"THE TOKEN"—N. P. WILLIS AND NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE—COMPARISON BETWEEN THEM—LADY AUTHORS—PUBLISHERS' PROFITS—AUTHORS AND PUBLISHERS.

I may here say, with propriety, a few words more as to the contributors for the Token. The most prominent writer for it was N. P. Willis; his articles were the most read, the most admired, the most abused, and the most advantageous to the work. I published his first book; and his two first editorial engagements were with me: hence the early portion of his literary career fell under my special notice.

He had begun to write verses very early; and while in College, before he was eighteen, he had acquired an extended reputation, under the signature of "Roy." In 1827, when he was just twenty years old, I published his volume, entitled Sketches. It elicited quite a shower of criticism, in which praise and blame were about equally dispensed: at the same time the work sold with a readiness quite unusual for a book of poetry at that period. It is not calculated to establish the infallibility of critics, to look over these notices at the present day: many of the pieces which were then condemned have now taken their places among the acknowledged gems of our literature; and others, which excited praise at the time, have faded from the public remembrance.

One thing is certain, everybody thought Willis worth criticising. He has been, I suspect, more written about than any other literary man in the history of American literature. Some of the attacks upon him proceeded, no doubt, from a conviction that he was a man of extraordinary gifts, and yet of extraordinary affectations; and the lash was applied in kindness, as that of a schoolmaster to a beloved pupil's back; some of them were dictated by envy; for we have had no other example of literary success so early, so general, and so flattering. That Mr. Willis made mistakes in literature and life, at the outset, may be admitted by his best friends; for it must be remembered that, before he was five-and-twenty, he was more read than any other American poet of his time; and besides, being possessed of an easy and captivating address, he became the pet of society, and especially of the fairer portion of it. Since that period, his life, on the whole, has been one of serious, useful, and successful labor. His reputation as a poet has hardly advanced, and probably the public generally regard some of his early verses as his best. As an essayist, however, he stands in the first rank; distinguished for a keen sagacity in analyzing society, a fine perception of the beauties of nature, and an extraordinary talent for endowing trifles with interest and meaning. As a traveller, he is among the most entertaining, sagacious, and instructive.

His style is certainly peculiar, and is deemed affected, tending to an excess of refinement, and displaying an undue hankering for grace and melody; sometimes sacrificing sense to sound. This might once have been a just criticism, but the candid reader of his works now before the public will deem it hypercritical. His style is suited to his thought; it is flexible, graceful, musical, and is adapted to the playful wit, the piquant sentiment, the artistic descriptions of sea, earth, and sky, of which they are the vehicle. In the seeming exhaustlessness of his resources, in his prolonged freshness, in his constantly-increasing strength, Mr. Willis has refuted all the early prophets, who regarded him only as a precocity, destined to shine a few brief years and fade away.

As to his personal character, I need only say, that from the beginning he had a larger circle of steadfast friends than almost any man within my knowledge. There has been something in his works which has made women generally both his literary and personal admirers. For so many favors he has given the world an ample return; for, with all his imputed literary faults—some real and some imaginary—I regard him as having contributed more to the amusement of society than almost any other of our living authors.

It is not easy to conceive of a stronger contrast than is presented by comparing Nathaniel Hawthorne with N. P. Willis. The former was for a time one of the principal writers for the Token, and his admirable sketches were published side by side with those of the latter. Yet it is curious to remark, that everything Willis wrote attracted immediate attention, and excited ready praise, while the productions of Hawthorne were almost entirely unnoticed.

The personal appearance and demeanor of these two gifted young men, at the early period of which I speak, was also in striking contrast. Willis was slender, his hair sunny and silken, his cheeks ruddy, his aspect cheerful and confident. He met society with a ready and welcome hand, and was received readily and with welcome. Hawthorne, on the contrary, was of a rather sturdy form, his hair dark and bushy, his eyes steel-grey, his brow thick, his mouth sarcastic, his complexion stony, his whole aspect cold, moody, distrustful. He stood aloof, and surveyed the world from shy and sheltered positions.

There was a corresponding difference in the writings of these two persons. Willis was all sunshine and summer, the other chill, dark, and wintry; the one was full of love and hope, the other of doubt and distrust; the one sought the open daylight—sunshine, flowers, music—and found them everywhere; the other plunged into the dim caverns of the mind, and studied the grisly spectres of jealousy, remorse, despair.

I had seen some anonymous publication which seemed to me to indicate extraordinary powers. I inquired of the publishers as to the writer, and through them a correspondence ensued between me and "N. Hawthorne." This name I considered a disguise, and it was not till after many letters had passed that I met the author, and found it to be his true title, representing a very substantial personage. At this period he was unsettled as to his views: he had tried his hand in literature, and considered himself to have met with a fatal rebuff from the reading world. His mind vacillated between various projects, verging, I think, toward a mercantile profession. I combated his despondence, and assured him of triumph, if he would persevere in a literary career.

He wrote numerous articles, which appeared in the Token: occasionally an astute critic seemed to see through them, and to discover the mind that was in them; but in general they passed without notice. Such articles as "Sights from a Steeple," "Sketches beneath an Umbrella," the "Wives of the Dead," the "Prophetic Pictures," now universally acknowledged to be productions of extraordinary depth, meaning, and power,—extorted hardly a word of either praise or blame, while columns were given to pieces since totally forgotten. I felt annoyed, almost angry, indeed, at this. I wrote several articles in the papers, directing attention to these productions, and finding no echo of my views, I recollect to have asked John Pickering, a gentleman in whose critical powers I had great confidence, to read some of them, and give me his opinion of them. He did as I requested; his answer was that they displayed a wonderful beauty of style, with a sort of second-sight, which revealed, beyond the outward forms of life and being, a sort of spirit-world, somewhat as a lake reflects the earth around it and the sky above it; yet he deemed them too mystical to be popular. He was right, no doubt, at that period; but, ere long, a large portion of the reading world obtained a new sense—how, or where, or whence, is not easily determined—which led them to study the mystical, to dive beneath and beyond the senses. Hawthorne was, in fact, a kind of Wordsworth in prose: less kindly, less genial toward mankind, but deeper and more philosophical. His fate was similar: at first he was neglected, at last he had worshippers.

In 1837 I recommended Mr. Hawthorne to publish a volume, comprising his various pieces, which had appeared in the Token and elsewhere. He consented, but as I had ceased to be a publisher, it was difficult to find any one who would undertake to bring out the work. I applied to the agent of the Stationers' Company, but he refused; until at last I relinquished my copyrights on such of the tales as I had published to Mr. Hawthorne, and joined a friend of his in a bond to indemnify them against loss; and thus the work was published by the Stationers' Company, under the title of Twice-Told Tales, and for the author's benefit. It was deemed a failure for more than a year, when a breeze seemed to rise and fill its sails, and with it the author was carried on to fame and fortune.

Among the most successful of the writers for the Token was Miss Francis, now Mrs. Child. I have not seen her for many years, but I have many pleasant remembrances of her lively conversation, her saucy wit, her strong good sense, and her most agreeable person and presence. To Rev. F. W. P. Greenwood I was indebted not only for some of the best contributions, but for excellent counsel and advice in my literary affairs. He was a man of genius, gentle manners, and apostolic dignity of life and character.

To Mr. Pierpont I was indebted for encouragement and sympathy in my whole career, and for some of the best poems which appeared in the work I am noticing. I remember once to have met him, and to have asked him to give me a contribution for the Token. He stopped and said, reflectingly, "I had a dream not long ago, which I have thought to put into verse. I will try, and if I am successful you shall have it." A few days after he gave me the lines, now in all the gem-books, beginning,—

Next to Willis, Mrs. Sigourney was my most successful and liberal contributor: to her I am indebted for a large part of the success of my editorial labors in the matter now referred to. To Miss Sedgwick, also, the Token owes a large share of its credit with the public. To B. B. Thacher, also among the good and the departed; to Mrs. Osgood, to John Neale, A. H. Everett, Mr. Longfellow, H. T. Tuckerman, Epes and John Sargent, Miss Leslie, J. T. Fields, O. W. Holmes—to all these, and to many others, I owe the kind remembrance which belongs to good deeds, kindly and graciously bestowed.

It is not to be supposed that in a long career, both as bookseller and editor, I should have escaped altogether the annoyances and vexations which naturally attach to these vocations. The relation of author and publisher is generally regarded as that of the cat and the dog, both greedy of the bone, and inherently jealous of each other. The authors have hitherto written the accounts of the wrangles between these two parties, and the publishers have been traditionally gibbeted as a set of mean, mercenary wretches, coining the heart's blood of genius for their own selfish profits. Great minds, even in modern times, have not been above this historical prejudice. The poet Campbell is said to have been an admirer of Napoleon because he shot a bookseller.

Nevertheless, speaking from my own experience, I suspect, if the truth were told, that, even in cases where the world has been taught to bestow all its sympathy in behalf of the author, it would appear that while there were claws on one side there were teeth on the other. My belief is, that where there have been quarrels there have generally been mutual provocations. I know of nothing more vexatious, more wearisome, more calculated to beget impatience, than the egotisms, the exactions, the unreasonableness of authors, in cases I have witnessed. That there may be examples of meanness, stupidity, and selfishness in publishers, is indisputable. But, in general, I am satisfied that an author who will do justice to a publisher will have justice in return.

I could give some curious instances of this. A schoolmaster came to me once with a marvellously clever grammar; it was sure to overturn all others. He had figured out his views in a neat hand, like copper-plate. He estimated that there were always a million of children at school who would need his grammar; providing for books worn out, and a supply for new comers, half-a-million would be wanted every year. At one cent a copy for the author—which he insisted was exceedingly moderate—this would produce to him five thousand dollars a year; but if I would publish the work, he would condescend to take half that sum annually, during the extent of the copyright—twenty-eight years! I declined, and he seriously believed me a heartless blockhead. He obtained a publisher at last, but the work never reached a second edition. Every publisher is laden with similar experiences.

I once employed a young man to block out some little books to be published under the nominal authorship of Solomon Bell: these I remodelled, and one or two volumes were issued. Some over-astute critic announced them as veritable Peter Parleys, and they had a sudden sale. The young man who had assisted me, and who was under the most solemn obligations to keep the matter secret, thought he had an opportunity to make his fortune; so he publicly claimed the authorship, and accused me of duplicity! The result was that the books fell dead from that hour; the series was stopped; and his unprinted manuscripts, for which I had paid him, became utterly worthless. A portion I burnt, and a portion still remain amidst the rubbish of other days.

In other instances I was attacked in the papers, editorially and personally, by individuals who were living upon the employment I gave them. I was in daily intercourse with persons of this character, who, while flattering me to my face, I knew to be hawking at me in print. These I regarded and treated as trifles at the time; they are less than trifles now. One thing may be remarked, that, in general, such difficulties come from poor and unsuccessful writers. They have been taught that publishers and booksellers are vampires, and naturally feed upon the vitals of genius; assuming—honestly, no doubt—that they are of this latter class, they feel no great scruple in taking vengeance upon those whom they regard as their natural enemies.

My editorial experience also furnished me with some amusing anecdotes. An editor of a periodical once sent me an article for the Token, entitled La Longue-vue; the pith of the story consisted in a romantic youth's falling in love with a young lady, two miles off, through a telescope! I ventured to reject it; and the Token for that year was duly damned in the columns of the offended author.

In judging of publishers one thing should be considered, and that is, that two-thirds of the original works issued by them are unprofitable. An eminent London publisher once told me, that he calculated that out of ten publications four involved a positive, and often a heavy, loss; three barely paid the cost of paper, print, and advertising; and three paid a profit. Nothing is more common than for a publisher to pay money to an author, every farthing of which is lost. Self-preservation, therefore, compels the publisher to look carefully to his operations. One thing is certain, he is generally the very best judge as to the value of a book, in a marketable point of view: if he rejects it, it is solely because he thinks it will not pay, not because he despises genius.

Happily, at the present day, the relations between these two parties—authors and publishers—are on a better footing than in former times. Indeed, a great change has taken place in the relative positions of the two classes. Nothing is now more marketable than good writing, whatever may be its form—poetry or prose, fact or fiction, reason or romance. Starving, neglected, abused genius, is a myth of bygone times. If an author is poorly paid, it is because he writes poorly. I do not think, indeed, that authors are adequately paid, for authorship does not stand on a level with other professions as to pecuniary recompense, but it is certain that a clever, industrious, and judicious writer may make his talent the means of living.