greatly in demand, but now apparently no longer desired by

editors, who ought to know what their readers desire. Among these is the travel sketch, to me a very

agreeable kind, and really to be regretted in its decline. There are some reasons for its decline besides a

change of taste in readers, and a possible surfeit. Travel itself has become so universal that everybody, in a

manner, has been everywhere, and the foreign scene has no longer the charm of strangeness. We do not think

the Old World either so romantic or so ridiculous as we used; and perhaps from an instinctive perception of

this altered mood writers no longer appeal to our sentiment or our humor with sketches of outlandish people

and places. Of course this can hold true only in a general way; the thing is still done, but not nearly so much

done as formerly. When one thinks of the long line of American writers who have greatly pleased in this sort,

and who even got their first fame in it, one must grieve to see it obsolescent. Irving, Curtis, Bayard Taylor,

Herman Melville, Ross Browne, Ik Marvell, Longfellow, Lowell, Story, Mr. James, Mr. Aldrich, Colonel

Hay, Mr. Warner, Mrs. Hunt, Mr. C.W. Stoddard, Mark Twain, and many others whose names will not come

to me at the moment, have in their several ways richly contributed to our pleasure in it; but I cannot now

fancy a young author finding favor with an editor in a sketch of travel, or a study of foreign manners and

customs; his work would have to be of the most signal importance and brilliancy to overcome the editor's

feeling that the thing had been done already; and I believe that a publisher if offered a book of such things,

would look at it askance, and plead the wellknown quiet of the trade. Still, I may be mistaken.

I am rather more confident about the decline of another literary species, namely, the light essay. We have

essays enough and to spare, of certain soberer and severer sorts, such as grapple with problems and deal with

conditions; but the kind I mean, the slightly humorous, gentle, refined, and humane kind, seems no longer to

abound as it once did. I do not know whether the editor discourages them, knowing his readers' frame, or

whether they do not offer themselves, but I seldom find them in the magazines. I certainly do not believe that

if anyone were now to write essays such as Mr. Warner's "Backlog Studies," an editor would refuse them;

and perhaps nobody really writes them. Nobody seems to write the sort that Colonel Higginson formerly

contributed to the periodicals, or such as Emerson wrote. Without a great name behind it, I am afraid that a

volume of essays would find few buyers, even after the essays had made a public in the magazines. There are,

of course, instances to the contrary, but they are not so many or so striking as to make me think that the essay

I suspect that good poetry by wellknown hands was never better paid in the magazines than it is now. I must

say, too, that I think the quality of the minor poetry of our day is better than that of twentyfive or thirty

years ago. I could name half a score of young poets whose work from time to time gives me great pleasure,

by the reality of its feeling, and the delicate perfection of its art, but I will not name them, for fear of passing

over half a score of others equally meritorious. We have certainly no reason to be discouraged, whatever

reason the poets themselves have to be so, and I do not think that even in the short story our younger writers

are doing better work than they are doing in the slighter forms of verse. Yet the notion of inviting business

talent into this field would be as preposterous as that of asking it to devote itself to the essay. What book of

verse by a recent poet, if we except some such peculiarly gifted poet as Mr. Whitcomb Riley, has paid its

expenses, not to speak of any profit to the author? Of course, it would be rather more offensive and ridiculous

that it should do so than that any other form of literary art should do so; and yet there is no more provision in

our economic system for the support of the poet apart from his poems, than there is for the support of the

novelist apart from his novel. One could not make any more money by writing poetry than by writing history,

but it is a curious fact that while the historians have usually been rich men, and able to afford the luxury of

writing history, the poets have usually been poor men, with no pecuniary justification in their devotion to a

To be sure, it can be said for them that it costs far less to set up poet than to set up historian. There is no

outlay for copying documents, or visiting libraries, or buying books. In fact, except as historian, the man of

letters, in whatever walk, has not only none of the expenses of other men of business, but none of the

expenses of other artists. He has no such outlay to make for materials, or models, or studio rent as the painter

or the sculptor has, and his income, such as it is, is immediate. If he strikes the fancy of the editor with the

first thing he offers, as he very well may, it is as well with him as with other men after long years of

apprenticeship. Although he will always be the better for an apprenticeship, and the longer apprenticeship the

better, he may practically need none at all. Such are the strange conditions of his acceptance with the public,

that he may please better without it than with it. An author's first book is too often not only his luckiest, but

really his best; it has a brightness that dies out under the school he puts himself to, but a painter or sculptor is

In view of this fact it become again very hard to establish the author's status in the business world, and at

moments I have grave question whether he belongs there at all, except as a novelist. There is, of course, no

outlay for him in this sort, any more than in any other sort of literature, but it at least supposes and exacts

some measure of preparation. A young writer may produce a brilliant and very perfect romance, just as he

may produce a brilliant and very perfect poem, but in the field of realistic fiction, or in what we used to call

the novel of manners, a writer can only produce an inferior book at the outset. For this work he needs

experience and observation, not so much of others as of himself, for ultimately his characters will all come

out of himself, and he will need to know motive and character with such thoroughness and accuracy as he can

acquire only through his own heart. A man remains in a measure strange to himself as long as he lives, and

the very sources of novelty in his work will be within himself; he can continue to give it freshness in no other

way than by knowing himself better and better. But a young writer and an untrained writer has not yet begun

to be acquainted even with the lives of other men. The world around him remains a secret as well as the

world within him, and both unfold themselves simultaneously to that experience of joy and sorrow that can

come only with the lapse of time. Until he is well on toward forty, he will hardly have assimilated the

materials of a great novel, although he may have accumulated them. The novelist, then, is a man of letters

who is like a man of business in the necessity of preparation for his calling, though he does not pay

storerent, and may carry all his affairs under his hat, as the phrase is. He alone among men of letters may

look forward to that sort of continuous prosperity which follows from capacity and diligence in other

vocations; for storytelling is now a fairly recognized trade, and the storyteller has a moneystanding in the

economic world. It is not a very high standing, I think, and I have expressed the belief that it does not bring

him the respect felt for men in other lines of business. Still our people cannot deny some consideration to a

man who gets a hundred dollars a thousand words. That is a fact appreciable to business, and the man of

letters in the line of fiction may reasonably feel that his place in our civilization, though he may owe it to the

women who form the great mass of his readers, has something of the character of a vested interest in the eyes

of men. There is, indeed, as yet no conspiracy law which will avenge the attempt to injure him in his

business. A critic, or a dark conjuration of critics, may damage him at will and to the extent of their power,

and he has no recourse but to write better books, or worse. The law will do nothing for him, and a boycott of

his books might be preached with immunity by any class of men not liking his opinions on the question of

industrial slavery or antipaedobaptism. Still the market for his wares is steadier than the market for any other

kind of literary wares, and the prices are better. The historian, who is a kind of inferior realist, has something

like the same steadiness in the market, but the prices he can command are much lower, and the two branches

of the novelist's trade are not to be compared in a business way. As for the essayist, the poet, the traveller, the

popular scientist, they are nowhere in the competition for the favor of readers. The reviewer, indeed, has a

pretty steady call for his work, but I fancy the reviewers who get a hundred dollars a thousand words could all

stand upon the point of a needle without crowding one another; I should rather like to see them doing it.

Another gratifying fact of the situation is that the best writers of fiction who are most in demand with the

magazines, probably get nearly as much money for their work as the inferior novelists who outsell them by

tens of thousands, and who make their appeal to the innumerable multitude of the less educated and less

cultivated buyers of fiction in bookform. I think they earn their money, but if I did not think all of the higher

class of novelists earned so much money as they get, I should not be so invidious as to single out for reproach

The difficulty about payment, as I have hinted, is that literature has no objective value really, but only a

subjective value, if I may so express it. A poem, an essay, a novel, even a paper on political economy, may be

worth gold untold to one reader, and worth nothing whatever to another. It may be precious to one mood of

the reader, and worthless to another mood of the same reader. How, then, is it to be priced, and how is it to be

fairly marketed? All people must be fed, and all people must be clothed, and all people must be housed; and

so meat, raiment, and shelter are things of positive and obvious necessity, which may fitly have a market

price put upon them. But there is no such positive and obvious necessity, I am sorry to say, for fiction, or not

for the higher sort of fiction. The sort of fiction which corresponds to the circus and the variety theatre in the

showbusiness seems essential to the spiritual health of the masses, but the most cultivated of the classes can

get on, from time to time, without an artistic novel. This is a great pity, and I should be very willing that

readers might feel something like the pangs of hunger and cold, when deprived of their finer fiction; but

apparently they never do. Their dumb and passive need is apt only to manifest itself negatively, or in the form

of weariness of this author or that. The publisher of books can ascertain the fact through the declining sales of

a writer; but the editor of a magazine, who is the best customer of the best writers, must feel the market with

a much more delicate touch. Sometimes it may be years before he can satisfy himself that his readers are sick

of Smith, and are pining for Jones; even then he cannot know how long their mood will last, and he is by no

means safe in cutting down Smith's price and putting up Jones's. With the best will in the world to pay justly,

he cannot. Smith, who has been boring his readers to death for a year, may write to morrow a thing that will

please them so much that he will at once be a prime favorite again; and Jones, whom they have been asking

for, may do something so uncharacteristic and alien that it will be a flat failure in the magazine. The only

thing that gives either writer positive value is his acceptance with the reader; but the acceptance is from

month to month wholly uncertain. Authors are largely matters of fashion, like this style of bonnet, or that

shape of gown. Last spring the dresses were all made with lace berthas, and Smith was read; this year the

butterfly capes are worn, and Jones is the favorite author. Who shall forecast the fall and winter modes?

In this inquiry it is always the author rather than the publisher, always the contributor rather than the editor,

whom I am concerned for. I study the difficulties of the publisher and editor only because they involve the

author and the contributor; if they did not, I will not say with how hard a heart I should turn from them; my

only pang now in scrutinizing the business conditions of literature is for the makers of literature, not the

After all, and in spite of my vaunting title, is the man of letters ever a business man? I suppose that, strictly

speaking, he never is, except in those rare instances where, through need or choice, he is the publisher as well

as the author of his books. Then he puts something on the market and tries to sell it there, and is a man of

business. But otherwise he is an artist merely, and is allied to the great mass of wageworkers who are paid

for the labor they have put into the thing done or the thing made; who live by doing or making a thing, and

not by marketing a thing after some other man has done it or made it. The quality of the thing has nothing to

do with the economic nature of the case; the author is, in the last analysis, merely a workingman, and is under

the rule that governs the workingman's life. If he is sick or sad, and cannot work, if he is lazy or tipsy and will

not, then he earns nothing. He cannot delegate his business to a clerk or a manager; it will not go on while he

is sleeping. The wage he can command depends strictly upon his skill and diligence.

I myself am neither sorry nor ashamed for this; I am glad and proud to be of those who eat their bread in the

sweat of their own brows, and not the sweat of other men's brows; I think my bread is the sweeter for it. In

the meantime I have no blame for business men; they are no more of the condition of things than we

workingmen are; they did no more to cause it or create it; but I would rather be in my place than in theirs, and

I wish that I could make all my fellowartists realize that economically they are the same as mechanics,

farmers, daylaborers. It ought to be our glory that we produce something, that we bring into the world

something that was not choately there before; that at least we fashion or shape something anew; and we ought

to feel the tie that binds us to all the toilers of the shop and field, not as a galling chain, but as a mystic bond

I know very well that to the vast multitude of our fellowworkingmen we artists are the shadows of names, or

not even the shadows. I like to look the facts in the face, for though their lineaments are often terrible, yet

there is light nowhere else; and I will not pretend, in this light, that the masses care any more for us than we

care for the masses, or so much. Nevertheless, and most distinctly, we are not of the classes. Except in our

work, they have no use for us; if now and then they fancy qualifying their material splendor or their spiritual

dulness with some artistic presence, the attempt is always a failure that bruises and abashes. In so far as the

artist is a man of the world, he is the less an artist, and if he fashions himself upon fashion, he deforms his art.

We all know that ghastly type; it is more absurd even than the figure which is really of the world, which was

born and bred in it, and conceives of nothing outside of it, or above it. In the social world, as well as in the

business world, the artist is anomalous, in the actual conditions, and he is perhaps a little ridiculous.

Yet he has to be somewhere, poor fellow, and I think that he will do well to regard himself as in a transition

state. He is really of the masses, but they do not know it, and what is worse, they do not know him; as yet the

common people do not hear him gladly or hear him at all. He is apparently of the classes; they know him, and

they listen to him; he often amuses them very much; but he is not quite at ease among them; whether they

know it or not, he knows that he is not of their kind. Perhaps he will never be at home anywhere in the world

as long as there are masses whom he ought to consort with, and classes whom he cannot consort with. The

prospect is not brilliant for any artist now living, but perhaps the artist of the future will see in the flesh the

accomplishment of that human equality of which the instinct has been divinely planted in the human soul.