At one time there seemed a probability of the enlargement of the author’s gains by subscription publication, and one very well-known American author prospered fabulously in that way.  The percentage offered by the subscription houses was only about half as much as that paid by the trade, but the sales were so much greater that the author could very well afford to take it.  Where the book-dealer sold ten, the book-agent sold a hundred; or at least he did so in the case of Mark Twain’s books; and we all thought it reasonable he could do so with ours.  Such of us as made experiment of him, however, found the facts illogical.  No book of literary quality was made to go by subscription except Mr. Clemens’s books, and I think these went because the subscription public never knew what good literature they were.  This sort of readers, or buyers, were so used to getting something worthless for their money that they would not spend it for artistic fiction, or, indeed, for any fiction at all except Mr. Clemens’s, which they probably supposed bad.  Some good books of travel had a measurable success through the book-agents, but not at all the success that had been hoped for; and I believe now the subscription trade again publishes only compilations, or such works as owe more to the skill of the editor than the art of the writer.  Mr. Clemens himself no longer offers his books to the public in that way.

It is not common, I think, in this country, to publish on the half-profits system, but it is very common in England, where, owing probably to the moisture in the air, which lends a fairy outline to every prospect, it seems to be peculiarly alluring.  One of my own early books was published there on these terms, which I accepted with the insensate joy of the young author in getting any terms from a publisher.  The book sold, sold every copy of the small first edition, and in due time the publisher’s statement came.  I did not think my half of the profits was very great, but it seemed a fair division after every imaginable cost had been charged up against my poor book, and that frail venture had been made to pay the expenses of composition, corrections, paper, printing, binding, advertising, and editorial copies.  The wonder ought to have been that there was anything at all coming to me, but I was young and greedy then, and I really thought there ought to have been more.  I was disappointed, but I made the best of it, of course, and took the account to the junior partner of the house which employed me, and said that I should like to draw on him for the sum due me from the London publishers.  He said, Certainly; but after a glance at the account he smiled and said he supposed I knew how much the sum was?  I answered, Yes; it was eleven pounds nine shillings, was not it?  But I owned at the same time that I never was good at figures, and that I found English money peculiarly baffling.  He laughed now, and said, It was eleven shillings and ninepence.  In fact, after all those