Among the great variety of characters which fall in a traveller’s
way, I became acquainted during my sojourn in London, with an
eccentric personage of the name of Buckthorne. He was a literary
man, had lived much in the metropolis, and had acquired a great
deal of curious, though unprofitable knowledge concerning it. He
was a great observer of character, and could give the natural
history of every odd animal that presented itself in this great
wilderness of men. Finding me very curious about literary life
and literary characters, he took much pains to gratify my
curiosity.
“The literary world of England,” said he to me one day, “is made
up of a number of little fraternities, each existing merely for
itself, and thinking the rest of the world created only to look
on and admire. It may be resembled to the firmament, consisting
of a number of systems, each composed of its own central sun with
its revolving train of moons and satellites, all acting in the
most harmonious concord; but the comparison fails in part,
inasmuch as the literary world has no general concord. Each
system acts independently of the rest, and indeed considers all
other stars as mere exhalations and transient meteors, beaming
for awhile with false fires, but doomed soon to fall and be
forgotten; while its own luminaries are the lights of the
universe, destined to increase in splendor and to shine steadily
on to immortality.”
“And pray,” said I, “how is a man to get a peep into one of these
systems you talk of? I presume an intercourse with authors is a
kind of intellectual exchange, where one must bring his
commodities to barter, and always give a _quid pro quo_.”
“Pooh, pooh—how you mistake,” said Buckthorne, smiling; “you must
never think to become popular among wits by shining. They go into
society to shine themselves, not to admire the brilliancy of
others. I thought as you do when I first cultivated the society
of men of letters, and never went to a blue-stocking coterie
without studying my part beforehand as diligently as an actor.
The consequence was, I soon got the name of an intolerable
proser, and should in a little while have been completely
excommunicated had I not changed my plan of operations. From
thenceforth I became a most assiduous listener, or if ever I were
eloquent, it was tête-a-tête with an author in praise of his own
works, or what is nearly as acceptable, in disparagement of the
works of his contemporaries. If ever he spoke favorably of the
productions of some particular friend, I ventured boldly to
dissent from him, and to prove that his friend was a blockhead;
and much as people say of the pertinacity and irritability of
authors, I never found one to take offence at my contradictions.
No, no, sir, authors are particularly candid in admitting the
faults of their friends.
“Indeed, I was extremely sparing of my remarks on all modern
works, excepting to make sarcastic observations on the most
distinguished writers of the day. I never ventured to praise an
author that had not been dead at least half a century; and even
then I was rather cautious; for you must know that many old
writers have been enlisted under the banners of different sects,
and their merits have become as complete topics of party
prejudice and dispute, as the merits of living statesmen and
politicians. Nay, there have been whole periods of literature
absolutely _taboo’d_, to use a South Sea phrase. It is, for
example, as much as a man’s reputation is worth, in some circles,
to say a word in praise of any writers of the reign of Charles
the Second, or even of Queen Anne; they being all declared to be
Frenchmen in disguise.”
“And pray, then,” said I, “when am I to know that I am on safe
grounds; being totally unacquainted with the literary landmarks
and the boundary lines of fashionable taste?”
“Oh,” replied he, there is fortunately one tract of literature
that forms a kind of neutral ground, on which all the literary
world meet amicably; lay down their weapons and even run riot in
their excess of good humor, and this is, the reigns of Elizabeth
and James. Here you may praise away at a venture; here it is ‘cut
and come again,’ and the more obscure the author, and the more
quaint and crabbed his style, the more your admiration will smack
of the real relish of the connoisseur; whose taste, like that of
an epicure, is always for game that has an antiquated flavor.
“But,” continued he, “as you seem anxious to know something of
literary society I will take an opportunity to introduce you to
some coterie, where the talents of the day are assembled. I
cannot promise you, however, that they will be of the first
order. Somehow or other, our great geniuses are not gregarious,
they do not go in flocks, but fly singly in general society. They
prefer mingling, like common men, with the multitude; and are apt
to carry nothing of the author about them but the reputation. It
is only the inferior orders that herd together, acquire strength
and importance by their confederacies, and bear all the
distinctive characteristics of their species.”