the superior charm of the Life Literary over all other lives--and such
objectors will be found mostly in the literary profession itself.
Unsuccessful authors--particularly those who are in any way troubled
with dyspepsia--will be among them. “Tied” authors also--and by “tied”
authors I mean the unhappy wretches who have signed contracts with
publishers several years ahead, and are, so to speak, dancing in
fetters. Authors who count the number of words they write per day,
like potatoes, and anxiously calculate how much a publisher will
possibly give for them per bushel, are not likely to experience any
very particular “happiness” while they are measuring out halfpence in
this fashion. And authors who run after “society” and want to be seen
here, there, and everywhere, are bound to lose the gifts of the gods
one by one as they scamper helter-skelter through the world’s Vanity
Fair, while they may be perfectly sure that the “great” or swagger
persons with whom they seek to associate will be the first to despise
and neglect them in any time of need or trouble, as well as the last to
support or help them in any urgent cause which might be benefited by
their assistance.
On this point we have only to remember the melancholy experience of
Robert Burns, who, after having been flattered and feasted by certain
individuals who were, in an ephemeral sense, influential for the time
being, either through their rank or their wealth, was afterwards
shamefully neglected by them, and finally, notwithstanding the various
social attentions and courtesy he had at one time received, he was
left, when ill and dying, in such extremity as to be compelled to
implore his publisher for the loan of five pounds! What had become of
all his wealthy and “influential” friends? Why they were exactly where
all “influential” persons would be now in a similar case--“otherwise
engaged” when their help is needed. Nothing can well be more deplorable
than the position of any author who depends for success on a clique
of “distinguished” or “society” persons. He or she has exchanged
independence for slavery--the nectar of the gods for a base mess of
pottage--and the true “happiness” of the Life Literary for a mere
miserable restlessness and constant craving after fresh excitement,
which gradually breeds nervous troubles, and disturbs that fine and
even balance of brain without which no clear or convincing thought is
possible. Again, authors who deliberately prostitute their talents to
the writing of lewd matter unfit to be handled by cleanly-minded men
and women need never hope to possess that happy and studious peace
which comes from the
Pure intent to do the best
Purely--and leave to God the rest.
For the highest satisfaction in the Life Literary is to think that
perhaps, in a fortunate or inspired moment, one may have written at
least a sentence, a line, a verse, that may carry comfort and a sense
of beauty to the sorrowful, or hope to the forlorn; while surely the
greatest pang would be to know that one had cast the already despairing
soul into a lower depth of degradation, or caused the sinner to revel
more consciously in his sin.
But are there no drawbacks, no disappointments, no sufferings in the
Life Literary? Why, of course there are! Who would be such a useless
block of stone, such a senseless lump of unvalued clay, as not to
ardently wish for drawbacks, disappointments, and sufferings? Who
that has a soul at all does not pray that it may be laid like glowing
iron on the anvil of endurance, there to be beaten and hammered by
destiny till it is of a strong and shapely mould, fit for combat,
nerved to victory? And I maintain that such drawbacks, disappointments,
difficulties, and sufferings as the profession of Literature entails
are sweeter and nobler than the cares besetting other professions,
inasmuch as they are always accompanied by never-failing consolations.
If the pinch be poverty, the true servant of Literature can do with
less of this world’s goods than most people. Luxury is not called for
when one is rich in idealism and fancy. Heavy feeding will not make a
clear, quick brain. Extravagant apparel is a necessity for no one--and
genius was never yet born of a millionaire.
If the “thorn in the flesh” is the petty abuse of one’s envious
contemporaries, that is surely a matter for rejoicing rather than
grief, as it is merely the continuance of an apparently “natural law in
the spiritual world” acting from the Inferior upon the Superior, which
may be worded thus: “Whosoever will be great, let him be flayed alive!”
Virgil was declared by Pliny to be destitute of invention; Aristotle
was styled “ignorant, vain, and ambitious” by both Cicero and Plutarch;
Plato was so jealous of Democritus that he proposed to burn up all his
works; Sophocles was brought to trial by his own children as a lunatic;
Horace was accused of stealing from all the minor Greek poets; and so
on in the same way down to our own times.
Pope went so far as to make a collection of all the libels passed upon
him, and had them preserved and bound with singular care, though I
believe no one now knows where to find these scandalous splutterings
of Grub Street. Swift is reported to have said to the irate author of
the “Dunciad”: “Give me a shilling and I will ensure you that posterity
shall never know one single enemy against you excepting those whose
memory you _yourself_ have preserved.” Herein is a profound truth. The
malicious enemies of a great author only become known to the public
through the mistaken condescension of the great author’s notice.
Milton’s life was embittered by the contemptible spite of one
Salmasius. Who was Salmasius? we ask nowadays. We do not task who was
Milton. Salmasius was the author of the “Defensio Regi” or Defence
of Kings, a poor piece of work long ago forgotten, and he was the
procurer of foul libel against the author of “Paradise Lost,” one
of England’s greatest and noblest men. What small claim he has to
the world’s memory arises merely from his viciousness, for not only
did he make use of the lowest tools to aid him in conspiring against
Milton’s reputation, but he spread the grossest lies broadcast, even
accusing the poet of having a hideous personal appearance--“a puny
piece of man; a homunculus; a dwarf deprived of the human figure; a
contemptible pedagogue.” When the despicable slanderer learned the
fact that Milton, so far from answering to this description, was of a
pleasing and attractive appearance, he immediately changed his tactics
and began to attack his moral character--which, as even Milton’s
bitterest political enemies knew, was austerely above the very shadow
of suspicion. It was said that the poet’s over-zealousness in answering
the calumnies of Salmasius cost him his eye-sight, which, if true, was
surely regrettable. Salmasius died dishonoured and disgraced, as such a
cowardly brute deserved to die; Milton still holds his glorious place
in England’s literary history. So it was, so it is, so it ever will be.
Greatness is always envied--it is only mediocrity that can boast of a
host of friends. “When you have resolved to be great,” says Emerson,
“abide by yourself, and do not weakly try to reconcile yourself with
the world.” It is impossible to quote one single instance of a truly
great man existing without calumniators. And the Life Literary without
any enemies would be a shabby go-cart; or, as our American cousins put
it, a “one-horse concern.” Some lines that were taught to me when I was
a child seem apposite to this subject, and I quote them here for the
benefit of any struggling units of the Life Literary who may haply be
in need:--
You have no enemies, you say?
Alas! my friend, the boast is poor--
He who has mingled in the fray
Of duty, that the brave endure,
_Must_ have made foes! If you have none,
Small is the work that you have done;
You’ve hit no traitor on the hip,
You’ve dashed no cup from perjured lip,
You’ve never turned the wrong to right--
You’ve been a coward in the fight![5]
But it is perhaps time that I should drop the masculine personal
pronoun for the feminine, and, being a woman, treat of the Life
Literary from the woman’s point of view. In olden days the profession
of literature was looked upon as a terrible thing for a woman to
engage in, and the observations of some very kindly and chivalrous
writers on this subject are not without pathos. To quote one example
only, can anything be more quaintly droll at this time of day than the
following:--
“Of all the sorrows in which the female character may participate there
are few more affecting than those of an Authoress--often insulated
and unprotected in society--with all the sensibility of the sex,
encountering miseries which break the spirits of men!”
This delicate expression of sympathy for a woman’s literary struggles
was written by the elder Disraeli as late as 1840. Truly we have
raced along the rails of progress since then at express speed--and
the “affecting” sorrows of an “Authoress” (with a capital A) now
affect nobody except in so far as they make “copy” for the callow
journalist to hang a string of cheap sneers upon. The Authoress must
take part with the Author in the general rough-and-tumble of life--and
she cannot too quickly learn the truth that when once she enters
the literary arena, where men are already fisticuffing and elbowing
each other remorselessly, she will be met chiefly with “kicks and
no ha’pence.” She must fight like the rest, unless she prefers to
lie down and be walked over. If she elects to try for a first place,
it will take her all her time to win it, and, when won, to hold it;
and, in the event of her securing success, she must not expect any
chivalrous consideration from the opposite sex, or any special kindness
and sympathy from her own. For the men will consider her “out of her
sphere” if she writes books instead of producing babies, and the
women will, in nine cases out of ten, begrudge her the freedom and
independence she enjoys, particularly if such freedom and independence
be allied to fortune and fame. This all goes without saying. It has to
be understood and accepted uncomplainingly. The “old-fashioned” grace
of chivalry to women, once so proudly lauded by poets and essayists
as the distinguishing trait of all manly men, is not to be relied on
in the Life Literary--for there it is as dead as door-nails. Men can
be found in the literary profession who will do anything to “down” a
woman in the same calling, and, if they cannot for shame’s sake do it
openly, they will do it behind her back. “’Tis pitiful, ’tis wondrous
pitiful”--for the men! But if the woman concerned has studied her art
to any purpose she will accept calumny as a compliment, slander as
a votive wreath, and “envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness” (from
which, with pious hypocrisy, the most envious and uncharitable persons
pray “Good Lord deliver us” every Sunday) as so many tokens and
proofs of her admitted power. And none of these things need disturb
the equanimity of the Life Literary. “Can any man cast me out of the
Universe? He cannot; but whithersoever I may go there will be the
sun and the moon, and the stars and visions, and communion with the
gods!”[6]
Speaking as a woman, I can quite understand and appreciate all the
little difficulties, irritations, and trials incident to a woman’s
career in literature; and though I myself welcome such difficulties
as so many incentives to fresh effort, I know that there are many of
my sex who, growing weary and discouraged, are not able to adopt this
attitude. And looking back into the past, one is bound to see a host of
brilliant women done to death by cruel injustice and misrepresentation,
a state of things which is quite likely to be continued as long as
humanity endures.
But no useful object is served by brooding over this apparently
incurable evil. “The noble army of martyrs” who praise the Lord in the
“Te Deum” are likely to be of the sex feminine. But what does that
matter? It is more glorious to be martyred than to die of over-eating
and general plethora. Moreover mental or intellectual martyrdom is a
necessary ingredient for the “happy” life--a touch of it is like the
toothache, helping one to be duly thankful when the pain ceases. For,
if we never understood trouble, we should never taste the full measure
of joy.
One thing can be very well dispensed with by both men and women who
look for happiness in the Life Literary, and that is the uneasy
hankering after what is called “Fame.” Fame has a habit of setting its
halo on the elected brows without any outside advice or assistance.
Those authors who are destined for it will assuredly win it, though
all the world should intervene; those for whom it is not intended must
content themselves with the temporary notoriety of pretty newspaper
puffs and “stock” compliments, such as “the renowned” or “well-known”
or “admired” author or authoress, and be glad and grateful for these
meaningless terms, inasmuch as the higher Fame itself at its utmost is
only a brief and very often inaccurate “line in history.”
The rewards and emoluments of the happy life, such as I have always
found the Life Literary to be, are manifold and frequently incongruous.
They may be considered in two sections--the outward or apparent and the
interior or invisible. Concerning these I can only, of course, speak
from my own experience. The outward or apparent occur (so far as I
myself am concerned) as follows:--
1. Certain payments, small or large, made by publishers who undertake
to present one’s brain work to the world in print, and who do the best
they can for their authors, as well as for themselves.
2. Public appreciation and condemnation, about equally divided.
3. Critical praise and censure, six of one and half-a-dozen of the
other.
4. Endless requests for autographs.
5. Innumerable begging letters.
6. Imperative, sometimes threatening, demands for “interviews.”
7. Hundreds of love-letters.
8. Continual offers of marriage.
9. Shoals of MSS. sent by literary aspirants to be “placed” or
“recommended.”
10. Free circulation of lies, caricatures, and slanders concerning
oneself, one’s personality, friends, ways of work, and general
surroundings.
11. The grudging and bitter animosity of rival contemporaries.
12. Persistent public and private mis-representation of one’s
character, aims, and intentions.
But all these things taken together weigh very little when compared
with the other side of the medal--the interior and invisible delight
and charm of the Life Literary--the unpurchasable and never-failing
happiness which no external advantage can give, no inimical influence
take away. It is well-nigh impossible to enumerate the pleasures that
attend the lover and servant of Literature; they are multitudinous,
and, like all things spiritual, outweigh all things temporal. Here are
just a few among the kindly and constant favours of the gods:--
1. The power and affluence of creative thought.
2. A perpetual sense of intimate participation in the wonders of Nature
and Art.
3. A keen perception of the beautiful.
4. Intense delight in the genius of all great men and women.
5. A cheerful and contented spirit.
6. Constant variety of occupation.
7. Joy in simple things.
8. The love of friends that are tried and true.
9. The never-wearying interest of working to try and give pleasure to
one’s reading public.
10. The gifts and glories of Imagination.
11. Tranquillity of mind.
12. Firm faith in noble ideals.
And, to quote from Walt Whitman what the inward sense of the
“happiness” of the Life Literary really is, the disciple of Literature
may say:--
“I will show that there is no imperfection in the present and can be
none in the future. And I will show that, whatever happens to anybody,
it may be turned to beautiful results.”
Were all the lives in the world offered to me for my choice, from the
estate of queens to that of commoners, I would choose the Life Literary
in preference to any other, as ensuring the greatest happiness. It
is full of the most lasting pleasure, it offers the most varied
entertainment, all the arts and sciences group themselves naturally
around it as with it and of it--for the literary student is, or should
be, as devout a lover of music as of poetry, as ardent an admirer
of painting and sculpture as of history and philosophy--that is, if
complete enjoyment of the literary gift is to be possessed completely.
I take it, of course, for granted, in this matter of the “happy” life,
that the individual concerned, whether male or female, is neither
dyspeptic nor bilious, nor afflicted with the incurable _ennui_ of
utter selfishness, nor addicted to dram or drug drinking. Because under
unnatural conditions the mind itself becomes unnatural, and the Life
Literary is no more productive of happiness than any other life that is
self-poisoned at its source. But, given a sane mind in a sound body, a
clear brain, a quick perception, a keen imagination, a warm heart, and
a never-to-be-parted-with ideal of humanity at its best, noblest and
purest, then the Life Literary, with all the advantages it bestows, the
continuous education it fosters, the refinement of taste it engenders,
the love and sympathy of unknown thousands of one’s fellow-creatures
which it brings, is the sweetest, most satisfying, most healthful
and happy life in the world. Moreover it is a life of power and
responsibility--a life that forms character and tests courage. We
soon learn to know the force of a Thinker in our midst, whether man
or woman. We soon realize who it is that sends the lightning of
truth across our murky sky, when we see a sudden swarm of cowards
scurrying away from the storm and trying to shelter themselves under a
haystack of lies; and we invariably respect whosoever has the valour
of his or her opinions, and the strength to enunciate them boldly and
convincingly with a supreme indifference to conventional conveniences.
For “To know the truth,” says an Arabian sage, “is a great thing for
thyself; but to tell the truth to others is a greater thing for the
world!”
FOOTNOTES:
[5] The late Charles Mackay, LL.D.
[6] Epictetus.
THE SOUL OF THE NATION