“To the literary man,” said the Melancholy Author, “life is not all
‘beer and skittles’ by much. He is in a peculiar sense the custodian of
‘troubles of his own.’ Of these, one of the most insupportable grows
out of the fact that almost every man, woman or child thinks himself,
herself or itself an expert in literature, and the literary man a
Heaven-sent Opportunity. No hawk ever watched a plump pullet detaching
itself from the flock, with a more possessing delight than burns in
the bosom of the average human being when a defenceless author ‘swims
into his ken.’ Lord, Lord, with what alacrity he swoops down upon the
incautious wight and holds him with his glittering eye to ‘talk books’
at him!
“He knows it all, the good assailant—knows all about books,
particularly ‘the English classics’ and the newest novel. This
knowledge—consisting, at the best, in whatever is current in popular
criticism of the newspaper and magazine sort—he has quite persuaded
himself is knowledge of Literature. It never occurs to the good
creature that books are not literature; that he might have read every
book in the world yet know no more of literature than a horned toad.
Naturally, you do not care to explain to him that literature is an
art—the art of which books are merely a result. He sees the result, but
of the art behind them he knows not even so much as its existence.
“He thinks that good writing is done as naturally, instinctively and
with as little training as a bird sings in a tree, or a pig in a gate.
He would be willing to admit that good painting cannot be done, good
music executed, a good plea made in court, or good medical attendance
given to the sick, without a deal of hard study of principles and
methods. But writing—why, writing is merely setting down what you
think; everybody writes.
“Even the literary critic—may hornets afflict him!—cannot be
intelligently objectionable without a technical knowledge of his
business. A great poet has said:
A man must serve his time at every trade,
Save censure; critics all are ready made.
“And ‘censure’ here, you will have the goodness to observe, means not
condemnation, as in our common speech, but the passing of judgment of
any kind on the work of another.
“Suppose you were a famous electrician, and all other persons, eager to
show you that they, too, know a thing or two and solemnly persuaded of
the necessity of regaling you with scraps from your own table, should
gravely define electricity as a ‘mysterious force,’ express to you the
belief that it is destined to ‘revolutionize the world’ and declare
their admiration of Benjamin Franklin’s gigantic achievement in drawing
it from a cloud. Suppose you could turn away from one tormentor only
to fall into the hands of another and another, all uttering the same
infantile babble—the same shallow platitudes, the same false judgment.
That would be no more than we authors have to endure, and smile in the
endurance. Nay, not so much, for not only do we have to suffer all this
talk of the ‘shop’—our shop—with all its irritating idiocy, but if we
open our mouths to say something worth while, God help us!—we’ve a
‘fight’ on hand forthwith. For it is of the nature of ignorance to be
disputatious, contentious, cantankerous. The more a man does not know,
the more aggressive his manner of not knowing it. Venture to rack one
of his ugly literary idols by so much as the breadth of a finger and—!”
Unable to suppress his emotion, the Melancholy Author rose and strode
three paces toward an open door, then turned and, striding back again,
dropped into his seat and tried to look unconcerned.
“The very persons who seek your society because they honestly admire
your intellect will resent every manifestation of it. Whatever they
do not understand, whatever is unfamiliar to them, is bad—false and
immoral and insincere. Why, I remember a woman who came four hundred
miles to see me—to sit at my feet, she was kind enough to say, and
partake of my wisdom. In less than ten minutes she was angrily
affirming the unworth of my opinions and attempting to inoculate me
with her own. What did I do? My friend, what could I do, but wait until
the storm had subsided and then express my admiration of the pink bow
that she wore at her throat. Alas, I had sailed into a zone of storms,
for it was cherry, and away went she!
“Now, I am willing to talk of literature—it is one of the delights of
my life to do so. I am even willing to ‘talk books.’ But it must be
with my equals, or with those who show some sense of the fact that a
lifetime passed in the study of my art, and in its practice counts for
something. Few things are more agreeable than imparting knowledge to
those who in good faith and decent humility seek it; and such there
are. I know some of them, and in their service find enough to do to
keep me awake nearly all day. But the other sort: readers of brand-new
books and reviews thereof; persons who think the ancients were
barbarians; philosophers by birth and critics by inspiration who know
it all without having learned any part of it—may Heaven,” concluded the
Melancholy Author, with a fine flourish of his right hand, “bestow them
as friends upon my enemies.”