INTRODUCTORY EPISTLE
CAPTAIN CLUTTERBUCK TO THE REVEREND DR. DRYASDUST
DEAR SIR,
I readily accept of, and reply to the civilities with which you havebeen pleased to honour me in your obliging letter, and entirely agreewith your quotation, of _"Quam bonum et quam jucundum!"_ We may indeedesteem ourselves as come of the same family, or, according to ourcountry proverb, as being all one man's bairns; and there needed noapology on your part, reverend and dear sir, for demanding of me anyinformation which I may be able to supply respecting the subject of yourcuriosity. The interview which you allude to took place in the courseof last winter, and is so deeply imprinted on my recollection, that itrequires no effort to collect all its most minute details.
You are aware that the share which I had in introducing the Romance,called THE MONASTERY, to public notice, has given me a sort of characterin the literature of our Scottish metropolis. I no longer stand inthe outer shop of our bibliopolists, bargaining for the objects of mycuriosity with an unrespective shop-lad, hustled among boys who come tobuy Corderies and copy-books, and servant girls cheapening a pennyworthof paper, but am cordially welcomed by the bibliopolist himself, with,"Pray, walk into the back-shop, Captain. Boy, get a chair for CaptainClutterbuck. There is the newspaper, Captain--to-day's paper;" or, "Hereis the last new work--there is a folder, make free with the leaves;"or, "Put it in your pocket and carry it home;" or, "We will make abookseller of you, sir, and you shall have it at trade price." Or,perhaps if it is the worthy trader's own publication, his liberalitymay even extend itself to--"Never mind booking such a trifle to_you_, sir--it is an over-copy. Pray, mention the work to your readingfriends." I say nothing of the snug well-selected literary partyarranged round a turbot, leg of five-year-old mutton, or some such gear,or of the circulation of a quiet bottle of Robert Cockburn's choicestblack--nay, perhaps, of his new ones. All these are comforts reservedto such as are freemen of the corporation of letters, and I have theadvantage of enjoying them in perfection. But all things change underthe sun; and it is with no ordinary feelings of regret, that, in myannual visits to the metropolis, I now miss the social and warm-heartedwelcome of the quick-witted and kindly friend who first introduced me tothe public; who had more original wit than would have set up a dozen ofprofessed sayers of good things, and more racy humour than would havemade the fortune of as many more. To this great deprivation has beenadded, I trust for a time only, the loss of another bibliopolicalfriend, whose vigorous intellect, and liberal ideas, have not onlyrendered his native country the mart of her own literature, butestablished there a Court of Letters, which must command respect, evenfrom those most inclined to dissent from many of its canons. The effectof these changes, operated in a great measure by the strong sense andsagacious calculations of an individual, who knew how to avail himself,to an unhoped-for extent, of the various kinds of talent which hiscountry produced, will probably appear more clearly to the generationwhich shall follow the present.
I entered the shop at the Cross, to enquire after the health of myworthy friend, and learned with satisfaction, that his residence in thesouth had abated the rigour of the symptoms of his disorder. Availingmyself, then, of the privileges to which I have alluded, I strolledonward in that labyrinth of small dark rooms, or _crypts_, to speak ourown antiquarian language, which form the extensive back-settlements ofthat celebrated publishing-house. Yet, as I proceeded from one obscurerecess to another, filled, some of them with old volumes, some with suchas, from the equality of their rank on the shelves, I suspected to bethe less saleable modern books of the concern, I could not help feelinga holy horror creep upon me, when I thought of the risk of intruding onsome ecstatic bard giving vent to his poetical fury; or it might be,on the yet more formidable privacy of a band of critics, in the act ofworrying the game which they had just run down. In such a supposed case,I felt by anticipation the horrors of the Highland seers, whom theirgift of deuteroscopy compels to witness things unmeet for mortal eye;and who, to use the expression of Collins,
----"heartless, oft, like moody madness, stare, To see the phantom train their secret work prepare."
Still, however, the irresistible impulse of an undefined curiositydrove me on through this succession of darksome chambers, till, like thejeweller of Delhi in the house of the magician Bennaskar, I at lengthreached a vaulted room, dedicated to secrecy and silence, and beheld,seated by a lamp, and employed in reading a. blotted _revise_,[Footnote: The uninitiated must be informed, that a second proof-sheetis so called.] the person, or perhaps I should rather say the Eidolon,or representative Vision of the AUTHOR OF WAVERLEY! You will not besurprised at the filial instinct which enabled me at once to acknowledgethe features borne by this venerable apparition, and that I at oncebended the knee, with the classical salutation of, _Salve, magneparens!_ The vision, however, cut me short, by pointing to a seat,intimating at the same time, that my presence was not expected, and thathe had something to say to me.
I sat down with humble obedience, and endeavoured to note the featuresof him with whom I now found myself so unexpectedly in society. But onthis point I can give your reverence no satisfaction; for, besides theobscurity of the apartment, and the fluttered state of my own nerves, Iseemed to myself overwhelmed by a sense of filial awe, which preventedmy noting and recording what it is probable the personage before memight most desire to have concealed. Indeed, his figure was so closelyveiled and wimpled, either with a mantle, morning-gown, or some suchloose garb, that the verses of Spenser might well have been applied--
"Yet, certes, by her face and physnomy, Whether she man or woman only were, That could not any creature well descry."
I must, however, go on as I have begun, to apply the masculine gender;for, notwithstanding very ingenious reasons, and indeed something likepositive evidence, have been offered to prove the Author of Waverley tobe two ladies of talent, I must abide by the general opinion, that he isof the rougher sex. There are in his writings too many things
"Quae maribus sola tribuuntur,"
to permit me to entertain any doubt on that subject. I will proceed, inthe manner of dialogue, to repeat as nearly as I can what passed betwixtus, only observing, that in the course of the conversation, my timidityimperceptibly gave way under the familiarity of his address; and that,in the concluding part of our dialogue, I perhaps argued with fully asmuch confidence as was beseeming.
_Author of Waverley._ I was willing to see you, Captain Clutterbuck,being the person of my family whom I have most regard for, since thedeath of Jedediah Cleishbotham; and I am afraid I may have done you somewrong, in assigning to you The Monastery as a portion of my effects. Ihave some thoughts of making it up to you, by naming you godfatherto this yet unborn babe--(he indicated the proof-sheet with hisfinger)--But first, touching The Monastery--How says the world--you areabroad and can learn?
_Captain Clutterbuck._ Hem! hem!--The enquiry is delicate--I have notheard any complaints from the Publishers.
_Author._ That is the principal matter; but yet an indifferent work issometimes towed on by those which have left harbour before it, with thebreeze in their poop.--What say the Critics?
_Captain._ There is a general--feeling--that the White Lady is nofavourite.
_Author._ I think she is a failure myself; but rather in execution thanconception. Could I have evoked an _esprit follet_, at the same timefantastic and interesting, capricious and kind; a sort of wildfire ofthe elements, bound by no fixed laws, or motives of action; faithful andfond, yet teazing and uncertain----
_Captain._ If you will pardon the interruption, sir, I think you aredescribing a pretty woman.
_Author._ On my word, I believe I am. I must invest my elementaryspirits with a little human flesh and blood--they are too fine-drawn forthe present taste of the public.
_Captain._ They object, too, that the object of your Nixie ought tohave been more uniformly noble--Her ducking the priest was no Naiad-likeamusement.
_Author._
Ah! they ought to allow for the capriccios of what is, afterall, but a better sort of goblin. The bath into which Ariel, the mostdelicate creation of Shakspeare's imagination, seduces our jolly friendTrinculo, was not of amber or rose-water. But no one shall find merowing against the stream. I care not who knows it--I write for generalamusement; and, though I never will aim at popularity by what I thinkunworthy means, I will not, on the other hand, be pertinacious in thedefence of my own errors against the voice of the public.
_Captain._ You abandon, then, in the present work--(looking, in my turn,towards the proof-sheet)--the mystic, and the magical, and the wholesystem of signs, wonders, and omens? There are no dreams, or presages,or obscure allusions to future events?
_Author._ Not a Cock-lane scratch, my son--not one bounce on the drum ofTedworth--not so much as the poor tick of a solitary death-watch inthe wainscot. All is clear and above board--a Scots metaphysician mightbelieve every word of it.
_Captain._ And the story is, I hope, natural and probable; commencingstrikingly, proceeding naturally, ending happily--like the course of afamed river, which gushes from the mouth of some obscure and romanticgrotto--then gliding on, never pausing, never precipitating its course,visiting, as it were, by natural instinct, whatever worthy subjects ofinterest are presented by the country through which it passes--wideningand deepening in interest as it flows on; and at length arriving atthe final catastrophe as at some mighty haven, where ships of all kindsstrike sail and yard?
_Author._ Hey! hey! what the deuce is all this? Why,'tis Ercles' vein,and it would require some one much more like Hercules than I, to producea story which should gush, and glide, and never pause, and visit, andwiden, and deepen, and all the rest on't. I should be chin-deep in thegrave, man, before I had done with my task; and, in the meanwhile, allthe quirks and quiddities which I might have devised for my reader'samusement, would lie rotting in my gizzard, like Sancho's suppressedwitticisms, when he was under his master's displeasure.--There never wasa novel written on this plan while the world stood.
_Captain._ Pardon me--Tom Jones.
_Author._ True, and perhaps Amelia also. Fielding had high notions ofthe dignity of an art which he may be considered as having founded. Hechallenges a comparison between the Novel and the Epic. Smollett, LeSage, and others, emancipating themselves from the strictness ofthe rules he has laid down, have written rather a history of themiscellaneous adventures which befall an individual in the course oflife, than the plot of a regular and connected epopeia, where every stepbrings us a point nearer to the final catastrophe. These great mastershave been satisfied if they amused the reader upon the road; though theconclusion only arrived because the tale must have an end--just as thetraveller alights at the inn, because it is evening.
_Captain._ A very commodious mode of travelling, for the author atleast. In short, sir, you are of opinion with Bayes--"What the devildoes the plot signify, except to bring in fine things?"
_Author._ Grant that I were so, and that I should write with sense andspirit a few scenes unlaboured and loosely put together, but which hadsufficient interest in them to amuse in one corner the pain of body; inanother, to relieve anxiety of mind; in a third place, to unwrinkle abrow bent with the furrows of daily toil; in another, to fill the placeof bad thoughts, or to suggest better; in yet another, to induce anidler to study the history of his country; in all, save where theperusal interrupted the discharge of serious duties, to furnish harmlessamusement,--might not the author of such a work, however inartificiallyexecuted, plead for his errors and negligences the excuse of the slave,who, about to be punished for having spread the false report of avictory, saved himself by exclaiming--"Am I to blame, O Athenians, whohave given you one happy day?"
_Captain._ Will your goodness permit me to mention an anecdote of myexcellent grandmother?
_Author._ I see little she can have to do with the subject, CaptainClutterbuck.
_Captain._ It may come into our dialogue on Bayes's plan.--The sagaciousold lady--rest her soul!--was a good friend to the church, and couldnever hear a minister maligned by evil tongues, without taking hispart warmly. There was one fixed point, however, at which she alwaysabandoned the cause of her reverend _protege_--it was so soon asshe learned he had preached a regular sermon against slanderers andbackbiters.
_Author._ And what is that to the purpose?
_Captain._ Only that I have heard engineers say, that one may betray theweak point to the enemy, by too much ostentation of fortifying it.
_Author._ And, once more I pray, what is that to the purpose?
_Captain._ Nay, then, without farther metaphor, I am afraid this newproduction, in which your generosity seems willing to give me someconcern, will stand much in need of apology, since you think proper tobegin your defence before the case is on trial.-The story is hastilyhuddled up, I will venture a pint of claret.
_Author._ A pint of port, I suppose you mean?
_Captain._ I say of claret--good claret of the Monastery. Ah, sir, wouldyou but take the advice of your friends, and try to deserve at leastone-half of the public favour you have met with, we might all drinkTokay!
_Author._ I care not what I drink, so the liquor be wholesome.
_Captain._ Care for your reputation, then,--for your fame.
_Author._ My fame?--I will answer you as a very ingenious, able, andexperienced friend, being counsel for the notorious Jem MacCoul, repliedto the opposite side of the bar, when they laid weight on his client'srefusing to answer certain queries, which they said any man who had aregard for his reputation would not hesitate to reply to. "My client,"said he-by the way, Jem was standing behind him at the time, and a richscene it was-"is so unfortunate as to have no regard for his reputation;and I should deal very uncandidly with the Court, should I say he hadany that was worth his attention."-I am, though from very differentreasons, in Jem's happy state of indifference. Let fame follow those whohave a substantial shape. A shadow-and an impersonal author is nothingbetter-can cast no shade.
_Captain._ You are not now, perhaps, so impersonal as here-tofore. TheseLetters to the Member for the University of Oxford--_Author._ Show thewit, genius, and delicacy of the author, which I heartily wish to seeengaged on a subject of more importance; and show, besides, that thepreservation of my character of _incongnito_ has engaged early talent inthe discussion of a curious question of evidence. But a cause, howeveringeniously pleaded, is not therefore gained. You may remember, theneatly-wrought chain of circumstantial evidence, so artificially broughtforward to prove Sir Philip Francis's title to the Letters of Junius,seemed at first irrefragable; yet the influence of the reasoning haspassed away, and Junius, in the general opinion, is as much unknown asever. But on this subject I will not be soothed or provoked into sayingone word more. To say who I am not, would be one step towards sayingwho I am; and as I desire not, any more than a certain justice of peacementioned by Shenstone, the noise or report such things make in theworld, I shall continue to be silent on a subject, which, in my opinion,is very undeserving the noise that has been made about it, and stillmore unworthy of the serious employment of such ingenuity as has beendisplayed by the young letter-writer.
_Captain._ But allowing, my dear sir, that you care not for yourpersonal reputation, or for that of any literary person upon whoseshoulders your faults may be visited, allow me to say, that commongratitude to the public, which has received you so kindly, and to thecritics, who have treated you so leniently, ought to induce you tobestow more pains on your story.
_Author._ I do entreat you, my son, as Dr. Johnson would have said,"free your mind from cant." For the critics, they have their business,and I mine; as the nursery proverb goes--
"The children in Holland take pleasure in making What the children inEngland take pleasure in breaking."
I am their humble jackal, too busy in providing food for them, to havetime for considering whether they swallow or reject it.--To the public,I stand pretty nearly in the relation of the postman who leaves a packetat the door
of an individual. If it contains pleasing intelligence, abillet from a mistress, a letter from an absent son, a remittance froma correspondent supposed to be bankrupt,--the letter is acceptablywelcome, and read and re-read, folded up, filed, and safely deposited inthe bureau. If the contents are disagreeable, if it comes from a dun orfrom a bore, the correspondent is cursed, the letter is thrown into thefire, and the expense of postage is heartily regretted; while all thetime the bearer of the dispatches is, in either case, as little thoughton as the snow of last Christmas. The utmost extent of kindness betweenthe author and the public which can really exist, is, that the world aredisposed to be somewhat indulgent to the succeeding works of an originalfavourite, were it but on account of the habit which the public mind hasacquired; while the author very naturally thinks well of _their_ taste,who have so liberally applauded _his_ productions. But I deny there isany call for gratitude, properly so called, either on one side or theother.
_Captain._ Respect to yourself, then, ought to teach caution.
_Author._ Ay, if caution could augment the chance of my success. But,to confess to you the truth, the works and passages in which I havesucceeded, have uniformly been written with the greatest rapidity; andwhen I have seen some of these placed in opposition with others, andcommended as more highly finished, I could appeal to pen and standish,that the parts in which I have come feebly off, were by much the morelaboured. Besides, I doubt the beneficial effect of too much delay, bothon account of the author and the public. A man should strike while theiron is hot, and hoist sail while the wind is fair. If a successfulauthor keep not the stage, another instantly takes his ground. Ifa writer lie by for ten years ere he produces a second work, he issuperseded by others; or, if the age is so poor of genius that this doesnot happen, his own reputation becomes his greatest obstacle. The publicwill expect the new work to be ten times better than its predecessor;the author will expect it should be ten times more popular, and 'tis ahundred to ten that both are disappointed.
_Captain_. This may justify a certain degree of rapidity in publication,but not that which is proverbially said to be no speed. You should taketime at least to arrange your story.
_Author_. That is a sore point with me, my son. Believe me, I have notbeen fool enough to neglect ordinary precautions. I have repeatedly laiddown my future work to scale, divided it into volumes and chapters,and endeavoured to construct a story which I meant should evolve itselfgradually and strikingly, maintain suspense, and stimulate curiosity;and which, finally, should terminate in a striking catastrophe. But Ithink there is a demon who seats himself on the feather of my pen when Ibegin to write, and leads it astray from the purpose. Characters expandunder my hand; incidents are multiplied; the story lingers, while thematerials increase; my regular mansion turns out a Gothic anomaly, andthe work is closed long before I have attained the point I proposed.
_Captain_. Resolution and determined forbearance might remedy that evil.
_Author_. Alas! my dear sir, you do not know the force of paternalaffection. When I light on such a character as Bailie Jarvie, orDalgetty, my imagination brightens, and my conception becomes clearerat every step which I take in his company, although it leads me manya weary mile away from the regular road, and forces me leap hedge andditch to get back into the route again. If I resist the temptation,as you advise me, my thoughts become prosy, flat, and dull; I writepainfully to myself, and under a consciousness of flagging which makesme flag still more; the sunshine with which fancy had invested theincidents, departs from them, and leaves every thing dull and gloomy.I am no more the same author I was in my better mood, than the dog in awheel, condemned to go round and round for hours, is like the samedog merrily chasing his own tail, and gambolling in all the frolic ofunrestrained freedom. In short, sir, on such occasions, I think I ambewitched.
_Captain_. Nay, sir, if you plead sorcery, there is no more to besaid--he must needs go whom the devil drives. And this, I suppose, sir,is the reason why you do not make the theatrical attempt to which youhave been so often urged?
_Author_. It may pass for one good reason for not writing a play, thatI cannot form a plot. But the truth is, that the idea adopted by toofavourable judges, of my having some aptitude for that department ofpoetry, has been much founded on those scraps of old plays, which,being taken from a source inaccessible to collectors, they have hastilyconsidered the offspring of my mother-wit. Now, the manner in which Ibecame possessed of these fragments is so extraordinary, that I cannothelp telling it to you.
You must know, that, some twenty years since, I went down to visit anold friend in Worcestershire, who had served with me in the----Dragoons.
_Captain._ Then you _have_ served, sir?
_Author._ I have--or I have not, which signifies the same thing--Captainis a good travelling name.--I found my friend's house unexpectedlycrowded with guests, and, as usual, was condemned--the mansion beingan old one--to the _haunted apartment._ I have, as a great modern said,seen too many ghosts to believe in them, so betook myself seriouslyto my repose, lulled by the wind rustling among the lime-trees, thebranches of which chequered the moonlight which fell on the floorthrough the diamonded casement, when, behold, a darker shadow interposeditself, and I beheld visibly on the floor of the apartment--
_Captain._ The White Lady of Avenel, I suppose?--You have told the verystory before.
_Author._ No--I beheld a female form, with mob-cap, bib, and apron,sleeves tucked up to the elbow, a dredging-box in the one hand, and inthe other a sauce-ladle. I concluded, of course, that it was my friend'scook-maid walking in her sleep; and as I knew he had a value for Sally,who could toss a pancake with any girl in the country, I got upto conduct her safely to the door. But as I approached her, shesaid,--"Hold, sir! I am not what you take me for;"--words which seemedso opposite to the circumstances, that I should not have much mindedthem, had it not been for the peculiarly hollow sound in which they wereuttered.--"Know, then," she said, in the same unearthly accents, "thatI am the spirit of Betty Barnes."--"Who hanged herself for love of thestage-coachman," thought I; "this is a proper spot of work!"--"Of thatunhappy Elizabeth or Betty Barnes, long cook-maid to Mr. Warburton, thepainful collector, but ah! the too careless custodier, of the largestcollection of ancient plays ever known--of most of which the titles onlyare left to gladden the Prolegomena of the Variorum Shakspeare. Yes,stranger, it was these ill-fated hands That consigned to grease andconflagration the scores of small quartos, which, did they now exist,would drive the whole Roxburghe Club out of their senses--it was theseunhappy pickers and stealers that singed fat fowls and wiped dirtytrenchers with the lost works of Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger,Jonson, Webster--what shall I say?--even of Shakspeare himself!"
Like every dramatic antiquary, my ardent curiosity after some play namedin the Book of the Master of Revels, had often been checked by findingthe object of my research numbered amongst the holocaust of victimswhich this unhappy woman had sacrificed to the God of Good Cheer. It isno wonder then, that, like the Hermit of Parnell,
"I broke the bands of fear, and madly cried, 'You careless jade!'--But scarce the words began, When Betty brandish'd high her saucing-pan."
"Beware," she said, "you do not, by your ill-timed anger, cut off theopportunity I yet have to indemnify the world for the errors of myignorance. In yonder coal-hole, not used for many a year, repose the fewgreasy and blackened fragments of the elder Drama which were not totallydestroyed. Do thou then"--Why, what do you stare at, Captain? By mysoul, it is true; as my friend Major Longbow says, "What should I tellyou a lie for?"
_Captain._ Lie, sir! Nay, Heaven forbid I should apply the word to aperson so veracious. You are only inclined to chase your tail a littlethis morning, that's all. Had you not better reserve this legend to forman introduction to "Three Recovered Dramas," or so?
_Author._ You are quite right--habit's a strange thing, my son. I hadforgot whom I was speaking to. Yes, Plays for the closet, not for thestage--
_Captain._ Righ
t, and so you are sure to be acted; for the managers,while thousands of volunteers are desirous of serving them, arewonderfully partial to pressed men.
_Author._ I am a living witness, having been, like a second Laberius,made a dramatist whether I would or not. I believe my muse would be_Terry_-fied into treading the stage, even if I should write a sermon.
_Captain._ Truly, if you did, I am afraid folks might make a farceof it; and, therefore, should you change your style, I still advise avolume of dramas like Lord Byron's.
_Author._ No, his lordship is a cut above me--I won't run my horseagainst his, if I can help myself. But there is my friend Allan haswritten just such a play as I might write myself, in a very sunny day,and with one of Bramah's extra-patent pens. I cannot make neat workwithout such appurtenances.
_Captain._ Do you mean Allan Ramsay?
_Author._ No, nor Barbara Allan either. I mean Allan Cunningham, whohas just published his tragedy of Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, full ofmerry-making and murdering, kissing and cutting of throats, and passageswhich lead to nothing, and which are very pretty passages for allthat. Not a glimpse of probability is there about the plot, but so muchanimation in particular passages, and such a vein of poetry through thewhole, as I dearly wish I could infuse into my Culinary Remains, shouldI ever be tempted to publish them. With a popular impress, people wouldread and admire the beauties of Allan--as it is, they may perhaps onlynote his defects--or, what is worse, not note him at all.--Butnever mind them, honest Allan; you are a credit to Caledonia for allthat.--There are some lyrical effusions of his, too, which you would dowell to read, Captain. "It's hame, and it's hame," is equal to Burns.
_Captain._ I will take the hint. The club at Kennaquhair are turnedfastidious since Catalan! visited the Abbey. My "Poortith Cauld" hasbeen received both poorly and coldly, and "the Banks of Bonnie Doon"have been positively coughed down--_Tempora mutantur._
_Author._ They cannot stand still, they will change with all of us. Whatthen?
"A man's a man for a' that."
But the hour of parting approaches.
_Captain._ You are determined to proceed then in your own system?Are you aware that an unworthy motive may be assigned for this rapidsuccession of publication? You will be supposed to work merely for thelucre of gain.
_Author._ Supposing that I did permit the great advantages which mustbe derived from success in literature, to join with other motives ininducing me to come more frequently before the public,--that emolumentis the voluntary tax which the public pays for a certain species ofliterary amusement--it is extorted from no one, and paid, I presume,by those only who can afford it, and who receive gratification inproportion to the expense. If the capital sum which these volumes haveput into circulation be a very large one, has it contributed to myindulgences only? or can I not say to hundreds, from honest Duncan thepaper-manufacturer, to the most snivelling of the printer's devils,"Didst thou not share? Hadst thou not fifteen pence?" I profess I thinkour Modern Athens much obliged to me for having established such anextensive manufacture; and when universal suffrage comes in fashion,I intend to stand for a seat in the House on the interest of all theunwashed artificers connected with literature.
_Captain._ This would be called the language of a calico-manufacturer.
_Author._ Cant again, my dear son--there is lime in this sack,too--nothing but sophistication in this world! I do say it, in spite ofAdam Smith and his followers, that a successful author is a productivelabourer, and that his works constitute as effectual a part of thepublic wealth, as that which is created by any other manufacture. If anew commodity, having an actually intrinsic and commercial value, bethe result of the operation, why are the author's bales of books to beesteemed a less profitable part of the public stock than the goods ofany other manufacturer? I speak with reference to the diffusion of thewealth arising to the public, and the degree of industry which even sucha trifling work as the present must stimulate and reward, before thevolumes leave the publisher's shop. Without me it could not exist,and to this extent I am a benefactor to the country. As for my ownemolument, it is won by my toil, and I account myself answerable toHeaven only for the mode in which I expend it. The candid may hope it isnot all dedicated to selfish purposes; and, without much pretensions tomerit in him who disburses it, a part may "wander, heaven-directed, tothe poor."
_Captain._ Yet it is generally held base to write from the mere motivesof gain.
_Author._ It would be base to do so exclusively, or even to make it aprincipal motive for literary exertion. Nay, I will venture to say,that no work of imagination, proceeding from the mere consideration ofa certain sum of copy-money, ever did, or ever will, succeed. So thelawyer who pleads, the soldier who fights, the physician who prescribes,the clergyman--if such there be--who preaches, without any zeal for hisprofession, or without any sense of its dignity, and merely on accountof the fee, pay, or stipend, degrade themselves to the rank of sordidmechanics. Accordingly, in the case of two of the learned facultiesat least, their services are considered as unappreciable, and areacknowledged, not by any exact estimate of the services rendered, but bya _honorarium,_ or voluntary acknowledgment. But let a client or patientmake the experiment of omitting this little ceremony of the honorarium,which is _cense_ to be a thing entirely out of consideration betweenthem, and mark how the learned gentleman will look upon his case. Cantset apart, it is the same thing with literary emolument. No man ofsense, in any rank of life, is, or ought to be, above accepting a justrecompense for his time, and a reasonable share of the capital whichowes its very existence to his exertions. When Czar Peter wrought in thetrenches, he took the pay of a common soldier; and nobles, statesmen,and divines, the most distinguished of their time, have not scorned tosquare accounts with their bookseller.
_Captain. (Sings._)
"O if it were a mean thing, The gentles would not use it; And if it were ungodly, The clergy would refuse it."
_Author._ You say well. But no man of honour, genius, or spirit, wouldmake the mere love of gain, the chief, far less the only, purpose of hislabours. For myself, I am not displeased to find the game a winning one;yet while I pleased the public, I should probably continue it merely forthe pleasure of playing; for I have felt as strongly as most folks thatlove of composition, which is perhaps the strongest of all instincts,driving the author to the pen, the painter to the pallet, often withouteither the chance of fame or the prospect of reward. Perhaps I have saidtoo much of this. I might, perhaps, with as much truth as most people,exculpate myself from the charge of being either of a greedy ormercenary disposition; but I am not, therefore, hypocrite enough todisclaim the ordinary motives, on account of which the whole worldaround me is toiling unremittingly, to the sacrifice of ease, comfort,health, and life. I do not affect the disinterestedness of thatingenious association of gentlemen mentioned by Goldsmith, who soldtheir magazine for sixpence a-piece, merely for their own amusement.
_Captain._ I have but one thing more to hint.--The world say you willrun yourself out.
_Author._ The world say true: and what then? When they dance no longer,I will no longer pipe; and I shall not want flappers enough to remind meof the apoplexy.
_Captain._ And what will become of us then, your poor family? We shallfall into contempt and oblivion.
_Author._ Like many a poor fellow, already overwhelmed with the numberof his family, I cannot help going on to increase it--"'Tis my vocation,Hal."--Such of you as deserve oblivion--perhaps the whole of you--may beconsigned to it. At any rate, you have been read in your day, which ismore than can be said of some of your contemporaries, of less fortuneand more merit. They cannot say but that you _had_ the crown. It isalways something to have engaged the public attention for seven years.Had I only written Waverley, I should have long since been, according tothe established phrase, "the ingenious author of a novel much admiredat the time." I believe, on my soul, that the reputation of Waverleyis sustained very much by the praises of those, who may b
e inclined toprefer that tale to its successors.
_Captain._ You are willing, then, to barter future reputation forpresent popularity?
_Author. Meliora spero._ Horace himself expected not to survive in allhis works--I may hope to live in some of mine;--_non omnis moriar._ Itis some consolation to reflect, that the best authors in all countrieshave been the most voluminous; and it has often happened, that thosewho have been best received in their own time, have also continued tobe acceptable to posterity. I do not think so ill of the presentgeneration, as to suppose that its present favour necessarily infersfuture condemnation.
_Captain._ Were all to act on such principles, the public would beinundated.
_Author_ Once more, my dear son, beware of cant. You speak as if thepublic were obliged to read books merely because they are printed--yourfriends the booksellers would thank you to make the proposition good.The most serious grievance attending such inundations as you talk of,is, that they make rags dear. The multiplicity of publications does thepresent age no harm, and may greatly advantage that which is to succeedus.
_Captain._ I do not see how that is to happen.
_Author._ The complaints in the time of Elizabeth and James, ofthe alarming fertility of the press, were as loud as they are atpresent--yet look at the shore over which the inundation of that ageflowed, and it resembles now the Rich Strand of the Faery Queen--
----"Besrrew'd all with rich array, Of pearl and precious stones of great assay; And all the gravel mix'd with golden ore."
Believe me, that even in the most neglected works of the present age,the next may discover treasures.
_Captain._ Some books will defy all alchemy.
_Author._ They will be but few in number; since, as for the writers, whoare possessed of no merit at all, unless indeed they publish theirworks at their own expense, like Sir Richard Blackmore, their power ofannoying the public will be soon limited by the difficulty of findingundertaking booksellers.
_Captain._ You are incorrigible. Are there no bounds to your audacity?
_Author._ There are the sacred and eternal boundaries of honour andvirtue. My course is like the enchanted chamber of Britomart--
"Where as she look'd about, she did behold How over that same door was likewise writ, _Be Bold--Be Bold,_ and everywhere _Be Bold._ Whereat she mused, and could not construe it; At last she spied at that room's upper end Another iron door, on which was writ-- BE NOT TOO BOLD."
_Captain._ Well, you must take the risk of proceeding on your ownprinciples.
_Author._ Do you act on yours, and take care you do not stay idling heretill the dinner hour is over.--I will add this work to your patrimony,_valeat quantum._
Here our dialogue terminated; for a little sooty-faced Apollyon fromthe Canongate came to demand the proof-sheet on the part of Mr.M'Corkindale; and I heard Mr. C. rebuking Mr. F. in another compartmentof the same labyrinth I have described, for suffering any one topenetrate so far into the _penetralia_ of their temple.
I leave it to you to form your own opinion concerning the import of thisdialogue, and I cannot but believe I shall meet the wishes of our commonparent in prefixing this letter to the work which it concerns.
I am, reverend and dear Sir,
Very sincerely and affectionately
Yours,
THE FORTUNES OF NIGEL
_Knifegrinder._ Story? Lord bless you! I have none to tell, sir. _Poetry of the Antijacobin._