Mr. Henry Holt, a publisher, has uttered his mind at no inconsiderable
length in deprecation of what he calls “the commercialization of
literature.” That literature, in this country and England at least, has
somewhat fallen from its high estate and is regarded even by many of
its purveyors as a mere trade is unfortunately true, as we see in the
genesis and development of the “literary syndicates”; in the unholy
alliance between the book reviewer and the head of the advertising
department; in the systematic “booming” of certain books and authors
by methods, both supertabular and submanual, not materially different
from those used for the promotion of a patent medicine; in the reverent
attitude of editors and publishers toward authors of “best sellers,”
and in more things than can be here set down. In the last century when,
surely by no fortuitous happening, American literature was made by such
men as Irving, Cooper, Bryant, Poe, Emerson, Whittier, Hawthorne,
Longfellow, Holmes and Lowell, these purely commercial phenomena
were in less conspicuous evidence and some of them were altogether
indiscernible.
That the period of literature’s commercialization should be that of
its decay is obviously more than a coincidence. Mr. Holt observes
both, and is sad, but _that_ is a coincidence pure and simple:
his melancholy is due to something else. The “commercialization” is
confessedly compelling him to do a good deal more advertising than
he likes to pay for; for commerce spells competition. The authors
of to-day and their agents have acquired the disagreeable habit of
taking their wares to the highest bidder—the publisher who will give
the highest royalties and the broadest publicity. The immemorial
relation whereby the publisher was said to drink wine out of the
author’s skull has been rudely disturbed by the latter demanding some
of the wine for himself and refusing to supply the skull—an irritating
infraction of a good understanding sanctified by centuries of faithful
observance. It is only natural that Mr. Holt, being a conservative man
and a protagonist of established order, should experience some of the
emotions appropriate to the defenders in a servile insurrection.
With a candor that is most becoming, Mr. Holt expressly bewails the
passing of the old régime—the departed days when authors “had other
resources” than authorship. This is the second time that it has been
my melancholy privilege to hear the head of a prosperous American
publishing house make this moan. Another one, a few years ago, in
addressing a company of authors, solemnly advised them to have some
means of support additional to writing. I was not then, and am not now,
assured that publishers find it necessary to have any means of support
additional to publishing.