And what is this _new_ book the whole world makes such a rout about?--
Oh! 'tis out of all plumb, my lord,--quite an irregular thing; not one
of the angles at the four corners was a right angle. I had my rule
and compasses, my lord, in my pocket.--Excellent critic!
Grant me patience, just Heaven! Of all the cants which are canted in
this canting world--though the cant of hypocrites may be the worst,
the cant of criticism is the most tormenting! STERNE.
What authors in general may feel upon the subject I know not, but I have
discovered, since I so rashly took up my pen, that there are three
portions of a novel which are extremely difficult to arrange to the
satisfaction of a fastidious public.
The first is the beginning, the second the middle, and the third is the
end.
The painter who, in times of yore, exposed his canvass to universal
criticism, and found to his mortification that there was not a particle
of his composition which had not been pronounced defective by one
pseudo-critic or another, did not receive severer castigation than I
have experienced from the _unsolicited_ remarks of "damned good-natured
friends."
"I like your first and second volume," said a tall, long-chinned,
short-sighted blue, dressed in yellow, peering into my face, as if her
eyes were magnifying glasses, and she was obtaining the true focus of
vision, "but you fall off in your last, which is all about that _nasty_
line-of-battle ship."
"I don't like your plot, sir," brawls out in a stentorian voice an
elderly gentleman; "I don't like your plot, sir," repeated he with an
air of authority, which he had long assumed, from supposing because
people would not be at the trouble of contradicting his opinions, that
they were incontrovertible--"there is nothing but death."
"Death, my dear sir," replied I, as if I was hailing the look-out man at
the mast-head, and hoping to soften him with my intentional bull; "is
not death, sir, a true picture of human life?"
"Ay, ay," growled he, either not hearing or not _taking_; "it's all very
well, but--there's too much killing in it."
"In a novel, sir, killing's no murder, you surely will admit; and you
must also allow something for professional feeling--`'Tis my
occupation;' and after five-and-twenty years of constant practice,
whether I wield the sword or the pen, the force of habit--"
"It won't do, sir," interrupted he; "the public don't like it.
Otherwise," continued this hyper-critic, softening a little, "some of
the chapters are amusing, and on the whole, it may be said to be
rather--that is--not unpleasantly written."
"I like your first and third volume, but not your second," squeaked out
_something_ intended to have been a woman, with shoulder-blades and
collar-bones, as De Ville would say, most strongly developed.
"Well now, I don't exactly agree with you, my dear Miss Pegoo; I think
the second and third volumes are by far the most _readable_," exclaimed
_another thing_, perched upon a chair, with her feet dangling halfway
between her seat and the carpet.
"If I might presume upon my long-standing in the service, Captain ---,"
said a pompous general officer,--whose back appeared to have been
_fished_ with the kitchen poker--"If I might venture to offer you
advice," continued he, leading me paternally by the arm a little on one
side, "it would be, not again to attempt a defence of smuggling: I
consider, sir, that as an officer in his Majesty's service, you have
strangely committed yourself."
"It is not my defence, sir: they are the arguments of a smuggler."
"You wrote the book, sir," replied he, sharply; "I can assure you, that
I should not be surprised if the Admiralty took notice of it."
"Indeed, sir," replied I, with assumed alarm.
I received no answer, except a most significant nod of the head, as he
walked away.
But I have not yet arrived at the climax, which made me inclined to
exclaim with the expiring Lion in the fable--
A midshipman--yes, reader, a midshipman--who had formerly belonged to my
ship, and had trembled at my frown, ranged up alongside of me, and with
a supercilious air, observed--
"I have read your book, and--there are _one_ or _two_ good things in
it."
Hear this, admirals and captains on half-pay! hear this, port-admirals
and captains afloat! I have often heard that the service was
deteriorating, going to the devil, but I never became a convert to the
opinion before.
Gracious Heaven! what a revengeful feeling is there in the exclamation
"O that mine adversary had _written a book_!" To be snarled at, and
bow-wowed at, in this manner, by those who find fault, because their
intellect is not sufficient to enable them to appreciate! Authors, take
my resolution; which is, never to show your face until your work has
passed through the ordeal of the Reviews.--Keep your room for the month
after your literary labour. Reviews are like Jesuit father confessors--
guiding the opinions of the multitude, who blindly follow the
suggestions of those to whom they may have entrusted their literary
consciences. If your work is denounced and damned, still you will be
the gainer; for is it not better to be released at once from your
sufferings, by one blow from the paw of a tiger, than to be worried
piecemeal by creatures who have all the will, but not the power, to
inflict the _coup de grace_?
The author of "Cloudesley," enumerating the qualifications necessary to
a writer of fiction, observes, "When he introduces his ideal personage
to the public, he enters upon his task with a preconception of the
qualities that belong to this being, the principle of his actions, and
its necessary concomitants, etcetera, etcetera." That such preparation
ought to be made, I will not deny; but were I to attempt an adherence to
these rules, the public would never be troubled with any production of
mine. It would be too tedious a journey in prospective for my wayward
intellect; and if I calculated stages before I ordered my horses, I
should abandon the attempt, and remain quietly at home. Mine is not a
journey of that methodical description; on the contrary, it is a ramble
hand-in-hand with Fancy, with a light heart and a lighter baggage; for
my whole wallet, when I set off, contains but one single idea--but ideas
are hermaphrodite, and these creatures of the brain are most prolific.
To speak more intelligibly, I never have made any arrangement of plot
when I commenced a work of fiction, and often finish a chapter without
having the slightest idea of what materials the ensuing one is to be
constructed. At times I feel so tired that I throw down the pen in
despair; but it is soon taken up again, and, like a pigmy Antaeus, it
seems to have imbibed fresh vigour from its prostration.
I remember when the "King's Own" was finished, I was as happy as a
pedestrian who had accomplished his thousand miles in a thousand hours.
My voluntary slavery was over, and I was emancipated. Where was I then?
I recollect; within two days' sail of the Lizard, returning home, after
a six weeks' cruise to discover a rock in the Atlantic, which never
existed except in the terrified or intoxicated noddle of some master of
a merchant vessel. It was about half-past five in the evening, and I
was alone in my after-cabin, quite alone, as the captain of a man-of-war
must be, even when in presence of his ship's company. If being sent to
sea has been pronounced by the officers and men to be _transportation_,
being the captain of the ship may truly be designated as _solitary
confinement_.
I could not send for any one to whom I could impart the intelligence--
there was no one whom I could expect to sympathise with me, or to whom I
could pour out the abundance of my joy; for that the service prohibited.
What could I do? Why I could dance; so I sprung from my chair, and
singing the tune, commenced a Quadrille movement,--"Tal de ral la, tal
de ral la, lity, lity, lity, liddle-um, tal de ral ha, tal--"
"Three bells, sir," cried the first lieutenant, who had opened my door
unperceived by me, and showed evident surprise at my motions; "shall we
beat to quarters?"--"Certainly, Mr B---," replied I; and he
disappeared. But this interruption produced only a temporary cessation:
I was in the height of "Cavalier seul," when his head popped into the
cabin--
"All present, and sober, sir," reported he, with a demure smile.
"Except the captain, I presume you are thinking," replied I.
"Oh! no indeed, sir; I observed that you were very merry."
"I am, Mr B---, but not with wine; mine is a sort of intellectual
intoxication not provided for in the Articles of War."
"A what! sir?"
"Oh! something that you'll never get drunk upon, as you never look into
a book--beat a retreat."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the first-lieutenant; and he disappeared.
And I also beat a retreat to my sofa; and as I threw myself upon it,
mentally vowed that, for two months at the least, I never would take up
a pen. But we seldom make a vow which we do not eventually break; and
the reason is obvious. We vow only when hurried into excesses; we are
alarmed at the dominion which has been acquired over us by our feelings
or by our habits. Checked for a time by an adherence to our
resolutions, they gradually recover their former strength, until they
again break forth, and we yield to their overpowering influence. A few
days after I had made the resolution, I found myself, like the sailor,
_rewarding_ it, by writing more indefatigably than ever.
So now, reader, you may understand that I continue to write, as Tony
Lumpkin says--not to please my good-natured friends, "but because I
can't bear to disappoint myself;" for that which I commenced as an
amusement, and continued as a drudgery, has ended in becoming a
_confirmed habit_.
So much for the overture. Now let us draw up the curtain, and our
actors shall appear upon the stage.