So highly do I estimate the honour of being even in so small a degree the publisher of the author of the poem that no pecuniary consideration whatever can induce me to part with it. But there is a consideration of another kind that would make it painful to me if I were to retain it a moment longer. I mean the knowledge of its being required by the author, into whose hands it was spontaneously resigned at the same instant that I read the request.
There has always been a vast difference in authors in the attitude they assume toward the transformation of their manuscripts into printed books. Most of them leave every detail to their publishers, but a few take a deep and intelligent personal interest. Bernard Shaw is to be included in the latter group.
A leading Boston publisher once telephoned me that an unknown English author had submitted a manuscript for publication, but that it was too socialistic in its nature to be acceptable. Then the publisher added that the author had asked, in case this house did not care to publish the volume, that arrangements be made to have the book printed in this country in order to secure American copyright.
“We don’t care to have anything to do with it,” was the statement; “but I thought perhaps you might like to manufacture the book.”
“Who is the author?” I inquired.
“It’s a man named Shaw.”
“What is the rest of his name?”
“Wait a minute and I’ll find out.”
Leaving the telephone for a moment, the publisher returned and said,
“His name is G. Bernard Shaw. Did you ever hear of him?”