University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
LITERARY SECRETS WORTH KNOWING.

Ned remained two days at Susan's cottage, correcting
the manuscript of his romance, and expecting every mail to
bring him Lonsdale's response to his formal demand. But
no response whatever from that source was to be vouchsafed
him. He received a letter from Mr. Persever, informing
him that nothing had been accomplished in his business
with Bainton. He stated that Ned's old friend, Tom Denny,
was to wait upon him during the evening of the day upon
which his letter was written, and it was probable some important
information might be imparted by him. But no
reference was made to Lonsdale, nor allusion to the note
which had been intrusted to him.

Ned then determined to execute a project he had long
been meditating, viz: to go to New York, and treat with a
bookseller for the publication of his romance. He would
become an avowed author, and make a fortune with his pen,
while the law delayed to do him justice. So completely had
this idea taken possession of his imagination, that he really
experienced, at times, an indifference in regard to the realization
of the splendid inheritance which had seemed to be
almost within his grasp. If fame and fortune could be
achieved by the magic of his pen, he concluded that Alice
would necessarily follow, and be comprehended in his noble
triumphs. To the common mind, such fancies as these
may seem to be improbable, and even absurd. But to the
initiated they will not appear to be so. Nothing could be
more natural, more frequent in occurrence, and, alas!
evanescent.

Susan was Ned's only confidant in the full sense of the
word. His heart was open to his early, and often his only
friend and protector. If she wept with joy at his prospect
of obtaining a fortune, not too confidently held out by his
legal correspondent, she smiled with encouraging anticipation
of his success as an author. Necessarily ignorant of
the mortifications and perils of such a profession, she co-operated

most heartily with the literary aspirant, and sanctioned
all his measures.

Lured by the high hopes which a consciousness of the
possession of genius inspired, the enthusiastic young man
departed with his manuscript for the great commercial and
literary emporium. But such was his diffidence in regard
to his literary pretensions, usually the accompaniment of
merit, that he had not solicited letters of introduction to
any of the publishers.

When he arrived in the city, he engaged board and
lodging at a respectable house which had been recommended
to him by one of his college acquaintances. It
was in College Place, not far from the Astor House.

And now Ned walked the streets of the great city. The
first day he determined to do nothing more than reconnoitre
the premises of the score of publishers and booksellers
enumerated in a schedule which he held in his hand.
He likewise carried in his pocket a map of the city, to
guard against being lost.

The first thing that struck him as being somewhat remarkable,
was that every one he met seemed to be in a
prodigious hurry. At first he supposed they might be
hastening to a conflagration in the vicinity; but then he
soon perceived others moving with the same celerity in the
opposite direction, and indeed in every direction. He observed
likewise that every one he met, male or female,
without exception, cast a glance at him, and looked him in
the face, too, as if they knew him to be a stranger, or
wondered why he didn't run like the rest.

Ned resolved to pursue his own course in his own way.
Taking a deliberate aim, he succeeded in crossing Broadway,
near Barnum's Museum. This accomplished in safety, he
smiled at the recollection of a paragraph he had seen in
one of the papers, which asserted that it required talents
to accomplish the feat.

While pausing on the pavement, and undetermined which
course to take, amid the hum of human voices and the roar
of carriages, he was thus accosted by a man in genteel
dress.

“Don't you think they stole them?” This was asked
by the stranger, in a sort of confidential tone.

“Stole what?”

“They must have stolen them!” continued the stranger.

“What do you allude to?” asked Ned.

“The watches,” said the gentleman, pointing into a shop
hard by, where an auctioneer could be heard crying “thirty
dollars! thirty dollars!”

“Why do you think they must have been stolen?”

“Because every watch is worth a hundred dollars. I
have examined them, and I am a watch-maker. I think I
shall buy one or two of them. I see you have no watch.
You will never have a better chance.”

“Sir, if I believed they were stolen, and were to buy
one, I should look upon myself as a thief!” said Ned.

The stranger stared at him a moment, and then entered
the shop.

Ned found the localities of most of the publishers on his
list. But, having left his manuscript at his lodgings, he
did not that day make known the existence of the prize
which was to fall to the lot of one of them on the morrow.
In the evening he returned to his boarding house with
wearied feet and an aching head. He had walked farther
and seen more than he had ever before done in the same
length of time.

Nevertheless, before he closed his eyes that night, he
glanced over his manuscript again with great affection, as
if he were about to part with it forever. He made no additional
alterations or corrections; for he had ceased to
find anything which he had the ability so improve. He
had, perhaps, examined every page half a dozen times.

He sallied forth the next morning with his manuscript
under his arm, and found his way without difficulty to one
of the houses he had inspected the day before, and which
was the first on his list. When he entered, he asked for
the principal partner; and was shown the way to his closet,
a retreat quite different from the fabled one, from which
there were no returning foot-prints. The grave publisher,
although surrounded by voluminous evidences of his calling,
returned the respectful salutation of the young author, and
seemed to regard him with an anxiety to have his business
stated promptly, and in the most explicit terms. It was a
moment of agony for Ned. His knees trembled, his forehead

was moistened, and his tongue hardly dared to utter
his proposition.

“You have a manuscript?” asked the publisher, after
waiting some moments for his visitor to speak.

“Yes, sir,” said Ned. “A romance, that I would like
to have you publish.”

“We have a great many of them on hand, left for examination,”
said the publisher, looking more gravely than
ever. He did not interrogate the young man as to his experience
and success in authorship, or even ask his name.
He had reason to suppose that if the applicant had ever
written a successful book, it would have been announced
by him at once, or made known by letter. “If you see
proper,” he continued, “to leave your work with us, it will
be read, and if approved, we can then settle the terms upon
which it is to be published.”

“How long, sir, do you think it will be before I shall have
your decision?”

“It is somewhat uncertain. There are, I believe, some
eighty novels now on hand, awaiting their turn.”

“Eighty? Then it would be impossible to arrive at
any conclusion in regard to mine, within a few days.”

“Quite impossible. But if you leave your address, you
will be informed by letter of our decision.”

“It would not be convenient for me to wait any great
length of time, sir. Excuse me, sir.”

And when Ned bowed and turned to depart, there was a
pleasant smile on the lips of the publisher. He thought
it a much more agreeable way of disposing of the matter,
than to be under the necessity of keeping the young man
a long time in suspense, and then in all probability to be
obliged to decline the publication. Such announcements
he knew inflicted a sad pain, and he was glad to escape
being made the involuntary instrument of a very prevalent
species of torture.

As Ned retreated from the establishment, an incident in
the life of Defoe occurred to him, where the author of Robinson
Crusoe was seen in dejection, retiring from the bookstore
of the famous Curll, with his rejected manuscript under
his arm. Ned thought that if his work should become
popular, it would affix an indelible reproach upon the

memory of the house from which he had just made his exit.
Such is the madness of authors.

But no better success awaited him at the other houses.
He applied to several firms, but effected no arrangement
with any of them. At the last place he entered, he met a
literary character with whose name he had been made familiar.
He was an author and critic, and one who had undertaken
to matriculate young authors on reasonable terms.
When Ned heard his name mentioned by some one, he looked
up, and perceived the eyes of Mr. Shallow Skimmer fixed
upon him.

“You have a novel in manuscript, I believe?” asked Mr.
Skimmer, who had heard the conversation between Ned
and the bookseller.

“Yes, sir; and it seems to be fated to remain in manuscript.

“You can't tell. Let us talk the matter over, as we
walk along.” Mr. Skimmer took the young man's arm
very familiarly, and they proceeded up the street together.
Indeed he accompanied Ned all the way to his lodgings,
conversing in the kindest and most unreserved manner.
He declared his intention to serve him, and in return learned
the young author's name, his place of residence, and present
circumstances—Ned, however, omitting to mention
anything of his past history or future expectations.

It was impossible for the ingenuous young man not to suppose
that fortune had provided him with a powerful and
valuable literary auxiliary. The name of Mr. Skimmer had
long been familiar to him. He had seen him assailed in
the —, and he took it for granted that he must, therefore,
be a writer of very considerable abilities. He supposed
that none but authors of the first order of genius
were attacked by the critics—because such was the general
supposition. He thought of the handsome conduct of
Johnson in behalf of Goldsmith, and made no doubt that
his new friend had resolved to act a clever part by him.

“And you tried the three firms at the top of the list?”
asked Skimmer, when they were seated in Ned's room looking
at the schedule of publishers' names.

“Yes, sir.”

“Seriatim?”

“Yes, sir; because they stand in the order of my preference.”

“You understand Latin.”

“My preceptor says so.”

“Well. Did the publishers read any part of your
work?”

“No.”

“Then how could they know anything about its merits?”

“True, they could not know.”

“Let me see your book.”

Ned placed it on the table before him. The great arbiter
of the works of genius turned over the sheets, and consumed
some twenty minutes in reading portions of several
chapters, while the modest author sat some distance apart
in profound silence.”

“Hem! umph! I see some things to be expunged, and
where something might be added. But, my young friend,
I have read enough to be able to pronounce it a work of
merit—a work of genius, sir.”

“I am glad it meets your approbation,” said Ned; “and
I shall be happy to adopt your suggestions in regard to
any alterations—”

“Mere phraseology—it can be done when we see the
proofs. You would not like to have it printed at your own
expense, would you? If you make a hit, as I think you
will, it may be the best plan.”

“How much do you suppose it would cost me?”

“Let me see. I suppose it will make a duodecimo volume
of some two hundred and fifty pages. How many
copies? Three thousand? Say three thousand, with paper
covers. Some can be bound in cloth if the book takes.
It would cost about $350.”

“I cannot undertake it, then,” said Ned, promptly.

“Well. That is settled. We must have some one else
to defray the expense, or else sell the manuscript. The
difficulty is that it is your first attempt. First attempts are
generally failures—mine was. The publishers do not like
to run the risk. Have you written anything else? Have
you not contributed something to the magazines or papers?”

Oh, yes; they have published a great many of my sonnets.”

Sonnets? Tasso was a great sonneteer. I have not
seen your name going the rounds of the press; perhaps
you published anonymously?”

“They were signed `Abelard.”'

“You don't say so!” cried Skimmer, springing up.
“Zounds! Give me your hand. I am intoxicated with
joy. Sir, our friendship shall end only with our lives! I
have read your sonnets. Let it suffice that I approve
them. They shine like stars in the literary firmament.
They emit the true scintillations of genius. Doubt not I
shall be able to dispose of your novel!”

“I am rejoiced, sir, to hear that my sonnets have
merited your applause,” said Ned, blushing deeply, and
really delighted to learn that his verses were admired by
the renowned literateur. And they had been sincerely admired
by him; so much so, that some of them had been
inserted in a British periodical, for which he wrote, along
with specimens of his own composition.

“My dear Ned!” said Shallow Skimmer, I will see
you again in the morning. In the meantime I will see
what can be done. Adieu.”

When left to his solitary reflections, Ned found himself
in such a state of literary exhilaration, that his eyes were
filled with tears of joy. He blessed the hour that threw
Skimmer in his way, and the propitious fates that made
him his friend and adviser.

Punctual to the time appointed, the experienced author
and critic knocked at Ned's door, and they met again with
mutual pleasure.

“My dear friend,” said Skimmer, “I have been busy
since we parted—and all in relation to your affair.”

“I am sorry to give you—”

“No trouble—none whatever. But the truth is—and it
was always so—that the publishers are shy of first attempts.
Many of them will not touch it at all; only one is willing
to take the risk; and that, too, on condition that I will
write and have inserted, in several journals, three or four
favourable notices, which I have promised to do, provided
you accept his terms.”

“My dear sir, how could you make such a promise without
first reading the work? It may not, as a whole production,
be worthy your approbation,” said Ned.

“Have I not looked into it? I've seen as much of it
already as critics generally do of new works. I like the
title, and that is sufficient.”

“Sufficient? I supposed the reviewers always perused
every line of the works submitted to their judgment.”

“Reviewers? We have no reviewers except one or two
circles of exclusives, who review their own books. No, my
dear sir, no reviewers, but hundreds of writers of notices
and puffs. And some of them are well done, and done
conscientiously, while others are done at a venture. But
the worst thing that can befall an author is to be passed
over in silence. That is death, without a chance of resurrection.
Praise me—abuse me—do anything but pass me
in silence. I suppose you know how my reputation was
acquired? Ridicule and denunciation! Such was my
pabulum, and once I grew fat on it.”

“But can a favorable notice of a poor book save it from
failure?”

“Undoubtedly—often, often. Puff it, advertise it—
rouse the public curiosity. Have it talked about and inquired
for, and the booksellers will order it. Now, mind
you, I don't pretend to say an unworthy production can
always be crammed down the throats of the people. We
cannot make them read a book; but we can make them
buy it. Lord bless you, many of our successful books are
not read at all. But what of that, so the publisher sells
them? He may distribute five or ten thousand copies of a
well-puffed book among the thousands of provincial booksellers;
and although they may never find readers, still he
will have sold so many copies, and so many editions. And
I venture to say I could name some works which have become
quite celebrated, that have never been read by two
hundred persons. And these very works have remunerated
their authors handsomely. Good notices—notoriety
is everything.”

“It follows, then, I suppose, as a general rule,” said
Ned, “that works of merit, if they do not happen to be advertised
extensively, and handsomely puffed, are liable to
failure?”

“Most certainly. Will gold come to the surface of the

earth without being laboured for? You may consider it a
labour to write a book, and it is, as I can testify; but I can
bear witness also that it is not more than half the labour.”

“Yet, there must be exceptions. I have met with one
writer, of whose book some twenty thousand copies have
been sold, and yet he informed me it had never been advertised
extensively, and never puffed at all.”

“That was an exception to the rule, and a most remarkable
one. I should like to know that author's name, and
the name of his book.”

“I am sorry I am not at liberty to tell you.”

“Oh, very well. He's a lucky dog, whoever he may
be. But in regard to your work. The publisher I allude
to, will undertake it, upon my recommendation, on the
following terms: you to pay $10 for the proof-reader; he
to defray the balance of the expense. After two thousand
are sold, he will pay you five cents a copy on subsequent
sales.”

“How many copies will he have printed?”

“Three thousand.”

“I should then have fifty dollars, provided three thousand
were sold.”

“Exactly. But you will have a thousand dollars if
twenty-two thousand copies are sold. I assure you, upon
my honour, it is not often an author, and especially a young
one, has such a proposition.”

“But he has not examined the work.”

“No matter. He leaves that to me. And the offer is
made upon condition that the book is a good one, and
likely to sell.”

“Fifty dollars, possibly!” said Ned, abstractedly, and
mentally resolving not to become an author by profession.
“Why, Mr. Skimmer, how are you literary gentlemen by
profession enabled to live? It must be a successful work to
yield fifty dollars. How many volumes can you produce
in a year? How much money can you earn?”

“I do not derive my income from books. I would like
to do it, but then I might starve in the attempt. I rely
upon the magazines, the weekly issues, &c. I intend to
have the $10 for reading your proofs, if you publish. Of
course you will not remain in the city, at an expense of

$10 per week, and do it yourself. I pick up something in
this manner. In all candour I must own to you, that
even my vocation, which embraces an infinite variety of
labours, yields but a scanty and precarious sustenance. I
get some £50 per annum for letters and other contributions
to the British periodicals, and that is my only
reliable income. I am poor, as you see me,—witness my
coat—and would do anything else for a living, but I am
qualified for nothing else. It is pleasant, however, seeing
one's name in the catalogue of poets and critics; and,
besides, some years, as before hinted, I receive in an
irregular manner, some two or three hundred dollars for
notices, and miscellaneous services.”

“I have overrated the profits of the profession. I supposed
you, Mr. Skimmer, to be rich, and in the enjoyment
of a large income, the fruits of your pen.”

“And others think so, as I am led to believe from the
letters I occasionally receive. But you see how it really
is. I have not five dollars in my purse. It is a dreadful
trade; worse than that of a samphire gatherer; and as a
friend, I would advise you to adopt some other profession.
But, as I have before intimated, if you persist in writing,
I will do all I can to serve you.”

“I will not persist in it.”

“Yet this work might be disposed of. It has been written,
and may as well be published. I really believe it is a
clever production. If it fails, you will not be disappointed,
because you will expect nothing from it. If it succeeds,
you may be induced to write again. But I would await the
result before I made another attempt.”

“I certainly shall! And can it be possible that novelists
do not receive more than fifty dollars for each of their
works?”

“Generally they do not average so much, and yet some
are contented, and make a shift to live.”

“On fifty dollars?”

“Oh, no. You asked me a while ago how many works
a single pen could produce per annum. I have seen some
authors have as many as a dozen different new volumes
announced at once. That would be six hundred dollars.
Suppose they produce three such litters in two years, and

write forty or fifty tales besides, at ten dollars each, you
see a pretty snug income is secured.”

“But what man could write thirty-six volumes in two
years?”

“Several authors are in the habit of doing it.”

“Why, I have been twelve months writing this single
book, and you see it is not a large one.”

“I see; but you are not broken in—”

“Broken in! I should as soon contemplate being broken
on the wheel, as to undertake to write three volumes in
two months?”

“And my dear sir, the writers I allude to, look as if
they had been broken on the wheel! But let us return to
your book. I likewise saw the publisher of one of our
periodicals last night. He said he would give $50 for the
manuscript, (including the copyright,) if he found it equal
to my representation. If you sell to him, however, I lose
my $10—”

“I will not sell to him. There is an editor in Philadelphia
who, although a stranger to me, has on several
occasions spoken kindly in my behalf. He has praised my
sonnets. To him I will offer my work, as a token of gratitude.
But, for the trouble you have been to on my account,
for your kind advice, and above all for the important
information you have imparted to me, I must insist
upon your acceptance of this eagle. Within an hour I shall
leave the city.”

“My dear sir, I will receive it, as a loan, to be repaid
when convenient. If it should ever be convenient it will
be paid back. I suppose you will not collect your sonnets?”

“Oh, no; they were not written either for profit or
reputation.”

“But they should not be lost, for some of them are admirable.
I shall collect my fugitive pieces some day, and
yours might be included in the volume, if it were not for
the question of copyright.”

“You may have mine, if you will accept them.”

“Thank you, thank you. And now, adieu, since I see
you are determined to leave us. But let me hear from
you. We must correspond. When your story appears in
Philadelphia, I will give it a generous, no—a grateful notice,

and send you the paper containing it. And remember
if it makes a hit, you will have the copyright still, and
then some publisher may offer advantageous terms. I will
see what can be done in that way here, if the Philadelphia
publishers are backward. Farewell! God bless you?”
And after wringing Ned's hand very heartily, Mr. Shallow
Skimmer descended to the street, a richer man, poor fellow!
than when he entered the house.