personal reasons, as a man would select any other intimate business partner. A publisher has no right—in the high and proper conception of his calling to accept any book in which he lacks confidence. He must believe in its character, its mission, its quality. If he have no enthusiasm for it, it becomes in his hands a mere piece of merchandise, and he sells it with no keener personal interest than he would sell pig-iron. The fact that glorifies publishing, as the born publisher practices it, is this that his work becomes, in a peculiarly intimate way, linked with the author's. It is the most intimate possible coöperation and partnership. An author, who engages a publisher in whose enthusiasm, sincerity and personal interest he does not profoundly believe, makes a grave mistake. It is a personal relation, which is much more than a mere business relation; and the great publishers and the great authors have always so regarded it.

But the careless publisher and the fidgety, suspicious author yet amuse the public and, no doubt, cause each other much worry. For instance, the other day I noticed a successful book lying on the counter in a large book-shop. "What a hit that book has made!" I said to the salesman.

"Yes, but I don't envy the publisher.”
"Why not?"

"Because the author comes in here about four times a week to ask how many copies we have sold. He evidently thinks his publisher is too slow, and he probably makes himself disagreeable."

One writer, who has written many books, has told how she was defrauded-to the best of her apparently sincere belief-of such healthy sums as $5,000, $10,000, and so on. The publisher whom she accused of having the $5,000, waxed rich on his ill-gotten gains, and she finally read in the newspapers that he had invested in land. Upon a portion of this land he set out five thousand fruit trees at a cost of a dollar a tree. The inference was too plain. The author could not help regarding that peach orchard as rightfully hers. When it failed, there was an obvious conclusion. Providence had dispensed justice.

But this same woman spoke with enthusiasm of her present publishers. They are "reputable." That is the amusing feature of the matter. Such an author, as a rule, believes in his own publishers, but there is a

queer mental bias which makes him suspect some publisher. Chance generally determines which one. A few years ago, when Mr. James M. Barrie was in this country, he created a laugh at the Aldine Club in New York-which is the haunt of the publishers by beginning an after-dinner speech: "Now Barabbas was a publisher-"

Few authors are still fewer used to begood business men or women. As a rule they work alone. They know little of the practical questions of trade.

They know little of the cost of conducting a large business, full of detail, and sometimes full of peril. It is the clash between a theoretical view of business and a practical experience that has generally caused suspicion, when it existed. The following is a true incident, which is typical:

One writer who was trying to demonstrate the infallibility of advertising as a multiplier of editions, succeeded in getting the publisher to place a $160 advertisement of the book in a single periodical.

"You think that that will bring up the sales?" asked the publisher.

"I am sure of it."

"Would you like to place that advertising yourself?"

"Oh, no! I think you ought to do it." It was done. After a few weeks the publisher exhibited the returns. They were $3; no more.

"Well," said the author, "I ought not to have tried to tell you where to advertise. That is your business and you should have attended to it better."

It is not the new writer nor the one who is still struggling for recognition that is the most unpleasant in his estimate of the publisher. It is the man who has just tasted success. The writer who has had one success is in a fair way to have his head turned. With his first book perhaps he hunted a publisher. publisher. Now the publishers hunt him. They bid for his work. His royalty doubles, perhaps, and nothing but that implacable "forty-and-ten-off to the trade" keeps him from demanding fifty per cent. of the retail price. When he finds that other men, who have written a dozen successful books, get only ten per cent. —no matter; he thinks that it is his duty to lead the way to liberty by asking fifteen per cent. He does not get it, and he soon learns better.

It seems next to impossible to make the new author realize that if he gets ten per cent. royalty on the retail price of, say, a $1.50 novel, he is getting twenty per cent. of what the publisher sells the book for.

But the pleasant relations that as a rule exist in the publishing world in this country have not come in England. The old feud has become open war there, with Sir Walter Besant as a more or less comic-opera general who wades through seas of ink and counts a day lost when he does not stab at least three or four publishers. No matter how dull other corners of Britain may be, there is always "something going in the literary line."

Sir Walter has no imitator in this country. There is plenty "going in the literary line," but there is no fighting worth speaking about. A proof of the pleasanter relation between author and publisher on this side of the water is the insignificance of American literary agencies. The leading American writers do

not market their work-in America, at least through literary agents. In England the

successful writers sell their books through middlemen. One firm, Messrs. A. P. Watt & Son, which handles Mr. Kipling's work as well as that of several other leading English novelists, draws thousands of dollars annually as commissions on American sales alone. These commissions come out of the pocket of the author, who pays the literary agent ten per cent. of all receipts. A good agent is, however, supposed to pay for himself by attending to all business details. American writers do not seem to feel the need of this middleman. The author and the publisher here understand each other better than they ever did and are putting money into each other's pockets faster than they would have dreamed of a generation ago. Perhaps the full pocket makes the full heart. At any rate the two crafts now dwell in peace.

I'

FI may speak of the author as a composite of many individuals, he is usually a most amiable person, vastly well-informed upon the subject of his book, but by no means equally well-informed about the mechanics of printing. The printer may be but mildly interested in the book, but the doing of it into metal, paper and cloth is his daily bread. He is, therefore, likely to be more disturbed by the ignorance of the author about type and proofs than impressed by his profound knowledge upon the subject of his book.

When the colleges and universities come to realize the importance of the graphic arts by which their work is preserved, they may give instruction, at least superficially, about bookmaking. In that happy generation the author will be less of a trial to the printer, and less of an expense to the publisher. He will write

better, perhaps; he will at least know how to "mark up" proofs.

As the printer, I have usually begun my work towards the making of a book with a personal note to the author, telling him of my anxiety to have it well done, and delicately hinting that the proof-reader may possibly make suggestions from time to time-only suggestions, to be disregarded promptly if not agreeable or to the point. This beginning has usually been courteously responded to, and among the pleasant things which comeoccasionally to the master-printer, none are more agreeable than the notes of appreciation from the authors whom he has served. course this presumes a real interest on the part of the printer in the book which is passing through the press, on its way to fame-or possibly to the ten-cent counter of the department store! And if the master-printer cannot have

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this interest, and cannot establish this comfortable and sympathetic relation with the author, he has missed his calling, and should give place to a better man. The true typographic craftsman believes with that prince of bookmakers, Mr. Theodore L. DeVinne, that "the time will come when the making of a good book, from the mechanical point of view, will be regarded as an achievement quite as worthy as the painting of a good picture or the building of a good house."

But the actual author is not a composite he is an individual, and usually very much of an individual. He may have vague ideas about the mechanical work of bookmaking, and, alas! he is sometimes a man who appreciates the true import of words and phrases only when they stand before him in cold type. I have lately been making a theological book for a doctor of divinity. His manuscript was beautiful in chirography and exact in expression. At least it seemed so to us of the print-shop; but I fear we were mistaken about its exactness, for when the doctor got his first, or "galley" proofs, he "sailed into" his own theology as if it were the contention of a rival! When the page-proof followed, he struck still another line of thought, to the consternation of us all; but his chief flow of eloquence presented itself in the form of a voluminous "insert" in the middle of a long chapter, after he had received the "foundry" proofs, which were sent to him only for reference and indexing, and as an evidence that the pages had been cast into the, relatively unalterable electrotype. When I gently remonstrated with him, showing him that this last homiletic thunderbolt would cause the destruction of about thirty cast pages, and a resetting of that much of the book, at an expense which I was quite sure the publisher would expect him to pay, he reluctantly agreed to my suggestion that he write down his interpolation to exactly two pages, which could be inserted without great expense. Some excellent authors cannot "cut" or "fill" to meet the usual typographic needs. I remember one good brother who said that he couldn't, and that I shouldn't, but I cautiously did; and the fun of it was that he was unable to find the places where, to make harmonious work, a word or two had been cut out or added. He was entirely happy; so was I. It should be explained as one canon of good bookmaking, that a paragraph must not end on the first line of a page. Where

this happens, the printer asks the author either to "cut" the line, or to add some words to it. Also, a chapter may not end with but two or three lines at the top of a page; it must be cut down to not quite fill the last page, or "padded" to fill at least one-fourth of the short page. If the printer reluctantly cuts or adds, he is religiously careful not to alter the sense in the least.

One author, a man of deep learning and wide general cultivation as well, is an ideal editor. He can add or cut to perfection, and he knows just where to do it so as to cause the least typographic inconvenience or expense. After he has done this work, too, the result is clean, terse English, the admiration of his readers. But this dear man's "copy!" It is a collection of scraps of all sizes on all sorts of paper. One would think manuscript paper was scarce; yet I have sent reams and reams of suitable stationery to him. No one knows what becomes of it, for the stream of scraps continues. I have had "copy" from that man on the back of a tailor's bill-unreceipted and one chapter of a recent book included odds and ends of paper the other side of which showed that they came from ten of the United States and two countries of Europe. Among the scraps was a friend's wedding announcement; but the wedding date was past, at least, as I was gravely informed upon a gentle remonstrance to the author. His assistant tells me that the only safety for the wedding certificate of our friend is that it is framed, and therefore inconvenient to write upon.

But much may be forgiven to such an author, who is a continual joy to the printer. What matter the backs of envelopes or the scraps of foreign letters when the "copy" they are covered with is perfect in diction, absolutely legible, and ready for the compositor without revision? And then the little private notes which come dropping in with the copy and proofs from this busy man—they bubble with fun; and one wonders how he has had time to acquire so much delightfully expressive slang, or to devise the wonderful phonetic spelling which adorns only these private communications.

Sometimes the "copy" is bad—the poor printer calls it “blind." printer calls it "blind." Good handwriting is greatly to be preferred, however scrappy the paper, to poor typewriting. One author used a pale pink eight-dollar typewriter, and did his

numerous interlineations with a still paler lead-pencil. After the book was out, I respectfully suggested the use of an axe on the typewriter. I am afraid the author did not appreciate the facetiousness of my remark, for he wrote me that it was "indecent." I have wondered since if he may not have thought that my sanguinary suggestion was meant for the operator and not for the machine.

The only other difficulty that I ever had with an author came about through a revision—which was a task that lay beyond my work as a printer-of a book in a series. The editor requested me, during his absence in Europe, to condense or cut down the work. The growing indignation of the author whose redundancy I was pruning was most amusingly manifested in the way he addressed successive communications. At first "Dear Mr. McFarland," I was soon "Mr. McFarland," then "McFarland," and then plain "Sir;" and the last postal card simply started in with an expressive dash! We have made it all up since, over a second edition.

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An interesting case was that of the author of a widely-used mental arithmetic. He visited me, and I found that his knowledge was limited to mathematics. He juggled joyfully with the figures, but struggled painfully with the words which connected them. We looked out for the English, and he was grateful. He was followed by the author of a spelling-book, whose copy was beautifully prepared, and with whom we had a pleasant correspondence. One day he came, unannounced, and chose to preserve an incognito while he questioned several of the office people—in my absence—about things in general and spelling-books in particular. He tried hard to draw out some expression as to his speller, but without success, fortunately. Then there is the man who is impressed with the deep importance of the work with which he is about to favor the world, and who is apt to linger long over the proofs. A historian recently gave us an experience with this form of author. We were persuaded to begin putting his history in type when only a part of the copy was ready. Nearly two weeks' pondering over each batch of galley proofs did not satisfy him, but it infuriated the composing room foreman, whose business it is to keep his type moving. After the page proofs were sent out, the historian-author came to me

with a complaint that the compositors were purposely "spreading out " his book, the pages of which certainly did look more "open" than the daily newspaper he was comparing with. He was dealt with gently, but firmly. Soon the copy gave out, and then began a most harrowing experience. The author lived in my home city, and twice a day (by his wish) the office boy called on him for copy. We got enough to set up two or three pages a day, and so finally we finished the book, which surely added much to our "experience account," as every master printer sadly calls it.

But the last reincarnation of the deliberating author appeared to us in the shape of a medical writer, whose book on a gruesome subject is dragging its way slowly through the press. The doctor hung on to his first lot of proofs over three weeks, and plaintively complained—he is the soul of courtesy—that we were hurrying him unduly, when we suggested a little expedition. When he was half through the checking up of the topical index, he almost "struck," saying that, as he had given such careful attention to the proofs, he ought now to be relieved from looking up his own references. As he is now becoming anxious as to what the reviewers will say of his book, he may eventually come to the point of permitting us to complete it.

A veteran editor-a man of wide experience in journalism and politics-sent a book to my office on one of the great natural products of the Keystone State. Being an editor, he could see no use whatever in writing copy days ahead of its use, and so this book, too, followed the pen very closely. He was delighted to find a corner in the proof-room where he might work, and whence his awful manuscript went quickly to the compositors. Yes, his script was awful, for he frequently balked at it himself when called upon by a despairing compositor. He reminded me of an experience of my own type-setting days, when an editorial writer on an inland city daily was confidently believed to originate new and wonderful alphabetic signs every day. Once I took him a particularly “blind" page of his own, and, after puzzling profanely over an undecipherable phrase, he ejaculated "Damn the man who writes like that!" while he rewrote his own phrase.

The author, as the printer knows him : may his pen never tire, his good humor continue. his practicability increase!

MR. BOOKER T. WASHINGTON's autobiography is one of those few books that are singled out as remarkable. It is the story of an Up From Slavery. extraordinary life, simple, yet eloquently told, and there is probably not another American who could write an autobiography of more direct human interest. Beginning in a

slave cabin it leads on by the ambitious energy of a boy, and the self-sacrifice of a mother and brother to the then new Hampton school in Virginia; and with sheer force and character of the man it culminates in the making of one of the great educational institutions of the land. The boy who twenty-five years ago slept under a sidewalk in Richmond, is now the head of the Tuskegee Institute with its property and endow ment of nearly a half-million dollars. But, greater than that stands the fact that he has undoubtedly done more than any other man towards solving the "Negro problem," and he has given the greatest human document on the subject ever written. (Doubleday, Page. $1.50.)

We are glad to be able definitely to recommend "The Octopus" as being a book of special interest and merit. The author, The Octopus. MR. FRANK NORRIS, has taken for his motive a wheat crisis, which occurred in the San Joaquin Valley, California, some twenty years since, and around it has woven a story treating of "the People" and "the Trust" from a very unusual and convincing point of view. Combined with this thoroughly practical aspect is an extraordinary blending of realism, mysticism, idealism, pessimism, and optimism and directness a cosmopolitan disregard for predominance of tone-and an equal, forceful style of construction. None of the sunlight or shadow of Californian life and atmosphere is lost. If a note of immaturity sounds at times, it is more pleasing by way of contrast than otherwise, and does not detract from a book which leaves one with careful and distinct impressions and thoughts of a strong book, strongly written. (Doubleday, Page. $1.50.)

Mr. ALBERT SONNICHSEN was arrested by the Filipino insurgents while trying to visit their Ten Months capital, Malolos, about a week before a Captive the outbreak of hostilities between Among Filipinos. the Americans and the natives. The recital of his subsequent experiences has a unique interest. Carried from place to place, now confined in crowded and filthy prison-pens, now stretched on a hospital cot among dying Spanish prisoners, now befriended by kind-hearted

natives and allowed the freedom of the town, he had an opportunity to become acquainted with many sides of the Filipino character. As a firsthand source of information on just the things which all Americans want to know about now this book has very great value. Naturally the seamy side is that most in evidence. Prison sanitation in Luzon is certainly primitive; captured prisoners did not suffer from overfeeding; they endured severe hardships; more than once after the American victories their lives were in danger. Yet, when the necessary allowances are made, the showing is decidedly favorable to the Filipinos, more so on the whole than to the Otis administration, if one reads between the lines. (Scribner's. $1.50.)

The life of Penn is by DR. GEORGE HODGES, Dean of the Cambridge (Mass.), Theological Seminary. Penn can by no stretch be made out an American; Dr. Hodges does not exaggerate the importance of what was only an incident in Penn's life, but sets forth the essential facts in the life of the seventeenth century English Quaker and gentleman.

MR. HENRY CHILDS MERWIN's life of Jefferson leaves something to be desired. It follows conventional lines, and has in general the qualities of style and treatment to be feared in so brief a summary. It is more of a political than a personal biography; we fail to get acquainted with the man.

MR. ROSSITER W. RAYMOND writes of Peter Cooper from personal knowledge. This life is excellent. The philanthropist is not permitted to conceal from us the typical American, with his many-sided activities, from inventing a locomotive to running for the Presidency.

Each of these biographies has for its frontispiece an excellent picture of its subject. (Houghton, Mifflin. 75 cents.)

MR. WILLIAM HANNIBAL THOMAS, himself a mulatto, writes most discouragingly of the capaThe American bilities and prospects of the Negro. Negro. He concludes that his race is sunk in almost hopeless degradation. Economically and