[Illustration: "I have worn a cloak and a Tyrolese hat, and
attitudinised in the Picture-galleries."]
Why I am not a success in literature it is difficult for me to tell;
indeed, I would give a good deal to anyone who would explain the
reason. The Publishers, and Editors, and Literary Men decline to tell
me _why_ they do not want my contributions. I am sure I have done
all that I can to succeed. When my Novel, _Geoffrey's Cousin_, comes
back from the Row, I do not lose heart--I pack it up, and send it off
again to the Square, and so, I may say, it goes the round. The very
manuscript attests the trouble I have taken. Parts of it are written
in my own hand, more in that of my housemaid, to whom I have dictated
passages; a good deal is in the hand of my wife. There are sentences
which I have written a dozen times, on the margins, with lines leading
up to them in red ink. The story is written on paper of all sorts and
sizes, and bits of paper are pasted on, here and there, containing
revised versions of incidents and dialogue. The whole packet is now
far from clean, and has a business-like and travelled air about it,
which should command respect. I always accompany it with a polite
letter, expressing my willingness to cut it down, or expand it, or
change the conclusion. Nobody can say that I am proud. But it always
comes back from the Publishers and Editors, without any explanation
as to why it will not do. This is what I resent as particularly hard.
The Publishers decline to tell me what their Readers have really said
about it. I have forwarded _Geoffrey's Cousin_ to at least five or six
notorious authors, with a letter, which runs thus:--
"DEAR SIR,--You will be surprised at receiving a letter from
a total stranger, but your well-known goodness of heart must
plead my excuse. I am aware that your time is much occupied,
but I am certain that you will spare enough of that valuable
commodity to glance through the accompanying MS. Novel, and
give me your frank opinion of it. Does it stand in need of
any alterations, and, if so, what? Would you mind having it
published _under your own name_, receiving one-third of the
profits? A speedy answer will greatly oblige."
Would you believe it, _Mr. Punch_, not one of these over-rated and
overpaid men has ever given me any advice at all? Most of them
simply send back my parcel with no reply. One, however, wrote to say
that he received at least six such packets every week, and that his
engagements made it impossible for him to act as a guide, counsellor,
and friend to the amateurs of all England. He added that, if I
published the Novel at my own expense, the remarks of the public
critics would doubtless prove most valuable and salutary.
This decided me; I _did_ publish, at my own expense, with Messrs.
SAUL, SAMUEL, MOSS & CO. I had to pay down £150, then £35 for
advertisements, then £70 for Publisher's Commission. Other expenses
fell grievously on me, as I sent round printed postcards to everyone
whose name is in the Red Book, asking them to ask for _Geoffrey's
Cousin_ at the Libraries. I also despatched six copies, with six
anonymous letters, to Mr. GLADSTONE, signing them, "A Literary
Constituent," "A Wavering Anabaptist," and so forth, but,
extraordinary to relate, I have received no answer, and no notice has
been taken of my disinterested presents. The reviews were of the most
meagre and scornful description. Messrs. SAUL, SAMUEL, Moss & Co. have
just written to me, begging me to remove the "remainder" of my book,
and charging £23 15s. 6d. for warehouse expenses. Yet, when I read
_Geoffrey's Cousin_, I fail to see that it falls, in any way, beneath
the general run of novels. I enclose a marked copy, and solicit your
earnest attention for the passage in which _Geoffrey's Cousin_ blights
his hopes for ever. The story, Sir, is one of controversy, and is
suited to this time. _Geoffrey McPhun_ is an Auld Licht (see Mr.
BARRIE's books, _passim_). His cousin is an Esoteric Buddhist. They
love each other dearly, but _Geoffrey_, a rigid character, cannot
marry any lady who does not burn, as an Auld Licht, "with a hard
gem-like flame." _Violet Blair_, his cousin, is just as staunch an
Esoteric Buddhist. Nothing stands between them but the differences of
their creed.
"How can I contemplate, GEOFFREY," said VIOLET, with a rich blush,
"the possibility of seeing our little ones stray from the fold of the
Lama of Thibet into a chapel of the Original Secession Church?"
They determine to try to convert each other. _Geoffrey_ lends _Violet_
all his theological library, including WODROW's _Analecta_. She
lends him the learned works of Mr. SINNETT and Madame BLAVATSKY. They
retire, he to the Himalayas, she to Thrums, and their letters compose
Volume II. (Local colour _à la_ KIPLING and BARRIE.) On the slopes of
the Himalayas you see _Geoffrey_ converted; he becomes a Cheela, and
returns by overland route. He rushes to Ramsgate, and announces his
complete acceptance of the truth as it is in Mahatmaism. Alas! alas!
_Violet_ has been over-persuaded by the seductions of Presbyterianism,
she has hurried down from Thrums, rejoicing, a full-blown Auld Licht.
And, in her _Geoffrey_, she finds a convinced Esoteric Buddhist! They
are no better off than they were, their union is impossible, and Vol.
III. ends in their poignant anguish.
Now, _Mr. Punch_, is not this the very novel for the times; rich in
adventure (in Kafiristan), teeming with philosophical suggestiveness,
and sparkling with all the epigrams of my commonplace book. Yet I am
about £300 out of pocket, and, moreover, a blighted being.
I have taken every kind of pains; I have asked London Correspondents
to dinner; I have written flattering letters to everybody; I have
attempted to get up a deputation of Beloochis to myself; I have tried
to make people interview me; I have puffed myself in all the modes
which study and research can suggest. If anybody has, I have been "up
to date." But Fortune is my foe, and I see others flourish by the very
arts which fail in my hands.
I mention my Novel because its failure really is a mystery. But I
am not at all more fortunate in the reception of my poetry. I have
tried it every way--ballades by the bale, sonnets by the dozen, loyal
odes, seditious songs, drawing-room poetry, an Epic on the history of
Labducuo, erotic verse, all fire, foam, and fangs, reflective ditto,
humble natural ballads about signal-men and newspaper-boys, Life-boat
rescues, Idyls, Nocturnes in rhyme, tragedies in blank verse. Nobody
will print them, or, if anybody prints them, he regrets that he
cannot pay for them. My moral and discursive essays are rejected, my
descriptions of nature do not even get into the newspapers. I have
not been elected by the Sydenham Club (a clique of humbugs); I have
let my hair grow long; I have worn a cloak and a Tyrolese hat, and
attitudinised in the picture-galleries, but nobody asked who I am. I
have endeavoured to hang on to well-known poets and novelists--they
have not welcomed my advances.
My last dodge was a Satire, the _Logrolliad_, in which I lashed the
charlatans and pretenders of the day.
While hoary statesmen scribble in reviews
And guide the doubtful verdict of the Blues,
While HAGGARD scrawls, with blood in lieu of ink,
While MALLOCK teaches Marquises to think,
so long I have rhythmically expressed my design to wield the dripping
scourge of satire. But nobody seems a penny the worse, and I am not a
paragraph the better. Short stories of a startling description fill my
drawers, nobody will venture on one of them. I have closely imitated
every writer who succeeds, but my little barque may attendant sail, it
pursues the triumph, but does not partake the gale.