Sage Webb's Blog, page 4

Jane Austen, Mark Twain, Texas’s First Colony, and the Pains of Publishing

With this past weekend’s visit to historic San Felipe De Austin, site of Stephen F. Austin’s first colony in Texas, publishing’s long history as a tough business came to mind. The industry is a rough one.

But let’s back up just a little.

In 1797, Jane Austen’s dad offered the Pride and Prejudice manuscript to the London publisher Thomas Cadell of Cadell and Davies. (Rev. George Austen even inquired into publication costs, implying he’d foot the bill.) The firm declined the book. (Rev. Austen’s letter to the firm survived in the firm’s archives, with someone discovering it in 1840 with the mark “declined by return of post.”) Ouch!

In 1803, Jane’s dad or brother sold Northanger Abbey (under another name) to Crosby & Co. in London, who promptly did nothing with it and ultimately sold it back to Jane’s brother. Finally, in 1811, Sense and Sensibility hit shelves as Jane’s debut novel—with Jane shouldering the financial risks herself. (The book bore the inscription “Printed for the Author,” meaning she was on the financial hook.) The book initially made 140 pounds (which wasn’t too bad back then).

So a bit over a decade after Jane Austen launches Sense and Sensibility, on the other side of “the pond,” Stephen F. Austin launches his San Felipe colony in Texas, with printer Godwin B. Cotten settling in the village beside the Brazos in September 1829. Cotten had already failed as a printer in Alabama, Louisiana, and Tamaulipas, Mexico. But he trundled into Texas for another try, producing The Texas Gazette and publishing Texas’s first book, Translation of the Laws, Orders, and Contracts, on Colonization.

The press struggled though, and Cotten moved on to Brazoria in 1832, leaving room for Gail Borden (think condensed milk—same Borden) room to try his hand at the trade. With no printing experience, Borden, with his brother and a Spanish translator, founded the Telegraph and Texas Register in 1835, going on to become the “printed voice” of the Texas Revolution. The press printed key documents for the revolution and stayed in business up until the evacuation of San Felipe (as part of the Runaway Scrape) in the spring of 1836. Ultimately, the Mexican army got a hold of Borden’s printing press and tossed it into Buffalo Bayou, near modern-day Houston.

Fifty years later, Mark Twain’s publishers displeased him and Twain did his own tossing away, setting up his own “subscription” publishing firm (buyers “subscribed” ahead of time to buy a book to be released in the future—that’s a whole ‘nother story). In 1884, Twain founded Charles L. Webster and Company, which did well out of the gate (publishing Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and the Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant), but things slipped downward from there. (Tying into posts from earlier this fall, the firm published Libbie Custer’s accounts of George Armstrong out west.) The company declared bankruptcy in 1894.

So “self-publishing” has a long history, publishing as a whole is a rough industry, and a local RV adventure can “drive” home these aspects of the business in vivid ways!

A Pirate Attack and a Lack of Provisions

(Our weekend roadtrip in the RV started with a misadventure Friday.)

After buying provisions for an RV trip to Stephen F. Austin State Park in San Felipe, Texas; after packing up everything we would need for the trip (even the dog’s little cold-weather coat); after knowing I’d left the RV full of fuel and in ready shape after my trip to Mississippi and Louisiana—well, after all that, we find ourselves with an ailing RV and no supper . . . or at least a somewhat meager supper.

The misadventure began when the Bosun fired up the RV at the lot at which we store her. The RV roared to life . . . like wailed . . . like trumpeted with her entire spirit.

“Was it this loud when you had her in New Orleans?” the Bosun asked me.

“Um-mm. Not even close.” I shook my head.

Boat Dog cowered into me as the noise continued.

And the RV just kept hollering.

Recognizing we could do nothing to address the issue in the RV storage lot, I asked the Bosun if he’d pulled all the bags out of the car and loaded the RV. He affirmed he had. And we simply hit the road with a clap of thunder (more like a continuous roll of thunder).

At the state park, under the moss-hung trees and with the sun setting in pink and tawny, we discovered two things:

Pirates had raided the RV for its catalytic converter. So that explained the noise. (When I lived in Michigan, catalytic-converter theft presented quite a problem for city dwellers. Urban pirates would go down a line of cars parked on the street, swiping the catalytic converters for scrap money.)
The Bosun had left a bag of groceries “somewhere,” a bag that had contained the lemon cake I’d been looking forward to enjoying; the jalapeño-cheese bread I’d so carefully chosen to complement the soups aboard; the sparkly-water beverages I enjoy as a treat; Boat Dog’s food; and sundry items. (Note: Our car resembles a golf cart. Beats me how one can “lose” a stuffed canvas bag of goodies in about three cubic feet of space.)

Worry not, though—I keep a new, unopened bag of dog food aboard for just such exigencies. So Boat Dog got his full supper.

I, on the other hand, had to “make do.” And the Bosun? Well, he’s doing his penance in the form of Rummikub tonight (he’s not a fan, but boy, he’s gonna play his heart out tonight because I luv the game).

Dogs of the Docks + the Under-Appreciated “Joys” of Boat Life

I shall start with a paean to the piratical pooches of Poseidon. Many, many boats in the marinas in which I’ve lived have hosted boat dogs. These little (and occasionally big) crew members did not choose this life, but they sure brighten it. They comfort their captains in times of illness and anxiety, “guard” their boats and bosuns, and enliven any dinner (no, they don’t all beg for scraps, but mine sure does).

They ride in laundry wagons, directing the performance of chores, and they navigate during trips to the post office. They chill in the cockpit on sunny days, and sometimes sneak out to frolic in the grass at the end of the dock when no one is looking (yes, it happens), and make new friends easily. When a front rolls through and things get chilly and damp, they provide better heat in the berth than any space heater.

Their love covers the potholes of having to schlep up the dock in the cold and rain to do laundry. (Or of the loss of living space precipitated by not schlepping. See below. The Bosun has been reduced to recycling socks. I have simply eschewed socks, despite the cold and damp.) With tiny sinks that make dish washing a bit of a hassle, sometimes dishes sleep in the cockpit till a more convenient wash time arises. But boat dogs don’t complain about the disarray. They embrace these under-appreciated “joys” of boat life. And they may assist with cleaning.

They join in on philosophical discussions and ruminations about defining “the good life,” about Plato and Epicurus.

They cuddle for the reading of a good book. And they don’t complain (too much) about having to walk in the rain “for miles” up the dock and back to do the things they “need” to do. Boat dogs are boat boons.

Boat/Homecoming and Book-Club Excitement

With Colorado again on the other side of the western horizon, the Bosun and I return to the boat. Pluses? It feels great to be back on her. The marina has donned its festive holiday-lights attire. I get to have my third temporary crown of the fall swapped out for a permanent one tomorrow; hopefully, that change will end what can only be called The Great Tooth Discomfort.

The cons? Coming back to a boat isn’t quite like getting “home.” It’s as though boats wait for their residents, hiding ... ready to jump out and surprise their inhabitants as soon as those inhabitants step back on the dock. In our case, the jumping out has involved presentation of a dinghy full of rainwater. In our haste to depart, we did not hoist the dingy out of the water or raise her bow to allow rainwater to drain out of her in our absence. So she greets us with gallons of water and a floating fuel tank.

The Bosun gallantly rolls up his pants and sheds his shoes, climbing into the little rubber boat to bail her out, allowing me to go below with my cantankerous tooth and concomitant head pain. (The Bosun being the Bosun, he also checks the oil.)

Overflowing mini-boats aside, though, it feels great to be home. Our dock holds the promise of a fun dinner gathering this week, and we have a bit of Greek philosophy to discuss, with a little book-club meeting in the hopper. Books and boats really do make the best combination.