Text: Anonymous, “What is a National Literature Worth?,” New York Illustrated Magazine (New York, NY), vol. III, nos. 2-4, February 1847, pp. 93-94

[page 93, continued:]

WHAT IS A NATIONAL LITERATURE WORTH?

To be sure, what is it worth? Is this question definable, or not? A tradesman will answer a simular question by — Just what it will bring. According to this, rule, then, its value is scarcely nominal, as it brings nothing but headaches and heartaches. Verily we believe one half our writers might earn a more comfortable living by carrying the hod, to say nothing about the contemptible spirit of traffic — a spirit to which they are obliged to succumb, and at whose shrine they are obliged to lay, as a peace-oflering, the dignity of independence. Imagine a poor fellow shut up in a miserable garret for weeks, with fare poorer than a prisoner's, and with none of the prisoner's comfortable hours of slumber, wearing away body and mind to produce intellectual food ‘’ for the million,” who finally buy for a few pence what has cost him many an hour of aching thought. And when he ventures into the street, he is sneered at by the perfumed fop and igriorant money lender for his poverty and threadbare coat. That men, who wield weapons more powerful than swords, should be shouldered by mere cyphers, and be made the tools for others to accumulate wealth with, is ever galling to sensitive spirits. The public, however, will have cheap reading, and will not have an international copyright, and consequently while this state of things exists, how can we reasonably hope for a National Literature ty What publisher now pays a decent price for an original novel, for instance, when for a song he can republish the works of English authors at so cheap [but nasty] a rate as to flood the market and astonish the gullible public, who cry — what enterprise! We know a gentleman in this city who has not received sixty $ for an original copyright novel, that has been lauded by the press and praised by all who read it; and yet had it been first published in England, the bookmakers here would have been glad to have paid, perhaps more than that for early proof sheets. In Heaven's name, will that find bread and cheese! In another instance we know where a wealthy publishing house offered twenty-five dollars for an original translation of Victor Hugo's Crimes of Paris — a work of exceeding interest! Why, that sum's worth of bread and water would scarcely keep the translator through his labor! Is this liberality, or enterprise? Six or seven thousand copies of the work might have been sold; but what of that — the publisher wants all the money. Of course it is nothing but amusement to write, and complimentary to have what you write printed. What a difference betwixt the thirty-three of fifty per cent. of the bookseller or [column 2:] publisher and the one per cent. of the poor author, whose wit and learning often amuse and instruct those who leave him to die of neglect. “There is no use in talking,” the selfish man will say; but we say there is use in it, and in the language of a distinguished Senator, we should like to “keep the ball a rolling.”

Has not the fact been recently trumpeted through the papers that an unfortunate child of genius was lying at the point of death in this city, without the means of making his last hours (if such should be the finale) comfortable; and that his wife was in scarcely better condition?* Carried that no heartache to the thousands who have dwelt delighted over the inspirations of his genius? Can we believe that in the great crowd of this rich city, one so well known could have lain down in poverty and sickness, without a rushing of warm hearts to his bedside, eager to administer comfort and consolation? Must we come to this inevitable conclusion, that a poor man has no right to be a literary one? Will not the public pay as well for “ thoughts that breathe and words that burn,” as for kid gloves? Is it to be understood that there is to be no protection to the American Author? Are not his wares as valuable as the mechanic's? If literature is thrown open to foreign competition, (a competition sought and produced by ourselves,) why not give the same privileges to other branches of art, and to manufactures? What is the reason some of our big headed fellows in Congress don’t see this thing in its proper light? Will nothing convince them? Will no argument avail? It strikes us they would very soon wake up to the importance of corn, and potatoes, and cotton. We don’t doubt but some know nothing apart from politics, and know just enough of that to meddle with the machinery and set all agog. It is a wonderful age — this age we live in; though as much as it is ‘doing for railroads, magnetic telegraphs and war, we don’t believe it is doing enough for a National Literature.

The Managers of our theatres come in also for a share of the censure. If there be no law to protect the interests of the dramatic author, there can be no excuse why Managers should make the matter worse. After an author has written his piece, and lowers himself to [page 94:] the condition of presenting it to the head of the show, he must be told by that great judge of one's brains, that he can get plays enough from England for twenty-five cents, that will fill his house as well as an original one that he would be obliged to pay twenty-five dollars for. The Green Room has some unpleasant secrets in its keeping. We are in fear of no Free List suspension! and we advise our friends who have MSS. to submit, to hand them over to a committee of respectable men in Washington Market, — they would have quicker and likelier justice done them, than they would get from some of our Managers. The theatrical profession suffers in a similar way with the business of book publishing — having too often at its head men who have no business outside the carpenter's room.

How often do we hear in the Green Room that the public in this country will not support a National Drama! This is false. How is it in other countries — particularly in France and England? Human passion is the same all over the world, and the Managers themselves oftentimes, by their acts, contradict this assertion. Very recently a drama was produced at one of our theatres, called the “City Burglar,” with an effort to palm it off as an American play. Wretched stuff? [column 2:] adopted and localized for New York — itself a spawn of the London boards. Is this a National Literature? It was a failure, thank Heaven! A similar attempt has been made to localize another piece — an English nautical piece — with a view, we should think, to suit a mixed audience, for the Star Spangled Banner, St. George, English Tars, American Seamen, Land of the Free, &c. &c., are plentifully mingled. What miserable work to produce an American Drama! We have had some few evidences of what the public will do, when it has an opportunity, in the success of a few dramatic productions; and it yields us hearty pleasure to know that a few of our American actors, at the head of whom stand Mr. Forrest, and Mr. Murdock, have the interests of the National Drama enough in view to give it their cordial support.

But is not all this the fault of the public? Why does it not demand a National Literature? Let it instruct its representatives to vote for an International Copyright Law. This will put our own Literature upon its legs, and this position once taken, we shall be disappointed if it does not keep pace with the best of its competitors. But how long must we be obliged to wait for the dawning of better times?

[[Footnotes]]

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 93, column 2:]

* The affairs of Mr. Poe's private life have been very ungraciously meddled with by the press — we hope from no ill nature; — but we are glad to perceive by a letter which he publishes in the “Home Journal,” that his condition has been much exaggerated, and that he is rapidly gaining his former health.