The author is not to blame for his superficial delusion to the
contrary, especially if he has written a book that has set
everyone talking, because it is of a vital interest. It may be
of a vital interest, without being at all the kind of book people
want to buy; it may be the kind of book that they are content to
know at second hand; there are such fatal books; but hearing so
much, and reading so much about it, the author cannot help hoping
that it has sold much more than the publisher says. The
publisher is undoubtedly honest, however, and the author had
better put away the comforting question of his integrity.

The English writers seem largely to suspect their publishers (I
cannot say with how much reason, for my English publisher is
Scotch, and I should be glad to be so true a man as I think him);
but I believe that American authors, when not flown with
flattering reviews, as largely trust theirs. Of course there are
rogues in every walk of life. I will not say that I ever
personally met them in the flowery paths of literature, but I
have heard of other people meeting them there, just as I have
heard of people seeing ghosts, and I have to believe in both the
rogues and the ghosts, without the witness of my own senses. I
suppose, upon such grounds mainly, that there are wicked
publishers, but in the case of our books that do not sell, I am
afraid that it is the graceless and inappreciative public which
is far more to blame than the wickedest of the publishers. It is
true that publishers will drive a hard bargain when they can, or
when they must; but there is nothing to hinder an author from
driving a hard bargain, too, when he can, or when he must; and it
is to be said of the publisher that he is always more willing to