The brilliant Lady Ashburton used to say of herself that she had never
written a book, and knew nobody whose books she would like to have written.
This does not seem to be the ordinary state of mind among those who write
letters of inquiry to authors. If I may judge from these letters, the
yearning for a literary career is now almost greater among women than among
men. Perhaps this is because of some literary successes lately achieved by
women. Perhaps it is because they have fewer outlets for their energies.
Perhaps they find more obstacles in literature than young men find, and
have, therefore, more need to write letters of inquiry about it. It is
certain that they write such letters quite often; and ask questions that
test severely the supposed omniscience of the author's brain,--questions
bearing on logic, rhetoric, grammar, and orthography; where to find a
publisher, and how to obtain a well-disciplined mind.
These letters may sometimes be too long or come too often for convenience,
nor is the consoling postage-stamp always remembered. But they are of great
value as giving real glimpses of American social life, and of the present
tendencies of American women. They sometimes reveal such intellectual ardor
and imagination, such modesty, and such patience under difficulties, as to
do good to the reader, whatever they may do to the writer. They certainly
suggest a few thoughts, which may as well be expressed, once for all, in
print.
Behind almost all these letters there lies a laudable desire to achieve
success. "Would you have the goodness to tell us how success can be
obtained?" How can this be answered, my dear young lady, when you leave it
to the reader to guess what your definition of success may be? For
instance, here is Mr. Mansfield Tracy Walworth, who was murdered the other
day in New York. He was at once mentioned in the newspapers as a
"celebrated author."
Never in my life having heard of him, I looked in a "Manual of American
Literature," and there found that Mr. Walworth's novel of "Warwick" had a
sale of seventy-five thousand copies, and his "Delaplaine" of forty-five
thousand. Is it a success to have secured a sale like that for your books,
and then to die, and have your brother penmen ask, "Who was he?" Yet,
certainly, a sale of seventy-five thousand copies is not to be despised;
and I fear I know many youths and maidens who would willingly write novels
much poorer than "Warwick" for the sake of a circulation like that. I do
not think that Hawthorne, however, would have accepted these conditions;
and he certainly did not have this style of success.
Nor do I think he had any right to expect it. He had made his choice, and
had reason to be satisfied. The very first essential for literary success
is to decide what success means. If a young girl pines after the success of
Marion Harland and Mrs. Southworth, let her seek it. It is possible that
she may obtain it, or surpass it; and though she might do better, she might
do far worse. It is, at any rate, a laudable aim to be popular: popularity
may be a very creditable thing, unless you pay too high a price for it. It
is a pleasant thing, and has many contingent advantages,--balanced by this
great danger, that one is apt to mistake it for real success.
"Learning hath made the most," said old Fuller, "by those books on which
the booksellers have lost." If this be true of learning, it is quite as
true of genius and originality. A book may be immediately popular and also
immortal, but the chances are the other way. It is more often the case that
a great writer gradually creates the taste by which he is enjoyed.
Wordsworth in England and Emerson in America were striking instances of
this; and authors of far less fame have yet the same choice which they had.
You can take the standard which the book market offers, and train yourself
for that. This will, in the present age, be sure to educate certain
qualities in you,--directness, vividness, animation, dash,--even if it
leaves other qualities untrained. Or you can make a standard of your own,
and aim at that, taking your chance of seeing the public agree with you.
Very likely you may fail; perhaps you may be wrong in your fancy, after
all, and the public may be right: if you fail, you may find it hard to
bear; but, on the other hand, you may have the inward "glory and joy" which
nothing but fidelity to an ideal standard can give. All this applies to all
forms of work, but it applies conspicuously to literature.
Instead, therefore, of offering to young writers the usual comforting
assurance, that, if they produce anything of real merit, it will be sure to
succeed, I should caution them first to make their own definition of
success, and then act accordingly. Hawthorne succeeded in his way, and Mr.
M.T. Walworth in his way; and each of these would have been very
unreasonable if he had expected to succeed in both ways. There is always an
opening for careful and conscientious literary work; and by such work many
persons obtain a modest support. There are also some great prizes to be
won; but these are commonly, though not always, won by work of a more
temporary and sensational kind. Make your choice; and, when you have got
precisely what you asked for, do not complain because you have missed what
you would not take.