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[page 103, column 2, continued:]
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SOME SECRETS OF THE MAGAZINE PRISON-HOUSE.
The want of an International Copy-Right Law, by
rendering
it nearly impossible to obtain anything from the booksellers in the way
of remuneration for literary labor, has had the effect of forcing many
of our very best writers into the service of the Magazines and Reviews,
which
with a pertinacity that does them credit, keep up in a certain or
uncertain
degree the good old saying, that even in the thankless field of Letters
the laborer is worthy of his hire. How — by dint of what dogged
instinct
of the honest and proper, these journals have contrived to persist in
their
paying practices, in the very teeth of the opposition got up by the
Fosters
and Leonard Scotts, who furnish for eight dollars any four of the
British
periodicals for a year, is a point we have had much difficulty in
settling
to our satisfaction, and we have been forced to settle it, at last,
upon
no more reasonable ground than that of a still lingering esprit de
patrie. That Magazines can live, and not only live but thrive,
and not only
thrive but afford to disburse money for original contributions, are
facts
which can only be solved, under the circumstances, by the really
fanciful
but still agreeable supposition, that there is somewhere still existing
an ember not altogether quenched among the fires of good feeling for
letters
and literary men, that once animated the American bosom.
It would not do (perhaps
this is the idea)
to let our poor devil authors absolutely starve, while we grow fat, in
a literary sense, on the good things of which we unblushingly pick the
pocket of all Europe: it would not be exactly the thing comme il
faut, to permit a positive atrocity of this kind and hence
we have Magazines,
and hence we have a portion of the public who subscribe to these
Magazines
(through sheer pity), and hence we have Magazine publishers (who
sometimes
take upon themselves the duplicate title of "editor and proprietor,")
— publishers, we say, who, under certain conditions of good conduct,
occasional
puffs, and decent subserviency at all times, make it a point of
conscience
to encourage the poor devil author with a dollar or two, more or less
as
he behaves himself properly and abstains from the indecent habit of
turning
up his nose.
We hope, however, that we are not so
prejudiced or
so vindictive as to insinuate that what certainly does look like
illiberality
on the part of them (the Magazine publishers) is really an illiberality
chargeable to them. In fact, it will be seen at once, that
what
we have said has a tendency directly the reverse of any such
accusation.
These publishers pay something — other publishers nothing at
all.
Here certainly is a difference — although a mathematician might contend
that the difference might be infinitesimally small. Still, these
Magazine
editors and proprietors pay (that is the word), and [page
104:] with your
true
poor-devil author the smallest favors are sure to be thankfully
received.
No: the illiberality lies at the door of the demagogue-ridden public,
who
suffer their anointed delegates (or perhaps arointed — which is it?) to
insult the common sense of them (the public) by making orations in our
national halls on the beauty and conveniency of robbing the Literary
Europe
on the highway, and on the gross absurdity in especial of admitting so
unprincipled a principle, that a man has any right and title either to
his own brains or to the flimsy material that he chooses to spin out of
them, like a confounded caterpillar as he is. If anything of this
gossamer
character stands in need of protection, why we have our hands full at
once
with the silk-worms and the morus multicaulis.
But if we cannot, under the
circumstances, complain
of the absolute illiberality of the Magazine publishers (since pay they
do), there is at least one particular in which we have against them
good
grounds of accusation. Why (since pay they must) do they not pay with a
good grace, and promptly. Were we in an ill humor at this
moment,
we could a tale unfold which would erect the hair on the head of
Shylock.
A young author, struggling with Despair itself in the shape of a
ghastly
poverty, which has no alleviation — no sympathy from an every-day
world,
that cannot understand his necessities, and that would pretend not to
understand
them if it comprehended them ever so well — this young author is
politely
requested to compose an article, for which he will "be handsomely
paid."
Enraptured, he neglects perhaps for a month the sole employment which
affords
him the chance of a livelihood, and having starved through the month
(he
and his family) completes at length the month of starvation and the
article,
and despatches the latter (with a broad hint about the former) to the
pursy
"editor" and bottle-nosed "proprietor" who has condescended to honor
him
(the poor devil) with his patronage. A month (starving still), and no
reply.
Another month — still none. Two months more — still none. A second
letter,
modestly hinting that the article may not have reached its destination
— still no reply. At the expiration of six additional months, personal
application is made at the "editor and proprietor"'s [[sic]]
office. Call
again.
The poor devil goes out, and does not fail to call again. Still call
again;
— and call again is the word for three or four months more. His
patience
exhausted, the article is demanded. No — he can't have it (the truth
is,
it was too good to be given up so easily) — "it is in print," and
"contributions
of this character are never paid for (it is a rule we have)
under
six months after publication. Call in six months after the issue of
your
affair, and your money is ready for you — for we are business men,
ourselves
— prompt." With this the poor devil is satisfied, and makes up his mind
that the "editor and proprietor" is a gentleman, and that of course he
(the poor devil) will wait as requested. And it is supposable that he
would
have waited if he could — but Death in the meantime would not. He
dies,
and by the good luck of his decease (which came by starvation) the fat
"editor and proprietor" is fat henceforward and for ever to the amount
of five and twenty dollars, very cleverly saved, to be spent generously
in canvas-backs and champagne.
There are two things which we hope
the reader will
not do, as he runs over this article: first, we hope that he will not
believe
that we write from any personal experience of our own, for we have only
the reports of actual sufferers to depend upon, and second, that he
will
not make any personal application of our remarks to any Magazine
publisher
now living, it being well known that they are all as remarkable for
their
generosity and urbanity, as for their intelligence, and appreciation of
Genius. |
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