The Calamities of Authors have often excited the attention of the
lovers of literature; and, from the revival of letters to this day,
this class of the community, the most ingenious and the most
enlightened, have, in all the nations of Europe, been the most
honoured, and the least remunerated. Pierius Valerianus, an attendant
in the literary court of Leo X., who twice refused a bishopric that he
might pursue his studies uninterrupted, was a friend of Authors, and
composed a small work, "De Infelicitate Literatorum," which has been
frequently reprinted.[1] It forms a catalogue of several Italian
literati, his contemporaries; a meagre performance, in which the
author shows sometimes a predilection for the marvellous, which
happens so rarely in human affairs; and he is so unphilosophical, that
he places among the misfortunes of literary men those fatal casualties
to which all men are alike liable. Yet even this small volume has its
value: for although the historian confines his narrative to his own
times, he includes a sufficient number of names to convince us that to
devote our life to authorship is not the true means of improving our
happiness or our fortune.
At a later period, a congenial work was composed by Theophilus
Spizelius, a German divine; his four volumes are after the fashion of
his country and his times, which could make even small things
ponderous. In 1680 he first published two volumes, entitled "Infelix
Literatus," and five years afterwards his "Felicissimus Literatus;" he
writes without size, and sermonises without end, and seems to have
been so grave a lover of symmetry, that he shapes his _Felicities_
just with the same measure as his _Infelicities_. These two equalised
bundles of hay might have held in suspense the casuistical ass of
Sterne, till he had died from want of a motive to choose either. Yet
Spizelius is not to be contemned because he is verbose and heavy; he
has reflected more deeply than Valerianus, by opening the moral causes
of those calamities which he describes.[2]
The chief object of the present work is to ascertain some doubtful yet
important points concerning Authors. The title of Author still retains
its seduction among our youth, and is consecrated by ages. Yet what
affectionate parent would consent to see his son devote himself to his
pen as a profession? The studies of a true Author insulate him in
society, exacting daily labours; yet he will receive but little
encouragement, and less remuneration. It will be found that the most
successful Author can obtain no equivalent for the labours of his
life. I have endeavoured to ascertain this fact, to develope the
causes and to paint the variety of evils that naturally result from
the disappointments of genius. Authors themselves never discover this
melancholy truth till they have yielded to an impulse, and adopted a
profession, too late in life to resist the one, or abandon the other.
Whoever labours without hope, a painful state to which Authors are at
length reduced, may surely be placed among the most injured class in
the community. Most Authors close their lives in apathy or despair,
and too many live by means which few of them would not blush to
describe.
Besides this perpetual struggle with penury, there are also moral
causes which influence the literary character. I have drawn the
individual characters and feelings of Authors from their own
confessions, or deduced them from the prevalent events of their lives;
and often discovered them in their secret history, as it floats on
tradition, or lies concealed in authentic and original documents. I
would paint what has not been unhappily called the _psychological_
character.[3]
I have limited my inquiries to our own country, and generally to
recent times; for researches more curious, and eras more distant,
would less forcibly act on our sympathy. If, in attempting to avoid
the naked brevity of Valerianus, I have taken a more comprehensive
view of several of our Authors, it has been with the hope that I was
throwing a new light on their characters, or contributing some fresh
materials to our literary history. I feel anxious for the fate of the
opinions and the feelings which have arisen in the progress and
diversity of this work; but whatever their errors may be, it is to
them that my readers at least owe the materials of which it is formed;
these materials will be received with consideration, as the
confessions and statements of genius itself. In mixing them with my
own feelings, let me apply a beautiful apologue of the Hebrews--"The
clusters of grapes sent out of Babylon implore favour for the
exuberant leaves of the vine; for had there been no leaves, you had
lost the grapes."