the author. The continuance of these relations between the two depended,
as it should depend, upon mutual advantage and mutual good-will. By the
present common method the author makes over the use of his property to
the will of the publisher. It is true that he parts with the use only of
the property and not with the property itself, and the publisher in law
acquires no other title, nor does he acquire any sort of interest in the
future products of the author's brain. But the author loses all control
of his property, and its profit to him may depend upon his continuing to
make over his books to the same publisher. In this continuance he is
liable to the temptation to work for a market, instead of following the
free impulses of his own genius. As to any special book, the publisher is
the sole judge whether to push it or to let it sink into the stagnation
of unadvertised goods.

The situation is full of complications. Theoretically it is the interest
of both parties to sell as many books as possible. But the author has an
interest in one book, the publisher in a hundred. And it is natural and
reasonable that the man who risks his money should be the judge of the
policy best for his whole establishment. I cannot but think that this
situation would be on a juster footing all round if the author returned
to the old practice of limiting the use of his property by the publisher.
I say this in full recognition of the fact that the publishers might be
unwilling to make temporary investments, or to take risks. What then?
Fewer books might be published. Less vanity might be gratified. Less
money might be risked in experiments upon the public, and more might be
made by distributing good literature. Would the public be injured? It is
an idea already discredited that the world owes a living to everybody who
thinks he can write, and it is a superstition already fading that capital
which exploits literature as a trade acquires any special privileges.