It is the habit of some publishing houses, not of all, let me distinctly
say, to seek always notoriety, not to nurse and keep before the public
mind the best that has been evolved from time to time, but to offer
always something new. The year's flooring is threshed off and the floor
swept to make room for a fresh batch. Effort eventually ceases for the
old and approved, and is concentrated on experiments. This is like the
conduct of a newspaper. It is assumed that the public must be startled
all the time.
Consider first the author, and I mean the author, and not the mere
craftsman who manufactures books for a recognized market. His sole
capital is his talent. His brain may be likened to a mine, gold, silver,
copper, iron, or tin, which looks like silver when new. Whatever it is,
the vein of valuable ore is limited, in most cases it is slight. When it
is worked out, the man is at the end of his resources.
It is generally conceded that what literature in America needs at this
moment is honest, competent, sound criticism. This is not likely to be
attained by sporadic efforts, especially in a democracy of letters where
the critics are not always superior to the criticised, where the man in
front of the book is not always a better marksman than the man behind the
book.
The fashion of the day is rarely the judgment of posterity. You will
recall what Byron wrote to Coleridge: "I trust you do not permit yourself
to be depressed by the temporary partiality of what is called 'the
public' for the favorites of the moment; all experience is against the
permanency of such impressions. You must have lived to see many of these
pass away, and will survive many more."