"With his left hand how it affected was
By the long day and burning sun of Heaven.
It was all firm and flat--no ridges rose
Like graves of children--basket, butter, cloth,
Were all one piece, coherent. To his home
The boy returned right sad and sore aghast."
According to Hogg, he had the honor of being the projector and
commencer of no less a periodical than Blackwood's Magazine. This is
his account of it. "From the time I gave up 'The Spy,' I had been
planning with my friends to commence the publication of a magazine on
a new plan; but for several years we only conversed about the utility
of such a work, without doing any thing further. At length, among
others, I chanced to mention it to Mr. Thomas Pringle; when I found
that he and his friends had a plan in contemplation of the same kind.
We agreed to join our efforts, and try to set it a-going; but as I
declined the editorship, on account of residing mostly on my farm at a
distance from town, it became a puzzling question who was the best
qualified among our friends for that undertaking. We at length fixed
on Mr. Gray as the fittest person for a principal department, and I
went and mentioned the plan to Blackwood, who, to my astonishment, I
found had likewise long been cherishing a plan of the same kind. He
said he knew nothing about Pringle, and always had his eye on me as a
principal assistant; but he would not begin the undertaking till he
saw that he could do it with effect. Finding him, however, disposed to
encourage such a work, Pringle, at my suggestion, made out a plan in
writing, with a list of his supporters, and sent it in a letter to me.
I inclosed it in another, and sent it to Mr. Blackwood, and not long
after that period Pringle and he came to an arrangement. Thus I had
the honor of being the beginner and almost sole instigator of that
celebrated work--'Blackwood's Magazine.'"
One can not avoid smiling over this account, in which Hogg cuts so
great a figure, and especially at the idea of _his_ becoming the
editor of such a work; a man who, though a good poet, and wonderful,
all things considered, could just write, and that was all. In the
accounts given by Pringle and Lockhart of the origin of this famous
magazine, we have little or no mention of James Hogg, far less of the
probability of his editorship of it. In this account we must attribute
the largeness of James's figure on the canvas to "that inherent
vanity," which he says he could not for the life of him divest himself
of when speaking of himself. It is true and notorious, however, that
he became and continued for many years one of its chief contributors,
and figured most conspicuously in those admirable papers, the Noctes
Ambrosianæ. In these, language of the most beautiful and poetical kind
was often put into the Shepherd's mouth; but it must also be
confessed, much oftener language of a very different kind. He was made
to figure as a coarse toper and buffoon. That he was at once proud of
figuring so largely in the Noctes, and yet felt acutely the degrading
character fixed on him there, is evident from his own statement in his
autobiography. In speaking of Professor Wilson, to whom he deservedly
awards a noble nature, he says: "My friends in general have been of
opinion that he has amused himself and the public too often at my
expense: but, except in one instance, which terminated very ill for
me, and in which I had no more concern than the man in the moon, I
never discerned any evil design on his part, and thought it all
excellent sport. At the same time, I must acknowledge that it was
using too much freedom with any author, to print his name in full to
poems, letters, and essays, which he himself never saw. I do not say
that he has done this; but either he or some one else has done it many
a time."[1]
[1] Memoir, p. 87.
But speaking of Blackwood, the publisher, he assumes a different tone.
"For my part, after twenty years of feelings hardly suppressed, he has
driven me beyond the bounds of human patience. That magazine of his,
which owes its rise principally to myself, has often put words and
sentiments into my mouth of which I have been greatly ashamed, and
which have given much pain to my family and relations; and many of
these, after a solemn written promise that such freedoms should never
be repeated. I have been often urged to restrain and humble him by
legal measures, as an incorrigible offender deserves. I know I have it
in my power, and if he dares me to the task, I want but a hair to make
a tether of."[2]
[2] Ib., p. 107.
It must be confessed that no justification can be offered for such
treatment. Such was my own opinion, derived from this source, of Hogg,
and from prints of him, with wide open mouth and huge straggling
teeth, in full roars of drunken laughter, that, on meeting him in
London, I was quite amazed to find him so smooth, well-looking, and
gentlemanly a sort of person.
There are many truths which James Hogg in his honest candor speaks
out, that not one author in a thousand, stand as high and as strong as
he may, dares speak out, for fear of the trade, as it is called. For
instance, who will not set the seal of his authorly experience to
this: "I would never object trusting a bookseller, were he a man of
any taste; for, unless he wishes to reject an author altogether, he
can have no interest in asserting what he does not think. But the
plague is, they _never read works themselves_, but give them to
their minions, with whom there never fails to lurk a literary
jealousy; and whose suggestions may be uniformly regarded as any thing
but truth. For my own part, I know that I have always been looked on
by the learned part of the community as an intruder in the paths of
literature, and every opprobrium has been thrown on me from that
quarter. The truth is, that I am so. The walks of learning are
occupied by a powerful aristocracy, who deem that province their own
peculiar right; else, what would avail all their dear-bought
collegiate honors and degrees?"[3]
[3] Memoir, p. 81.
So true is James, so far as regards the practice of publishers never
reading the MSS. submitted to them, but consigning them to
readers;--_i.e._, publishers being the only dealers who never
pretend to judge of the article they deal in;--that since the
publication of the Book of Seasons, which was declined by half-a-dozen
of the principal publishing houses in London, I never suffered a MS.
of mine to be inspected by any publisher. What is more, finding that
publishers in bargaining for copyrights never offered more than half
the profits of a single edition, I have always persisted in refusing
to sell copyrights, and sold only editions. This is a point that all
authors should attend to. An author is not justified in selling the
copyrights of his works, which should become the property of his
family, especially as he may rest assured that he will, in nine cases
out of ten, never get more for the whole copyright than he ought to
have for a single edition. The late Mr. Longman once spoke to me a
great truth--a truth confirmed by all experiences of all authors, in
all ages, the present forming no exception--that "Authorship is an
agreeable addition to a tolerable fixed income, but as a total
dependence is a wretched reed." Scott, the most successful author of
any age, though possessed of a good income independent of literature,
died a bankrupt. Maginn, Hood, Blanchard, and a host of others, have
yet to swell the history of the calamities of authors.
Speaking again of a certain publisher, James says, "The great fault of
the man is, that the more he can provoke an author by insolence and
contempt, he likes the better. Beside, he will never confess that he
is in the wrong, else any thing might be forgiven. No, no, the thing
is impossible that he can ever be wrong! The poor author is not only
always in the wrong, but, 'Oh! he is the most insufferable beast!'"
And the truth is, that authors are in the wrong. They are in the wrong
not to have combined long ago, like other professions, for the
maintenance of their common interests, and for the elevation of the
character of the class. They are a rope of sand. Cliques and small
coteries may and do congregate, but there has ever been wanting among
authors a comprehensive plan of union. It is true that their body is
continually swelled by adventurers, and often characterless
adventurers. He who succeeds in nothing else, thinks he can succeed as
an author, or the master of a school. These men, often unprincipled,
or poor, bring great reproach upon the whole body, and accordingly you
hear authors commonly spoken of by publishers, as a most reckless,
improvident, unprincipled, and contemptible set of men. This is the
tone in which publishers are educated, it is the tone that pervades
their publishing houses, it is the spirit and gospel of the Row. The
authors of the present day are regarded by publishers exactly as they
were in the days of Grub-street. In their eyes, they are poor,
helpless, and untractable devils. And whence arises this? It is
because authors have taken no single step to place themselves on a
different footing. Are authors now what authors were in the days of
Grub-street? They are a far different body. They are a far more
numerous, and far more respectable body. We may safely assert, that
there is no profession which includes so much talent, as there is none
which diffuses such a vast amount of knowledge and intelligence
through the world. They are the class, indeed, which are the
enlighteners, and modelers, and movers of society. Yet, strange to
say, invincibly powerful in the public cause, they are weak as water
in their own: capable of challenging offenders in the very highest
places; arraigning at the public tribunal, lords, peers, or the very
crowned heads themselves; and sure, when they have truth on their
side, of being victorious: yet they lie prostrate in individual
weakness at the foot of every well-fed seller of a book, and receive
his kicks with an astonishing patience. Nay, they have not the
shrewdness of our butchers and bakers, who hang together and grow
rich; they are a set of Ishmaelites, whose hands are against every man
of their own class, and every man's hand is against them. From behind
the barricades of newspapers and reviews, they fire with murderous
rage on each other, instead of turning their force on the common
enemy.
When we call to mind the men who are now actually living as members of
the great community of authors, rich bankers, men of titles and large
estates, wealthy traders, ladies and gentlemen of the most respectable
private fortunes, professional men, clearing large incomes by their
professions, distinct from literature, it must be confessed that the
world has no such instance of infatuation to show as that of authors.
Combine, and they may defy poverty and the world. How small a sum,
contributed annually by every author, would soon raise a fund capable
of not only succoring all cases of professional need, without recourse
to the present Literary Fund, which is a degrading charity toward
those who should establish a claim on a proper professional fund for
themselves! How small a sum would not only do this, but also present a
noble fund for the support of every authorly interest, the defense of
every authorly right! If the men of property, character, and influence
in the body, would but bestow a very small portion of their time and
attention to the general interests of the body, how soon would the
whole body feel the animating, and, I may add, reforming spirit of
such coalition! The upright and honorable would acquire confidence,
the unprincipled would be discountenanced, and the tone of publishers
would rapidly alter toward men who had not only learned to respect
themselves, but were resolved to establish respect for the body. "Get
authors to combine! Sooner," exclaim both publishers and authors
themselves, when such a notion is avowed, "chain the winds, or make
granite slabs out of sea-sand!" Yet, spite of this humiliating opinion
of authors, let but a number of the most respectable names once unite
for the purpose, and it will be seen that the rest of the worthy will
flock round them, and that few would venture to stand alone, as
individuals improvident, or indifferent to the interests and the
character of the body.
I have considered it my duty to corroborate the main opinions of James
Hogg on this point. In the course of inquiries necessary for the
writing of this work, I have had to stand on so many spots marked by
the miseries of authors; in rooms where they have shed their own
blood, or perished by poison in the hour of destitution and despair;
by dismal pools, where they have plunged at midnight from starvation
to death; or where, covered with fame, they have lain on their
death-beds with scarce any other covering; and I have vowed, on those
awful spots, to call on my fellow-authors to come forward and
vindicate their most glorious profession, and to found an association
which shall give a motive to every member to respect the name he
bears--that of a prophet and an apostle of truth to the world--and a
hope of ultimate aid to him and his, if such aid be needful, as a
right and not a boon.
Nearly twenty years of authorship have shown me much and sad
experience; but nothing ever revealed to me the low estimation in
which authors are held by publishers, so much as a simple fact,
mentioned some time ago, in Chambers' Journal, but which was witnessed
by myself. I was in an eminent publisher's, when the principal
addressed the head clerk thus:--
_Principal._--"Mr. ---- wishes to open an account with us. He is
a publisher of some standing, and seems getting on very well; I think
we may do it."
_Clerk._--(Drawing himself up in an attitude of ineffable
surprise)--"_Sir! he is an author!_"
_Principal._--"Oh! that alters the question entirely. I did not
know that. Open an account? Certainly not! certainly not!"
Is there an author who hears this, who does not ask himself the
question, why they who ought to be regarded only with reverence, and
whose talents should invest them with a panoply of salutary fear,
should thus be the objects of uttermost contempt? But take another
anecdote. The publisher of a celebrated review and myself were
conversing on literary matters, when a very popular author was
announced, who begged a word with the publisher, and they retired
together. Presently the publisher came back.
_Publisher._--"We were talking of the relative merits of authors
and publishers just now."
_Myself._--"Yes."
_Publisher._--"Well, you authors regard yourselves as the salt of
the earth. It is you who are the great men of the world; you move
society, and propel civilization; we publishers are but good
pudding-eaters, and paymasters to you."
_Myself._--"True enough; but _you_ think that you are the
master manufacturers, and we authors the poor devil artisans who
really have no right to more than artisan wages."
_Publisher._--"Ay, if you will take them as wages, and often
before they are earned. Grant that you are the salt of the earth;
methinks the salt has wonderfully lost its savor, when it has to come
with a manuscript in one hand, and holds out the other for the instant
pay, or the kettle can not boil. See, there now is a man just gone,
that will be a name these five hundred years hence; yet what does he
come to me for? For a sovereign! I tell you candidly, that if no hero
can be a hero to his valet de chambre, neither can an author be a hero
to his publisher, when he comes _in forma pauperis_ every day
before him. For the life of me I can not maintain an admiration of a
man, when, like a rat, he is always nibbling at my purse-strings, and
especially when I know--and what publisher does not know it?--that
give the coin before the work is done, and it never is done. I content
myself with things as I find them, and I leave all homage to the
reader."
Let the whole body of authors lay these things duly to heart, and
there will not long be an association for the maintenance of its honor
and its interests in every profession but theirs.
Of his cotemporary authors Hogg speaks in his life with the highest
honor. He confesses that he used most unmeasured language toward both
Sir Walter Scott and John Wilson, when they offended him, but records
their refusal to be offended with him, and their cordial kindness. Of
Southey, Lockhart, Sym, the Timothy Tickler of Blackwood, Galt, etc.,
his reminiscences are full of life and interest. Of Wordsworth's
poetry he entertained the high notion that a true poet must do; but
there occurred a scene at Rydal which James gives in explanation of
his caricaturing Wordsworth, which, as it is his own account, is worth
transcribing.
"I dined with Wordsworth, and called on himself several times
afterward, and certainly never met with any thing but the most genuine
kindness; therefore people have wondered why I should have indulged in
caricaturing his style in the Poetic Mirror. I have often regretted
that myself; but it was merely a piece of ill-nature at an affront
which I conceived had been put upon me. It was the triumphal arch
scene. This anecdote has been told and told again, but never truly;
and was likewise brought forward in the Noctes Ambrosianæ, as a joke;
but it was no joke: and the plain, simple truth of the matter was
this:--
"It chanced one night, when I was there, that there was a resplendent
arch across the zenith, from the one horizon to the other, of
something like the Aurora Borealis, but much lighter. It was a scene
that is well remembered, for it struck the country with admiration, as
such a phenomenon had never before been witnessed in such perfection;
and, as far as I can learn, it had been more brilliant over the
mountains and pure waters of Westmoreland than anywhere else. Well,
when word came into the room of the splendid meteor, we all went out
to view it; and on the beautiful platform of Mount Rydal, we were
walking in twos and threes, arm-in-arm, talking of the phenomenon,
and admiring it. Now, be it remembered, that there were present,
Wordsworth, Professor Wilson, Lloyd, De Quincy, and myself, beside
several other literary gentlemen, whose names I am not certain that I
remember aright. Miss Wordsworth's arm was in mine, and she was
expressing some fears that the splendid stranger might prove ominous,
when I, by ill luck, blundered out the following remark, thinking that
I was saying a good thing:--'Hout, me'em! it is neither mair nor less
than joost a triumphal airch, raised in honor of the meeting of the
poets.'
"'That's not amiss. Eh? eh?--that's very good,' said the professor,
laughing. But Wordsworth, who had De Quincy's arm, gave a grunt and
turned on his heel, and, leading the little opium-chewer aside, he
addressed him in these disdainful and venomous words: 'Poets? Poets?
What does the fellow mean?--Where are they?'
"Who could forgive this? For my part, I never can, and never will! I
admire Wordsworth, as who does not, whatever they may pretend? But,
for that short sentence, I have a lingering ill-will at him which I
can not get rid of. It is surely presumption in any man to
circumscribe all human excellence within the narrow sphere of his own
capacity. The '_Where are they?_' was too bad. I have always some
hopes that De Quincy was _leeing_, for I did not myself hear
Wordsworth utter the words."
Whether Wordsworth did utter these words, or De Quincy only quizzed
Hogg with them, it is a great pity that poor Hogg's mind was suffered
to the last to retain the rankling supposition of it. The anecdote
appeared in the Noctes; it was made the subject of much joke and
remark, and must have reached Wordsworth's ears. What a thousand
pities, then, that, by a single line to Hogg, or in public, he did not
take the sting out of it. Nobody was so soon propitiated as Hogg. To
have been acknowledged as a brother poet by Wordsworth would have
filled his heart with much happiness. Immediately after his death
Wordsworth hastened to make such a recognition; but of how little
value is posthumous praise! Hogg died on the 21st of November, and on
the 30th Wordsworth sent the following lines to the Athenæum, which I
quote entire, because they commemorate other departed lights of the
age.