Trials of a Publisher by Agnes Repplier

In reading the recently published _Memoirs and Correspondence of John Murray_, a very interesting and valuable piece of biography-albeit somewhat lengthy for these hurried days-we are forcibly impressed with one surprising truth which we were far from suspecting in our ignorance-namely, that the publisher's life, like the policeman's, is not a happy one, but filled to the brim with vexations peculiarly his own. It was as much the fashion in Murray's time as it is in ours to bewail the hard fate of down-trodden authors, and to hint that he who prints the book absorbs the praise and profit which belong in justice to him who writes it. In fact, that trenchant and time-honored jest, "Now Barabbas was a publisher," dates from this halcyon period when _Marmion_ was sold for a thousand guineas, and the third canto of _Childe Harold_ for nearly twice that sum. Murray himself possessed such influence in the literary world that the battle with the public was thought to be half won when a book appeared armed with the sanction of his name. He was a man of wealth, too, of social standing, of severe and fastidious tastes; exactly fitted by circumstances, if not by nature, to play the autocratic _rôle_ popularly assigned to all his craft, to crush the aspiring poet in the dust, to freeze the budding genius who sought assistance at his hands, to override with haughty arrogance the wan and needy scholar who waited at his door. Instead of this, we see him enduring with lamblike gentleness an amount of provocation which would have hallowed a medieval saint, and which seems to our undisciplined spirits as wantonly exasperating and malign.

In the first place, his Scotch allies, Constable and the ever-sanguine James Ballantyne, appeared to have looked upon the English firm as an inexhaustible mine of wealth, from which they could, when convenient, draw whatever they required. Ballantyne, especially, required so much, and required that much so often, that Murray was obliged to sever a connection too costly for his purse. Then his partial ownership of _Blackwood's Magazine_ was for years a thorn in his flesh, and there is something truly pathetic in his miserable attempts to modify the personalities of that utterly irrepressible journal. "In the name of God," he writes vehemently to William Blackwood, "why do you seem to think it necessary that each number must give pain to some one? " Even the _Quarterly_, his own literary offspring, and the pride and glory of his heart, was at times but a fractious child, and cost him, after the fashion of children, many sleepless nights. Gifford, the editor, was incurably unbusinesslike in his habits, and never could understand why subscribers should complain and raise a row because the magazine chanced to be a month or six weeks late. It was sure to appear some time, and they had all the pleasure of anticipation. It was a point of honor with him, also, to conceal the names of his contributors, so that when offence was given to anybody-which was pretty nearly always-the aggrieved person immediately attacked Murray in return. There are hosts of letters in these volumes from indignant authors who express themselves with true British candor because the _Quarterly_ has assailed their books, or their friends' books, or their friends' friends' books, or their pet politicians, or their most cherished political schemes. There are hosts of other letters which merely record a distinctly unfavorable opinion of the magazine's literary qualities, and which lament with pitiless sincerity that the last number hardly contained a single readable article.