In the peaceful walks of literature we are startled at discovering
genius with the mind, and, if we conceive the instrument it guides to
be a stiletto, with the hand of an assassin--irascible, vindictive,
armed with indiscriminate satire, never pardoning the merit of rival
genius, but fastening on it throughout life, till, in the moral
retribution of human nature, these very passions, by their ungratified
cravings, have tended to annihilate the being who fostered them. These
passions among literary men are with none more inextinguishable than
among _provincial writers_.--Their bad feelings are concentrated by
their local contraction. The proximity of men of genius seems to
produce a familiarity which excites hatred or contempt; while he who
is afflicted with disordered passions imagines that he is urging his
own claims to genius by denying them to their possessor. A whole life
passed in harassing the industry or the genius which he has not
equalled; and instead of running the open career as a competitor, only
skulking as an assassin by their side, is presented in the object now
before us.
Dr. GILBERT STUART seems early in life to have devoted himself to
literature; but his habits were irregular, and his passions fierce.
The celebrity of Robertson, Blair, and Henry, with other Scottish
brothers, diseased his mind with a most envious rancour. He confined
all his literary efforts to the pitiable motive of destroying theirs;
he was prompted to every one of his historical works by the mere
desire of discrediting some work of Robertson; and his numerous
critical labours were all directed to annihilate the genius of his
country. How he converted his life into its own scourge, how wasted
talents he might have cultivated into perfection, lost every trace of
humanity, and finally perished, devoured by his own fiend-like
passions,--shall be illustrated by the following narrative, collected
from a correspondence now lying before me, which the author carried on
with his publisher in London. I shall copy out at some length the
hopes and disappointments of the literary adventurer--the colours are
not mine; I am dipping my pencil in the palette of the artist
himself.
In June, 1773, was projected in the Scottish capital "The Edinburgh
Magazine and Review." Stuart's letters breathe the spirit of rapturous
confidence. He had combined the sedulous attention of the intelligent
Smellie, who was to be the printer, with some very honourable critics;
Professor Baron, Dr. Blacklock, and Professor Richardson; and the
first numbers were executed with more talent than periodical
publications had then exhibited. But the hardiness of Stuart's
opinions, his personal attacks, and the acrimony of his literary
libels, presented a new feature in Scottish literature, of such
ugliness and horror, that every honourable man soon averted his face
from this _boutefeu_.