It is a noteworthy fact that Motley, after he had written the first volume of his "Dutch Republic," tried in vain to find a publisher in England, presuming he would be more successful in his undertaking there than in his own country. As a last resort, he printed seven hundred and fifty copies at his own expense, but they could not be got rid of until the Harpers published a large edition of the work. Since then the history has become an English, or rather an American, classic, and the author is now established as one of the first of historians. How many now famous works were rejected again and again when first offered for publication. Indeed, the excellence of a book may almost be inferred from the difficulty attendant upon its publication. If the manuscript be in the ordinary routine of literature or art, or if it be written down to the level of common taste, of course it is available and will be popular. But if it be original, above the appreciation of the many, subtle or esoteric in its character, it is looked upon with suspicion, and grave doubts arise of its salableness—very naturally, in publishers' eyes, the worst of defects. De Foe could find no publisher for "Robinson Crusoe;" Thackeray for "Vanity Fair;" Charlotte Brontë for "Jane Eyre;" Emerson for his first essays on Nature, until patience had been exhausted, and hope deferred had made their hearts sick. But Tupper and Sylvanus Cobb have a ready market for their proletarian wares, and Headley and Abbott make fortunes by vitiating the public taste. No wonder men of genius and simpletons complain they are not appreciated. The former fail because they are not, and the latter because they are, understood. Take consolation, ye unanointed of fame. If the World will not listen to you it is because you are above or below it! You will believe you are above it, of course, and the delusion will soften the pain of disappointment. Aut Cæsar, aut nullus. If not Cæsar, be nothing, and become more glorious than he in the fulness of your self-control.
"One thousand religions and but one sauce," exclaimed the bewildered Frenchman for the first time introduced to American peculiarities. What would he have said had he known that the theological inventiveness of our countrymen was still in full activity, and that we had no immediate prospect of relief from the excitement of keeping watch of the new systems of belief which are constantly threatening us with the overthrow of the existing order, into which we might otherwise complacently settle, each after his own opinion. It might somewhat reduce the list of inventors in this line, were they forced to go through the formalities of the Patent Office and submit to its tests of originality. It would be convenient, too, if application were made here of the Patent Office system of classification — into ideas which are distinctly original and those which are simply a modification of systems already recognized. Here is Mr. Ross Winans, of Baltimore, at work, as we learn, upon a new theological system which is designed to effect a revolution in religion as radical as that which will be produced in navigation by his cigar ship—if it succeeds. Now, it would be a comfort for us all to have some competent authority determine the character of this invention of Mr. Winans' before his book appears. Let us know whether it has the original features that he claims for it, or whether it is simply a "modification." It is fortunate for Mr. Winans' purse that this new conceit will not cost him so much to humor it as his cigar ship has. A few hundred or a few thousand dollars will serve to set his theological system before the world; instead of the tens or the hundreds of thousands that he has drawn from his ample fortune to expend on
