It seems that in older texts, comma use is rampant, and they are used in ways that would probably be considered incorrect today. This passage, for instance (The cherry-tree anecdote, attributed to Parson Weems):
The following anecdote is a case in point. It is too valuable to be lost, and too true to be doubted; for it was communicated to me by the same excellent lady to whom I am indebted for the last.
"When George," said she, "was about six years old, he was made the wealthy master of a hatchet! Of which, like most little boys, he was immoderately fond, and was constantly going about chopping everything that came in his way. One day, in the garden, where he often amused himself hacking his mother's pea-sticks, he unluckily tried the edge of his hatchet on the body of a beautiful young English cherry-tree, which he barked so terribly, that I don't believe the tree ever got the better of it. The next morning the old gentleman, finding out what had befallen his tree, which, by the by, was a great favourite, came into the house; and with much warmth asked for the mischievous author, declaring at the same time, that he would not have taken five guineas for his tree. Nobody could tell him anything about it. Presently George and his hatchet made their appearance. "George," said his father, "do you know who killed that beautiful little cherry tree yonder in the garden? " This was a tough question; and George staggered under it for a moment; but quickly recovered himself: and looking at his father, with the sweet face of youth brightened with the inexpressible charm of all-conquering truth, he bravely cried out, "I can't tell a lie, Pa; you know I can't tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet." "Run to my arms, you dearest boy," cried his father in transports, "run to my arms; glad am I, George, that you killed my tree; for you have paid me for it a thousand fold. Such an act of heroism in my son is more worth than a thousand trees, though blossomed with silver, and their fruits of purest gold."
It wouldn't be considered incorrect by today's standards, just not as common. Authors two-hundred years ago tended to write longer and more complex sentences, thus the demand for more commas. Take F. Scott Fitzgerald, for example. In The Great Gatsby, among his other writings, he uses numerous commas to break apart a series of abstract phrases, that, by themselves would be considered sentence fragments.
Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
Authors in the past tended to use more abstract phrases and sentences to describe things. The trend within the past century, thanks in part to our minimalist friend Ernest Hemingway (I have no concrete evidence to support this, but he made very simple sentences, had very few commas, and was a very popular writer), is to reduce the length of sentences in favor of brevity. Clear and concise is the way to go, nowadays.
EDIT: It also depends on the genre and field in which a person is writing. I, as a historian, am encouraged to use fewer commas than, say, an English major or political scientist, although I tend to fight the less-commas-the-better rule. (That sentence is a good example of a time when I would be encouraged to use fewer commas).
tl;dr more commas doesn't always equal incorrectness, just complexity that may be mistaken for incorrectness
It may or may not be related, but for reference to anyone more knowledgable than me, here is an extract from Notre Dame by Victor Hugo:
Ou plutôt toute sa personne était une grimace. Une grosse tête hérissée de cheveux roux ; entre les deux épaules une bosse énorme dont le contrecoup se faisait sentir par devant ; un système de cuisses et de jambes si étrangement fourvoyées qu’elles ne pouvaient se toucher que par les genoux, et, vues de face, ressemblaient à deux croissants de faucille qui se rejoignent par la poignée, de larges pieds, des mains monstrueuses, et, avec toute cette difformité, je ne sais quelle allure redoutable de vigueur, d’agilité et de courage ; étrange exception à la règle éternelle qui veut que la force, comme la beauté, résulte de l’harmonie. Tel était le pape que les fous venaient de se donner.