Sunday-school writers did books by sets in those days; perhaps they
do still. And at least two such sets I provided to order, each of four
volumes. Both of these, it so happens, have survived their day and
generation--the Tiny books, we called them, and the Gypsy books. Only
last year I was called upon to renew the copyright for Gypsy, a young
person now thirty years old in type.
There is a certain poetic justice in this little circumstance, owing
to the fact that I never _worked_ harder in my life at anything than
I did upon those little books; for I had, madly enough, contracted to
supply four within a year.
We had no vacations in those days; I knew nothing of hills or shore;
but "spoke straight on" through the terrible Andover weather. Our July
and August thermometers used to stand up hard at over ninety degrees,
day and night, for nearly a week at a time. The large white mansion
was as comfortable as ceiled walls and back plaster could be in that
furnace; but my own small room, on the sunny side of the house, was
heated seven times hotter than endurance. Sometimes I got over an open
register in a lower room, and wrote in the faint puffs of damp air
that played with my misery. Sometimes I sat in the cellar itself; but
it was rather dark, and one cherished a consciousness of mice. In the
orchard, or the grove, one's brains fricasseed quickly; in fact, all
out-of-doors was a scene of bottomless torment worthy of a theology
older and severer than Andover's.
When the last chapter of the last book was done, it occurred to me to
wonder whether I might ever be able to afford to get for a week or two
where the thermometer went below ninety degrees in summer. But
this was a wild and baseless dream, whose irrationality I quickly
recognized. For such books as those into which I had been coining a
year of my young strength and heart, I received the sum of one hundred
dollars apiece. The "Gypsy" publisher was more munificent. He offered
one hundred and fifty; a price which I accepted with incredible
gratitude.
I mention these figures distinctly, with the cold-blooded view of
dimming the rosy dreams of those young ladies and gentlemen with whom,
if I may judge by their letters, our country seems to be brimming
over.
"Will you read my poem?" "Won't you criticize my manuscript?" "I would
like to forward my novel for your perusal." "I have sent you the copy
of a rejected article of mine, on which I venture to ask--," etc.,
etc. "I have been told that all I need is Influence." "My friends
think my book shows genius; but I have no Influence." "Will it trouble
you too much to get this published for me?"
"Your Influence--" and so on, and so on, run the piteous appeals
which every successful author receives from the great unknown world of
discouraged and perplexed young people who are mistaking the stir of
youth or vanity, or the _ennui_ of idleness, or the sting of poverty,
for the solemn throes of power.
What can one do for them, whom no one but themselves can help? What
can one say to them, when anything one says is sure to give pain, or
dishearten courage?
Write, if you _must_; not otherwise. Do not write, if you can earn
a fair living at teaching or dressmaking, at electricity or
hod-carrying. Make shoes, weed cabbages, survey land, keep house, make
ice-cream, sell cake, climb a telephone pole. Nay, be a lightning-rod
peddler or a book agent, before you set your heart upon it that you
shall write for a living. Do anything honest, but do not write, unless
God calls you, and publishers want you, and people read you, and
editors claim you. Respect the market laws. Lean on nobody. Trust
the common sense of an experienced publisher to know whether your
manuscript is worth something or nothing. Do not depend on influence.
Editors do not care a drop of ink for influence. What they want is
good material, and the fresher it is, the better. An editor will pass
by an old writer, any day, for an unknown and gifted new one, with
power to say a good thing in a fresh way. Make your calling and
election sure. Do not flirt with your pen. Emerson's phrase was,
"toiling terribly." Nothing less will hint at the grinding drudgery of
a life spent in living "by your brains."
Inspiration is all very well; but "genius is the infinite capacity for
taking pains."
Living? It is more likely to be dying by your pen; despairing by your
pen; burying hope and heart and youth and courage in your ink-stand.
Unless you are prepared to work like a slave at his galley, for the
toss-up chance of a freedom which may be denied him when his work is
done, do not write. There are some pleasant things about this way of
spending a lifetime, but there are no easy ones.
There are privileges in it, but there are heart-ache, mortification,
discouragement, and an eternal doubt.
Had one not better have made bread or picture-frames, run a motor, or
invented a bicycle tire?
Time alone--perhaps one might say, eternity--can answer.
* * * * *
[Footnote 5: "A sin once committed, always _deserves_ punishment;
and, as long as strict _Justice_ is administered, the sin _must_ be
punished. Unless there be an Atonement, strict Justice _must_ be
administered; that is, Sin must be punished forever; but, on the
ground of the Atonement, _Grace_ may be administered, instead of
_Justice_, and then the sinner may be pardoned."]
[Illustration: ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN.