Is there, at this moment, any boy of twenty, fairly educated, but without
means, without help, with nothing but the glow in his brain and steadfast
courage in his heart, who sits in a London garret, and writes for dear
life? There must be, I suppose; yet all that I have read and heard of
late years about young writers, shows them in a very different aspect. No
garretteers, these novelists and journalists awaiting their promotion.
They eat--and entertain their critics--at fashionable restaurants; they
are seen in expensive seats at the theatre; they inhabit handsome
flats--photographed for an illustrated paper on the first excuse. At the
worst, they belong to a reputable club, and have garments which permit
them to attend a garden party or an evening "at home" without attracting
unpleasant notice. Many biographical sketches have I read, during the
last decade, making personal introduction of young Mr. This or young Miss
That, whose book was--as the sweet language of the day will have
it--"booming"; but never one in which there was a hint of stern struggle,
of the pinched stomach and frozen fingers. I surmise that the path of
"literature" is being made too easy. Doubtless it is a rare thing
nowadays for a lad whose education ranks him with the upper middle class
to find himself utterly without resources, should he wish to devote
himself to the profession of letters. And there is the root of the
matter; writing has come to be recognized as a profession, almost as cut-
and-dried as church or law; a lad may go into it with full parental
approval, with ready avuncular support. I heard not long ago of an
eminent lawyer, who had paid a couple of hundred per annum for his son's
instruction in the art of fiction--yea, the art of fiction--by a not very
brilliant professor of that art. Really, when one comes to think of it,
an astonishing fact, a fact vastly significant. Starvation, it is true,
does not necessarily produce fine literature; but one feels uneasy about
these carpet-authors. To the two or three who have a measure of
conscience and vision, I could wish, as the best thing, some calamity
which would leave them friendless in the streets. They would perish,
perhaps. But set that possibility against the all but certainty of their
present prospect--fatty degeneration of the soul; and is it not
acceptable?
I thought of this as I stood yesterday watching a noble sunset, which
brought back to my memory the sunsets of a London autumn, thirty years
ago; more glorious, it seems to me, than any I have since beheld. It
happened that, on one such evening, I was by the river at Chelsea, with
nothing to do except to feel that I was hungry, and to reflect that,
before morning, I should be hungrier still. I loitered upon Battersea
Bridge--the old picturesque wooden bridge, and there the western sky took
hold upon me. Half an hour later, I was speeding home. I sat down, and
wrote a description of what I had seen, and straightway sent it to an
evening newspaper, which, to my astonishment, published the thing next
day--"On Battersea Bridge." How proud I was of that little bit of
writing! I should not much like to see it again, for I thought it then
so good that I am sure it would give me an unpleasant sensation now.
Still, I wrote it because I enjoyed doing so, quite as much as because I
was hungry; and the couple of guineas it brought me had as pleasant a
ring as any money I ever earned.