Most people have heard of that Mr. Gerard Hamilton who, suddenly and
unexpectedly making in the House of Commons an oration which 'threw into
the shade every other orator except Pitt,' was henceforth known by the
nickname of 'Single-Speech'--not because he never addressed the House
again, but because those who so nicknamed him chose to regard this
performance as the distinguishing feature of his career. He continued to
be known by that one discourse, and it is by virtue of it that he has a
place in history. The fact is notable, and yet by no means uncommon. The
world is, and always has been, full of Single-Speech Hamiltons--male and
female--who have gained and maintained their notoriety by one special
effort. Human nature is so constituted that the man or woman who is
unable to produce a series of successes may yet have the capacity to
compass one--may possess the energy and the ability to make at least one
strong impression before retiring wholly into the background.
The truth of this is observable, for example, in the sphere of poetry.
How many are the excellent versifiers whose reputation is based wholly
upon a solitary effusion! They have been inspired once, and the outcome
is literary immortality. They cannot always be regarded strictly as
poets, and yet they have a vogue which any poet might envy. They reign
and shine by virtue of what may be called a happy accident. Thus, Lady
Ann Barnard is known, in the world of verse, only by her 'Auld Robin
Gray,' just as Miss Elliott and Mrs. Cockburn are known only by their
respective 'Flowers of the Forest.' We remember Oldys merely by his
'Busy, curious, thirsty fly,' Sir William Jones by his 'What constitutes
a State?' Blanco White by his one Sonnet upon Night, Charles Wolfe by
his 'Burial of Sir John Moore,' John Collins by his 'In the Downhill of
Life,' and Herbert Knowles by his 'Lines in a Churchyard.' As Artemus
Ward said of the oil-painting achieved by the Old Masters: 'They did
this, and then they expired.' Some of them wrote other things, but the
world received them not. It took count only of the single occasion on
which they had been influenced by the divine _afflatus_--of the one
thing which they had done 'supremely' well.
Authors themselves are, no doubt, surprised at the caprices of the
public, and somewhat piqued by the preferences of their patrons. Some
are Single-Speech Hamiltons only because their readers have taken a
special fancy to particular performances--not always because the
achievements were obviously the best, but simply because circumstances
brought them to the fore. It is, one may assume, to the charm of Haydn's
musical setting that Mrs. Hunter owes the fame and popularity of 'My
mother bids me bind my hair': it is to the composer, in that case, that
the acceptance of the words are owing. Obvious causes, again, have given
precedence to Heber's 'From Greenland's icy mountains' over all his
other work in verse; just as the fact of having got into the extract
books has accorded to Blake's 'Tiger, tiger, burning bright' a
pre-eminence in the public mind over all his other efforts. In these
matters the world will have its own way. It still extends recognition to
Young's 'Night Thoughts,' but is apparently indifferent to his
'Universal Passion.' It thinks of Bloomfield only in connection with
'The Farmer's Boy,' and ignores the rest; just as it faintly recollects
'The Sabbath' of James Grahame, but has forgotten even the titles of
'Biblical Pictures' and 'The British Georgics.'
This dependence of literary fame upon special public favourites is,
perhaps, most strikingly represented in the field of fiction and the
drama. Nothing is more common than that a novelist or a dramatist
should remain in the popular memory by virtue of a single production.
Beckford is for most people only the author of 'Vathek'; it is only the
bibliophile who troubles himself about 'Azemia' or 'The Elegant
Enthusiast.' Miss Porter is remembered by her 'Scottish
Chiefs'--scarcely at all, perhaps, by her 'Thaddeus of Warsaw.'
Everybody knows how strongly 'The Monk' took the fancy of the reading
world--so strongly that the writer was 'Monk' Lewis, and 'Monk' Lewis
only, ever after. Mackenzie's 'Man of Feeling' survives, but the 'Man of
the World' and 'Julia Roubigne' are as if they had never existed. And
look at the playwrights! 'She Stoops to Conquer' is a classic, but 'The
Good-Natured Man' is not even good-naturedly tolerated. 'The Road to
Ruin' has eclipsed 'Duplicity' and 'The Deserted Daughter.' We all know
'The Honeymoon,' but who has seen, how many have read, 'The Curfew' and
'The School for Authors'? We flock to 'Wild Oats,' but alas for 'The
Agreeable Surprise'! 'The Man of the World' keeps Macklin's name before
us, but we have said good-bye to 'Love a la Mode.'
In truth, it is not a bad thing thus to be associated with one definite,
unmistakable success. Gerard Hamilton did more for himself by that
single brilliant speech than if he had delivered a whole multitude of
less striking orations. There is nothing more fatal to a man than
middlingness--a sort of dead level of mediocre performance. The world
loses count of merely respectable outcome. To obtain its regard you must
take its imagination captive at least once. You may be a very excellent
person, and do very useful work; but, if you desire to be kept in mind,
you must achieve something to which your name can be popularly attached.
It is thus that Beattie and 'The Minstrel,' Green and 'The Spleen,'
Somerville and 'The Chase,' Blair and 'The Grave,' Falconer and 'The
Shipwreck,' Pollok and 'The Course of Time'--to name no others--are
inseparably associated the one with the other. The works in question,
probably, are rarely opened, but their titles at any rate have stuck in
the general memory. Even in our own time, for the great majority of
people, Miss Braddon will always be the author of 'Lady Audley's
Secret,' Mrs. Oliphant always the author of 'The Chronicles of
Carlingford,' Mrs. Henry Wood always the author of 'East Lynne'--and so
on. That is the way in which they are remembered.
Generally speaking, versatility is undesirable when reputation is the
object aimed at. The world has not a very good memory, or, rather, it
has so much to think about that it desires not to be more encumbered
than it can help. Such men as the late Lord Lytton, for example, are, in
one respect, a nuisance to it. Bulwer was about equally distinguished as
a novelist, as a dramatist, and as an essayist; and, ever since, the
average man has been puzzled whether to think of him as the author of
'Pelham,' the author of 'The Lady of Lyons,' or the author of
'Caxtoniana.' Bulwer tried hard to establish a position as a poet, but,
happily, there is no need to trouble one's self greatly about 'King
Arthur.' As it is, the fame of Bulwer's dramas appears likely,
by-and-by, to eclipse altogether the fame of his novels. And this, if it
ever happens, will prove once more that a man can be the worst enemy of
himself. Single-Speech Hamilton was not satisfied with his big success,
but spoke again. Nothing could have been more unwise. He should have
rested on his laurels--unless indeed, he could have been quite sure that
he would surpass his former triumph. Unless one can be perfectly certain
of that, it is, best, in general, to let well alone.