It was not that I forgot to mail you the magazine that I mentioned; I
could not find it; but now I send it.
My health is bad again, and I fear that I shall have to abandon my
experiment of living here, and go back to the mountain--or some
mountain. But not directly.
You asked me what books would be useful to you--I'm assuming that
you've repented your sacrilegious attitude toward literature, and will
endeavor to thrust your pretty head into the crown of martyrdom
otherwise. I may mention a few from time to time as they occur to me.
There is a little book entitled (I think) simply "English
Composition." It is by Prof. John Nichol--elementary, in a few places
erroneous, but on the whole rather better than the ruck of books on
the same subject.
Read those of Landor's "Imaginary Conversations" which relate to
literature.
Read Longinus, Herbert Spencer on Style, Pope's "Essay on Criticism"
(don't groan--the detractors of Pope are not always to have things
their own way), Lucian on the writing of history--though you need not
write history. Read poor old obsolete Kames' notions; some of them are
not half bad. Read Burke "On the Sublime and Beautiful."
Read--but that will do at present. And as you read don't forget that
the rules of the literary art are deduced from the work of the masters
who wrote in ignorance of them or in unconsciousness of them. That
fixes their value; it is secondary to that of _natural_
qualifications. None the less, it is considerable. Doubtless you have
read many--perhaps most--of these things, but to read them with a view
to profit _as a writer_ may be different. If I could get to San
Francisco I could dig out of those artificial memories, the catalogues
of the libraries, a lot of titles additional--and get you the books,
too. But I've a bad memory, and am out of the Book Belt.
I wish you would write some little thing and send it me for
examination. I shall not judge it harshly, for this I _know_: the good
writer (supposing him to be born to the trade) is not made by reading,
but by observing and experiencing. You have lived so little, seen so
little, that your range will necessarily be narrow, but within its
lines I know no reason why you should not do good work. But it is all
conjectural--you may fail. Would it hurt if I should tell you that I
thought you had failed? Your absolute and complete failure would not
affect in the slightest my admiration of your intellect. I have always
half suspected that it is only second rate minds, and minds below the
second rate, that hold their cleverness by so precarious a tenure that
they can detach it for display in words.
God bless you,
A. B.
[St. Helena,
August 28, 1892.]