Part 26

Now that criticism, or rather the lack of it, has been explained, it may be of some interest to learn how the vast number of books which is annually put forth is handled by the editors of literary reviews and the "book pages" of the daily press. Having for nearly ten years been connected with the literary supplement of a New York daily which prides itself on ignoring nothing which is published with the idea of being read, my experiences for observation have been somewhat unusual. The increase in the number of books, and the eagerness of the public to learn about them at the earliest possible moment, have caused the daily press to usurp some of the functions formerly enjoyed by the monthly reviews. The latter do little more than mention the vast majority of publications and confine more and more their critical talents to what they consider conspicuous and distinctive literary productions. Purely literary periodicals have come and gone and left few mourners. The pages of The Bookman, for example, are no longer confined to literary criticism, to essays on bookish topics, to gossip of author and publisher.

There are four distinct publishing periods in the book world. The early spring season, principally confined to those books which could not be made ready to meet the recent holiday season, and to routine books,--books which on account of copyright exigencies have to be published then, books which for prestige the publisher would have bear his imprint, etc. Then comes the late spring season, which is principally confined to novels of the lighter sort and to books for supplementary school reading for the coming autumn. Toward the end of August the first Holiday books usually make their appearance. They increase in number until the end of September, when there is a lull. From the middle of October until the end of November there is a perfect outpour of books. The months of November and December until Christmas Day are the busiest times in the year for the reviewer.

As the books come in they are carefully looked over by the one who is known as the "critic" of the review or paper. He has men and women on his lists whose pens he has tried before--they may be lawyers, college professors, sportsmen, society men, professional novel readers, etc. He considers the author of the book at hand, its seeming importance, etc., and despatches it to a critic. An expert writer of expositions is usually ready to relieve him of volumes upon which for some reason he does not feel justified in requesting expert opinion. Occasionally he makes a mistake by giving out for exposition a really important book. The expert who has been impatiently waiting for the volume points out the error. The work of a well-known novelist is usually sent to a critic who is familiar with former tales by the same author. Juveniles are handed over to one of proved sympathy with stories for boys and girls--one who is conservative yet quick to catch a new element. Books that are essentially for gifts are disposed of in a similar manner--to one who has proved his or her ability to set forth artistic features in books. New editions of classics are turned over to writers who are acquainted with the mechanical make-up of a book, so that the reader may learn whether the new edition of the favorite author is well bound, printed, and appropriately decorated and illustrated. And among the hundreds of "brief notices," expositions, impressions, descriptions, and long and short essays that are handed in, there are invariably some pieces of valuable comment which are well in keeping with the traditions of professional criticism. The critic usually returns the book with his article. These books are ultimately collected and disposed of in various ways. They may be sold at auction to members of the staff, which is an effective way of getting rid of them just before Christmas.

Is there any likelihood of an improvement in literary criticism--any chance of a return by the daily press to what the Reviews of the past gave and those of England and the Continent still give? The standard of criticism is determined by two forces: the quality of books and the taste of would-be purchasers. If every book were really "criticised," the criticisms of many would be utterly incomprehensible to many of their possible readers. The public gets the books it desires; the books receive the attention they deserve. When the standard of reading shall be raised, so that the public shall demand better books, it will be found that more books will receive "serious" attention. As it is at present, the public does not desire much elaborate, fine criticism. It, together with its favorite authors, would be sorely dissatisfied if it got more. It may be added that, in my humble opinion, the function of a critic as an arbiter of literary taste is measurably overestimated. Of course, a man who has won distinction as a judge of books and who signs his articles may have some influence. But it seems to me that the function of the anonymous reviewer should begin and end by explaining the book and let the public be its own critic. It will certainly be in the end. For no critic ever killed a good book; none ever praised an unworthy volume into success and fame.

THE TRAVELLING SALESMAN

By Harry A. Thompson.

The increase in the visible supply of authors more than meets the demand. A manuscript once accepted, the publisher finds no lack of paper makers ready to supply him with any grade of fair white paper that he may wish to spoil. Printers even manifest a dignified alacrity to set the type and print the book, and binders are yet to be accused of any disinclination to cover it.

It is only when author, paper maker, printer, and binder have done with their share in the exploitation of literature that the publisher finds that the current which had been urging him gently onward has set against him. Of making many books there is no end, but the profitable marketing of the same is vanity and vexation of spirit.

Enter the salesman.

He is to convince the bookseller, who is to convince the public, that this particular book--shall we, for our purpose, christen it "Last Year's Nests"?--is the great American novel (whatever that means), and that its influence on the reading of unborn generations will be measured by the rank it holds in the list of the six best sellers.

The salesman is handicapped not a little by the fact that it is neither shoes, nor pig-iron, nor even mess-pork that he is selling, and, therefore, superior quality of workmanship, inferior price, and personal magnetism count for little. Persuasiveness, which, perhaps, is a part of personal magnetism, counts; so does an intelligent knowledge of the contents of the book; likewise hard work and tactful persistence; also, honesty. But opposed against the combination is the bookseller, on guard against overstocking, to some extent a purchaser of a pig in a poke, conscious that one unsold book eats up the profit on five copies safely disposed of.

Time was when good salesmanship consisted in overstocking a bookseller; this was occasioned less by persuasiveness than by overpersuasiveness. Regardless of the merits of the book and with no more than a nodding acquaintance with its contents, a persuasive salesman could "load" a customer--as he called it out of the customer's hearing--with two hundred and fifty copies of a novel that had no other merit than that it had been written by a novelist whose previous book had met with success. The significance of these figures, two hundred and fifty, is to be found in the maximum discount to retailers of forty and ten per cent on that quantity. Latterly, the publisher has found that a bankrupt bookseller has few creditors besides publishers, and has come to a realizing sense of the futility of clogging the distributing machinery. He is disposed, therefore, to exercise some restraint upon his salesman's ardor. Perhaps it were better to say that the salesman, grown wiser, is more disposed to aid the bookseller in his purchases to the end that no monuments of unsold failures will stare him in the face on his next visit to the customer's store. Yet even to this day, such restraint is tempered by a certain amount of moderation.

All of which, while interesting to the historian of the publishing trade, carries us too far in advance of our text. Let us therefore return to "Last Year's Nests"--12mo, cloth, illustrated, gilt top, uncut edges, price $1.50.

The first edition--it may be one thousand copies or ten thousand--has been delivered to the publisher by the beaming binder, who alone, in some instances, knows his profit on them. "Last Year's Nests" is by a well-known author, and contains some elements of popularity. The literary adviser has written a beautiful and scholarly appreciation of it, one of the lady stenographers has declared it grand, and the salesman, if he is given to reading anything beyond the title-page, says it's a corker. He starts out with it; along with a trunkful of other books, to be sure, but our sympathies are wholly with the "Nests," and it is only its career that we shall follow.

He may be one of a force of salesmen, each of whom has his own territory. One may visit only the larger cities, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Chicago; another may take in the smaller towns along this route; another, the Middle West, Southern or Southwestern territory. Still another, the cities west of Chicago, including those on the Pacific coast. Houses publishing competitive lines and non-copyright books have other methods and machinery for distribution. I speak only for the copyright salesman, and not to be too prolix, take only the copyright novel as an illustration of the day's work.

The salesman arrives at a town, say Chicago. He goes to the hotel, orders his trunks and sample tables sent to his room. The tables are set up--well-worn pine boards on trestles and covered with sheeting. He unpacks his trunk and arranges his books on the tables as effectively as his artistic sense permits. Then he visits his customers and makes appointments that cover a full week. Previous to his arrival his office had informed the booksellers of his coming, inclosing a catalogue. This the bookseller handed to a clerk to be marked up. The clerk had gone over their stock of this particular publisher's books and had marked opposite each title in the catalogue the number of copies on hand. Armed with this catalogue the bookseller keeps his appointment at the room of the traveller. [It ought to be mentioned in passing that this is a purely hypothetical case, invented for the purposes of illustration. The clerk who marks up the catalogue in advance of the salesman's arrival is as fictitious as the bookseller who keeps his appointment promptly. Perhaps this delightful uncertainty is another of the many influences that make the book business, from the writing of the manuscript to the reading of the printed book, so fascinating.]

In the salesman's room the customer examines the new books, asks questions, hears arguments (many of them fearfully and wonderfully made), and eventually, after much debate, gives his order. Having ordered all the new books that he wishes, he goes over the catalogue and gives what is called his stock order; that is to say, he orders the books on which his stock is low but for which there is still a demand.

Perhaps the salesman has reserved for his final battle the sale of "Last Year's Nests." As prices cut some figure in this argument, we are driven, for a moment, to the dry bones of prices and discounts.

Listed in the publisher's catalogue at $1.50, the ordinary discount to a dealer ordering two or three copies is thirty-three and one-third per cent, or $1.00 net, the bookseller paying transportation charges. Competition, however, has increased this discount to forty per cent, so that we shall assume that in small quantities the book can be had at $.90 net. In larger quantities extra discounts are given; some publishers give forty and five per cent on fifty copies and forty and ten per cent on one hundred copies; others increase the quantities to one hundred and two hundred and fifty copies respectively for the extra discounts. But, as has been pointed out, the growing tendency is not to overload the bookseller, especially in view of the fact that it is the publisher who loses when the bookseller assigns.

Assuming that the "Last Year's Nests" is likely to have a large sale and that the salesman wishes to sell Mr. Bookseller two hundred and fifty copies, he quotes the extra discount of forty and ten per cent on that quantity. If he can persuade the bookseller to take two hundred and fifty copies, he has not only swollen his sales by that amount, but he has forced a probable retail sale of that quantity. For once on the bookseller's tables, the very size of the order inspires every clerk to help reduce the pile, not to mention the fact that the books are bought and must be paid for. Had the bookseller bought five copies, extra efforts toward sales would not be forthcoming; the energy would be applied to another novel. Hence the salesman's efforts to effect a large sale.

There is another reason for this extra quantity. Two hundred and fifty copies of "Last Year's Nests," piled in a pyramid, is a gentle reminder to the bookseller's customers that it is a mighty important book. Such an argument is often more potent than the disagreeing opinions of critics. Here is a case in point.

A novelist wrote an altogether charming and spirited novel. The reviewers spoke well of it, but the sale of the book hung fire. It was the dull season,--May or June,--and there was no other novel of any worth in the public mind. The salesman said to his employer: "Here's a book that has a good chance for success. If you'll back me with some good advertising, I'll guarantee to make that novel sell."

The publisher replied: "Go ahead, my son; I'll take a gamble on it." (They really talk that way when they travel mufti.) So the salesman induced the New York wholesalers to erect a pyramid of a thousand copies in their respective stores, guaranteeing to take back the books if they were not sold. This was done for the purpose of impressing the buyers for country stores who were flocking into New York for their fall purchases.

Next the retail booksellers were asked to take, on the same terms, from one hundred to two hundred and fifty copies and pile them conspicuously in their stores. As trade was dull and there was no one big seller clamoring for public recognition at the time, the dealers were willing to assist in the work of encouraging good literature.

Then an advertising campaign was planned. Critics there were a-plenty who wagged a sad head because the advertising was undignified. What they meant was that it was unconventional, was without the dignity of tradition to give it its hallmark. It had, at least, the novelty of originality, and answered the final test of good advertising in that it attracted attention. Then the sale began, and as soon as New York City was reporting it among the list of the six best sellers, the salesman took to the road to carry on the campaign. The result was eventually a sale reaching six figures.

But to get back to "Last Year's Nests." It is to be published June 1. A few sample pages only have been printed, but blank paper fills out to the bulk of the book as it will be. Illustrations--if they are ready--are inserted, the title-page printed, and the whole is bound up in a sample cover. This is technically known as a dummy, and serves to show the prospective buyer merely the outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual appeal to public favor. For the purpose of informing the bookseller it is worth but little more than the printed title or a catalogue announcement. For all $1.50 novels look alike, are printed on pretty much the same kind of paper, and bear covers differing more in degree than kind. Yet the bookseller likes to handle something tangible when he is making up his order, and the salesman, with even a dummy in his hand, finds that there is less wear and tear upon his imagination.

Were he selling shoes, the salesman would, as a matter of course, point out the superior quality of the goods, lay stress on their style and durability, and as a clincher, present the incontrovertible argument of low price. On no such brief can the book salesman rest his case. "Last Year's Nests" varies in no respect mechanically from any of its 12mo competitors; and if it did, it would make no difference. "Look at the design of the cover, see how durable it is," argues the salesman. "What a charming title-page, and note the classic proportion of the printed page to the margin," he continues. The startled customer, listening to such an argument, would be inclined to humor the salesman until he could safely get him into the hands of an alienist.

Two arguments and two only comprise the salesman's stock in trade; if he can say that "Last Year's Nests" is by the well-known author whose name is a household word and whose previous book sold so many thousand copies, he has the bookseller on the mourner's bench; if he can (and he frequently does) add the clinching argument that his firm will advertise the book heavily, he can leave the bookseller with that thrill of triumph we all feel when we bend another's will to our own.