considered the matter within himself, and has resolved that such
cruelty is the best mercy. No doubt the chances against literary
aspirants are very great. It is so easy to aspire,--and to begin!
A man cannot make a watch or a shoe without a variety of tools and
many materials. He must also have learned much. But any young lady
can write a book who has a sufficiency of pens and paper. It can
be done anywhere; in any clothes--which is a great thing; at any
hours--to which happy accident in literature I owe my success.
And the success, when achieved, is so pleasant! The aspirants, of
course, are very many; and the experienced councillor, when asked
for his candid judgment as to this or that effort, knows that among
every hundred efforts there will be ninety-nine failures. Then the
answer is so ready: "My dear young lady, do darn your stockings;
it will be for the best." Or perhaps, less tenderly, to the male
aspirant: "You must earn some money, you say. Don't you think
that a stool in a counting-house might be better?" The advice will
probably be good advice,--probably, no doubt, as may be proved by
the terrible majority of failures. But who is to be sure that he
is not expelling an angel from the heaven to which, if less roughly
treated, he would soar,--that he is not dooming some Milton to be
mute and inglorious, who, but for such cruel ill-judgment, would
become vocal to all ages?
The answer to all this seems to be ready enough. The judgment,
whether cruel or tender, should not be ill-judgment. He who
consents to sit as judge should have capacity for judging. But in
this matter no accuracy of judgment is possible. It may be that the
matter subjected to the critic is so bad or so good as to make an
assured answer possible. "You, at any rate, cannot make this your
vocation;" or "You, at any rate, can succeed, if you will try." But
cases as to which such certainty can be expressed are rare. The
critic who wrote the article on the early verses of Lord Byron, which
produced the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, was justified in
his criticism by the merits of the Hours of Idleness. The lines had
nevertheless been written by that Lord Byron who became our Byron.
In a little satire called The Biliad, which, I think, nobody knows,
are the following well-expressed lines:--
"When Payne Knight's Taste was issued to the town,
A few Greek verses in the text set down
Were torn to pieces, mangled into hash,
Doomed to the flames as execrable trash,--
In short, were butchered rather than dissected,
And several false quantities detected,--
Till, when the smoke had vanished from the cinders,
'Twas just discovered that--THE LINES WERE PINDAR'S!"
There can be no assurance against cases such as these; and yet we
are so free with our advice, always bidding the young aspirant to
desist.
There is perhaps no career or life so charming as that of a successful
man of letters. Those little unthought of advantages which I just
now named are in themselves attractive. If you like the town, live in
the town, and do your work there; if you like the country, choose
the country. It may be done on the top of a mountain or in the
bottom of a pit. It is compatible with the rolling of the sea and
the motion of a railway. The clergyman, the lawyer, the doctor, the
member of Parliament, the clerk in a public office, the tradesman,
and even his assistant in the shop, must dress in accordance with
certain fixed laws; but the author need sacrifice to no grace,
hardly even to Propriety. He is subject to no bonds such as those
which bind other men. Who else is free from all shackle as to hours?
The judge must sit at ten, and the attorney-general, who is making
his (pounds)20,000 a year, must be there with his bag. The Prime Minister
must be in his place on that weary front bench shortly after
prayers, and must sit there, either asleep or awake, even though
---- or ---- should be addressing the House. During all that Sunday
which he maintains should be a day of rest, the active clergyman
toils like a galley-slave. The actor, when eight o'clock comes,
is bound to his footlights. The Civil Service clerk must sit there
from ten till four,--unless his office be fashionable, when twelve
to six is just as heavy on him. The author may do his work at five
in the morning when he is fresh from his bed, or at three in the
morning before he goes there. And the author wants no capital, and
encounters no risks. When once he is afloat, the publisher finds
all that;--and indeed, unless he be rash, finds it whether he be
afloat or not. But it is in the consideration which he enjoys that
the successful author finds his richest reward. He is, if not of
equal rank, yet of equal standing with the highest; and if he be
open to the amenities of society, may choose his own circles. He
without money can enter doors which are closed against almost all
but him and the wealthy. I have often heard it said that in this
country the man of letters is not recognised. I believe the meaning
of this to be that men of letters are not often invited to be
knights and baronets. I do not think that they wish it;--and if
they had it they would, as a body, lose much more than they would
gain. I do not at all desire to have letters put after my name, or
to be called Sir Anthony, but if my friends Tom Hughes and Charles
Reade became Sir Thomas and Sir Charles, I do not know how I might
feel,--or how my wife might feel, if we were left unbedecked. As
it is, the man of letters who would be selected for titular honour,
if such bestowal of honours were customary, receives from the general
respect of those around him a much more pleasant recognition of
his worth.
If this be so,--if it be true that the career of the successful
literary man be thus pleasant--it is not wonderful that many should
attempt to win the prize. But how is a man to know whether or not
he has within him the qualities necessary for such a career? He
makes an attempt, and fails; repeats his attempt, and fails again!
So many have succeeded at last who have failed more than once or
twice! Who will tell him the truth as to himself? Who has power to
find out that truth? The hard man sends him off without a scruple
to that office-stool; the soft man assures him that there is much
merit in his MS.
Oh, my young aspirant,--if ever such a one should read these
pages,--be sure that no one can tell you! To do so it would be
necessary not only to know what there is now within you, but also
to foresee what time will produce there. This, however, I think may
be said to you, without any doubt as to the wisdom of the counsel
given, that if it be necessary for you to live by your work, do not
begin by trusting to literature. Take the stool in the office as
recommended to you by the hard man; and then, in such leisure hours
as may belong to you, let the praise which has come from the lips
of that soft man induce you to pe
rsevere in your literary attempts.
Should you fail, then your failure will not be fatal,--and what
better could you have done with the leisure hours had you not so
failed? Such double toil, you will say, is severe. Yes, but if
you want this thing, you must submit to severe toil.
Sometime before this I had become one of the Committee appointed
for the distribution of the moneys of the Royal Literary Fund, and
in that capacity I heard and saw much of the sufferings of authors.
I may in a future chapter speak further of this Institution, which
I regard with great affection, and in reference to which I should
be glad to record certain convictions of my own; but I allude to it
now, because the experience I have acquired in being active in its
cause forbids me to advise any young man or woman to enter boldly
on a literary career in search of bread. I know how utterly I
should have failed myself had my bread not been earned elsewhere
while I was making my efforts. During ten years of work, which I
commenced with some aid from the fact that others of my family were
in the same profession, I did not earn enough to buy me the pens,
experience in my art, I began again as from a new springing point,
I should have failed again unless again I could have given years
to the task. Of course there have been many who have done better
than I,--many whose powers have been infinitely greater. But then,
too, I have seen the failure of many who were greater.
The career, when success has been achieved, is certainly very
pleasant; but the agonies which are endured in the search for that
success are often terrible. And the author's poverty is, I think,
harder to be borne than any other poverty. The man, whether rightly
or wrongly, feels that the world is using him with extreme injustice.
The more absolutely he fails, the higher, it is probable, he will
reckon his own merits; and the keener will be the sense of injury
in that he whose work is of so high a nature cannot get bread,
while they whose tasks are mean are lapped in luxury. "I, with
my well-filled mind, with my clear intellect, with all my gifts,
cannot earn a poor crown a day, while that fool, who simpers in
a little room behind a shop, makes his thousands every year." The
very charity, to which he too often is driven, is bitterer to him
than to others. While he takes it he almost spurns the hand that
gives it to him, and every fibre of his heart within him is bleeding
with a sense of injury.
The career, when successful, is pleasant enough certainly; but when
unsuccessful, it is of all careers the most agonising.
CHAPTER XII ON NOVELS AND THE ART OF WRITING THEM
It is nearly twenty years since I proposed to myself to write
a history of English prose fiction. I shall never do it now, but
the subject is so good a one that I recommend it heartily to some
man of letters, who shall at the same time be indefatigable and
light-handed. I acknowledge that I broke down in the task, because
I could not endure the labour in addition to the other labours of
my life. Though the book might be charming, the work was very much
the reverse. It came to have a terrible aspect to me, as did that
proposition that I should sit out all the May meetings of a season.
According to my plan of such a history it would be necessary
to read an infinity of novels, and not only to read them, but so
to read them as to point out the excellences of those which are
most excellent, and to explain the defects of those which, though
defective, had still reached sufficient reputation to make them
worthy of notice. I did read many after this fashion,--and here
and there I have the criticisms which I wrote. In regard to many,
they were written on some blank page within the book; I have not,
however, even a list of the books so criticised. I think that the
Arcadia was the first, and Ivanhoe the last. My plan, as I settled
it at last, had been to begin with Robinson Crusoe, which is the
earliest really popular novel which we have in our language, and
to continue the review so as to include the works of all English
novelists of reputation, except those who might still be living
when my task should be completed. But when Dickens and Bulwer died,
my spirit flagged, and that which I had already found to be very
difficult had become almost impossible to me at my then period of
life.
I began my own studies on the subject with works much earlier than
Robinson Crusoe, and made my way through a variety of novels which
were necessary for my purpose, but which in the reading gave me no
pleasure whatever. I never worked harder than at the Arcadia, or
read more detestable trash than the stories written by Mrs. Aphra
Behn; but these two were necessary to my purpose, which was not only
to give an estimate of the novels as I found them, but to describe
how it had come to pass that the English novels of the present
day have become what they are, to point out the effects which they
have produced, and to inquire whether their great popularity has on
the whole done good or evil to the people who read them. I still
think that the book is one well worthy to be written.
a novelist, and also to vindicate that public taste in literature
which has created and nourished the profession which I follow.
And I was stirred up to make such an attempt by a conviction that
there still exists among us Englishmen a prejudice in respect
to novels which might, perhaps, be lessened by such a work. This
prejudice is not against the reading of novels, as is proved by their
general acceptance among us. But it exists strongly in reference
to the appreciation in which they are professed to be held; and it
robs them of much of that high character which they may claim to
have earned by their grace, their honesty, and good teaching.
No man can work long at any trade without being brought to consider
much, whether that which he is daily doing tends to evil or to
good. I have written many novels, and have known many writers of
novels, and I can assert that such thoughts have been strong with
them and with myself. But in acknowledging that these writers have
received from the public a full measure of credit for such genius,
ingenuity, or perseverance as each may have displayed, I feel that
there is still wanting to them a just appreciation of the excellence
of their calling, and a general understanding of the high nature
of the work which they perform.
By the common consent of all mankind who have read, poetry takes
the highest place in literature. That nobility of expression, and
all but divine grace of words, which she is bound to attain before
she can make her footing good, is not compatible with prose. Indeed
it is that which turns prose into poetry. When that has been in
truth achieved, the reader knows that the writer has soared above
&nbs
p; the earth, and can teach his lessons somewhat as a god might teach.
He who sits down to write his tale in prose makes no such attempt,
nor does he dream that the poet's honour is within his reach;--but
his teaching is of the same nature, and his lessons all tend to
the same end. By either, false sentiments may be fostered; false
notions of humanity may be engendered; false honour, false love,
false worship may be created; by either, vice instead of virtue
may be taught. But by each, equally, may true honour, true love;
true worship, and true humanity be inculcated; and that will be
the greatest teacher who will spread such truth the widest. But
at present, much as novels, as novels, are bought and read, there
exists still an idea, a feeling which is very prevalent, that novels
at their best are but innocent. Young men and women,--and old men
and women too,--read more of them than of poetry, because such reading
is easier than the reading of poetry; but they read them,--as men
eat pastry after dinner,--not without some inward conviction that
the taste is vain if not vicious. I take upon myself to say that
it is neither vicious nor vain.
But all writers of fiction who have desired to think well of their
own work, will probably have had doubts on their minds before they
have arrived at this conclusion. Thinking much of my own daily
labour and of its nature, I felt myself at first to be much afflicted
and then to be deeply grieved by the opinion expressed by wise and
thinking men as to the work done by novelists. But when, by degrees,
I dared to examine and sift the sayings of such men, I found them
to be sometimes silly and often arrogant. I began to inquire what
had been the nature of English novels since they first became common
in our own language, and to be desirous of ascertaining whether they
had done harm or good. I could well remember that, in my own young
days, they had not taken that undisputed possession of drawing-rooms
which they now hold. Fifty years ago, when George IV. was king, they
were not indeed treated as Lydia had been forced to treat them in
the preceding reign, when, on the approach of elders, Peregrine
Pickle was hidden beneath the bolster, and Lord Ainsworth put away
under the sofa. But the families in which an unrestricted permission