older sentiment which deserved respect. When an author was as anxious to
disavow the charge of writing for money as an author at the present day
is to claim his reward, I cannot, for my part, simply set him down as
silly. "My songs," said Burns, "are either above price or below price,
and, therefore, I will accept nothing." I respect his feelings. He may
not have been quite logical; but he was surely right in the belief that
the poet whose inspiration should come from his breeches-pocket would
never write true songs or embody the very spirit of a nation. I do not
doubt that authors ought to be paid; but I certainly agree that a money
reward never ought to be the chief aim of their writing. And I confess
that some utterances about copyrights in these days have jarred upon me,
because they seem to imply that the doctrine is not disavowed so
unequivocally as it should be by our leaders. I am, indeed, happy to
believe, as I fully believe, that there has never been a time at which
more good work has been done for pure love of the work, independently,
and even in defiance, of pecuniary considerations. But I cannot help
thinking that in their desire to establish a right to the profits of
their work, authors have condescended at moments to speak as if that
reward constituted their sole motive to work, instead of being
desired--as it may most properly be desired--simply as the means of
enabling them to work. The old contempt was aristocratic, and in these
days we have come to use aristocratic as a term of abuse. My own
impression is that we ought to be just even to aristocrats; and in that
contempt for all such work, I think that there was a genuine element of
self-respect. The noble despised the poor scribe who had to get his
living by his pen. We, my lords, as Chesterfield put it, may thank
Providence that we do not depend upon our brains. It is wrong, no doubt,
to despise anybody; and especially mean to despise a man for poverty.
But the sentiment also included the belief--surely not so wrong--that
the adventurer who joined the ranks of a party for the sake of the pay
was so far contemptible, and likely to join the party which paid best.
The misfortune, no doubt, was that the political state involved such
dependence; and the desirable solution that every one should become
independent. Till that solution was more or less reached, the
corresponding sentiment was inevitable, and not without meaning.
Well, the literary class has had its declaration of independence. An
author has long ceased to need a patron, and he is in little danger of
the law of libel. The question occurs: What are the qualities by which
we should justify our independence? Have we not still a certain stoop of
the shoulders, a kind of traditional shamefacedness, an awkwardness of
manner, and a tendency to blush and stammer, which shows that we are not
quite at ease in our new position? Or have we not--it is a more serious
question--exchanged dependence upon the great for dependence upon the
public, rather than learnt to stand upon our own feet? Have we made
ourselves, and, if we have not, how can we make ourselves, worthy of our
position as free men? We boast that the Press does part of what used to
be done by the priesthood, that we enlighten and encourage and purify
public opinion. There is a whole class which depends upon us for
intellectual culture; which reads nothing that is not in newspapers and
magazines. Do we give them a wholesome training, provide them with sound
knowledge, and stimulate them to real thought? Are we such a priesthood
as is really raising the standard of human life; or such a priesthood as
is clinging to power by echoing the superstitions of its congregations?
Nature is ruled by obeying her; and what is called ruling public opinion
is too often servilely following its dictates. There is an old story
which tells how a certain newspaper used to send out an emissary to
discover what was the common remark that every one was making in
omnibuses and club smoking-rooms, and to fashion it into next morning's
article for the instruction of mankind. The echo affected to set the
tune which it really repeated. Now, there is nothing more flattering
than an echo. "This must be an inspired teacher, for he says exactly
what I thought myself," is a very common and effective argument. To
reproduce the opinions of the average reader; to dress them so skilfully
that he will be pleased to see what keen intelligence is implied in
holding such opinions; to say just what everybody wishes to have said a
little more neatly than everybody could say it, or, at the outside, to
say to-day what every one will be saying to-morrow, is one path to
success in journalism. There is, I am afraid, much so-called education
which tends to nothing better than a development of this art. I was
consulted the other day by a young gentleman who was proposing to put
himself under a professor of journalism. So far as I could gather from
his account, the professor did not suggest that the pupil should study
any branch of serious knowledge: that he should become, for example, a
good political economist, or read ancient or modern history, or make
himself familiar with continental affairs or bimetallism, or other
thorny and complex subjects. The aim was precisely to enable him to
dispense with all study, and to spin words out of absolute mental
vacuity. If such an art can really be acquired, it is scarcely an art to
be recommended to ingenuous youth. And yet, as I understand, it is an
art which is more or less countenanced even at our universities. A
distinguished classman learns much, but the last thing he learns is the
depth of his own ignorance. He is too often practised in the power of
beating out his gold or his tinsel to cover the largest possible
surface; he becomes an adept in adopting the very last new fashion of
thought; he can pronounce dogmatically upon all previous thinkers after
reading not their own works, but the summary given in the last
text-book. Success in the art of passing examinations requires the same
qualities which enable a man to write off-hand a brilliant leading
article upon any side of any subject. I have often heard remarks upon
the modern diffusion of literary skill. Ten people, it is said, can
write well now for one who could write well fifty years ago. No doubt
the demand for facile writing has enormously increased the supply. But I
do not think that first-rate writing--the writing which speaks of a full
mind and strong convictions, which is clear because it is thorough, not
because it is shallow--has increased in the same proportion, if, indeed,
we can be sure that it has increased at all. Perhaps there are ten times
as many people who can put other men's thoughts into fluent phrases; but
are there ten times as many, are there even as many, who think for
themselves and speak at first hand? The practice of anonymous writing
affords, of course, obvious conveniences to a superficial omniscience.
The young gentleman who dogmatises so early might blush if he had to
sign his name to his audacious utterances. His tone of infallibility
would be absurd if we knew who was the pope that was promulgating
dogmas. The man in a mask professes to detect at a glance the absurd
sophistries which impose upon the keenest contemporary intellects; but
if he doffed the mask and appeared as young Mr. Smith, or Jones, who
took his degree last year, we might doubt whether he had a right to
assume so calmly that the sophistry is all on the other side. I am,
however, quite aware that this is only one side of the question of
anonymity. Were the practice abolished, the journalist who was forced to
appear in his own character might abandon not his superficiality, but
whatever power of blushing he retains. The more fluent phrase-monger
might take himself even more seriously than he now does, and might
persuade other people to take him seriously too. The charlatan, in
short, might have a better chance, and use his notoriety as a
stepping-stone to more mischievous ambition.
I refrain from discussing this question: the rather because it is
obvious that such changes must work themselves out gradually, and that
we may assume, for the present, that the position will not be materially
changed. I am, therefore, content to infer that the journalist should at
least bear in mind one obvious criterion. He should never say anything
anonymously to which he would be ashamed to sign his name. I do not mean
merely that he should not be libellous or spiteful--I hope and believe
that the underhand assassin of reputations, who at one period was common
enough, has almost ceased to exist,--but rather that he should refrain
from that pompous assumption of omniscience which would he ludicrous in
a simple individual. He should say nothing when he speaks in the plural
which would make him look silly if he used the first person singular.
Now, this modest requirement involves, I think, a good deal. I will try
to say what it involves by an example, of which I frequently think. I
remember a young gentleman, who, in my hearing, confessed, in answer to
a question from Carlyle, that he did a certain amount of journalistic
work. The great man thereupon said, with his usual candour, and, I must
add, without any personal discourtesy, that, in his opinion, the
journalism of the period was just so much ditch-water. What should be a
well of English undefiled poured forth streams little better than a
public sewer. The phrase, like some other prophetic utterances, sounded
a trifle harsh, but was all the more calculated to set me thinking. My
thinking naturally led me to reflect upon Carlyle's own example. I was
invited some time afterwards to sign a little testimonial presented to
him upon his eightieth birthday, in imitation of the gift which he had
himself forwarded to Goethe. In this it was said, and said, I think,
most truly, that Carlyle was himself an example of the heroic life in
literature. And why? A good many epigrams have been levelled at Carlyle,
and he has more than once been ridiculed as the philosopher who preached
the virtues of silence in thirty volumes. Now, Carlyle's utterances
about silence may not have been unimpeachable; but I think that, stated
in a commonplace way, they substantially come to this: that idle talk, a
mere spinning of phrases, is a very demoralising habit, and one great
mischief of the present day; but that the serious and careful utterance
of real thought and genuine knowledge must be considered rather as a
mode of action than of talk, and deserves the cordial welcome of all
men. A Goethe affects action as much as a Napoleon. Carlyle did not
really mean to draw the line between an active and a literary life; for
he knew as well as any man that literature may at once require the most
strenuous activity, and be the source of life and vigour in active men;
but between frivolity and earnestness, between the mere waste and
dissipation of energy and its concentration upon some worthy purpose.
Judged by such a standard, Carlyle's words were also deeds. He wrote a
good deal, for he lived a long time, and had for many years to live by
his pen. I could, I think, mention several professional authors who
habitually provide as much copy in a month as Carlyle ever achieved in a
year. But, luckily for them, their works are not collected. Carlyle
appears to be voluminous because he never wrote anything which was not
worth preservation, and that because he never wrote an essay without
making it as good as his abilities permitted. He did so, although he was
till middle life hard pressed for money, and helping to support his
family out of his narrow earnings. He stuck indomitably to his own ideal
of what was best, though he had slowly to form a public which could
appreciate him. And through long years of struggle and hardship he never
condescended to make easy gains at the price of inferior workmanship, or
to lower his standard of excellence in order to meet the immediate
demands of editors. In that sense, if in no other, I call Carlyle a
worthy hero of literature, and I reverence his example a great deal
more, I fear, than I have imitated it.
Perhaps, indeed, a man must have an unusually, even unreasonably, strong
conviction of the truth and importance of his mission before he can make
such sacrifices in order to discharge it worthily. To most of us the
question occurs whether it can possibly be worth while to do so.
Perhaps, if I devoted myself exclusively to delivering my message to
mankind as forcibly as I could, and to making all necessary
preparations, it might be rather more effective than the second-hand
twaddle which I actually produce. But would the game be worth the
candle? I have, it may be, a family to support. Should I not, as an
honest man, think first of my butcher and my baker and of paying the
collector of rates, before I undertake to become an immortal author?
Probably, at the best, my immortality would be a very short one, for
there is not one author in a thousand who can make his voice audible at
the distance of a generation. Is it not better and wiser to earn an
honest living by innocent small talk, than to aim at a great success and
let my children go barefoot and lose their schooling? That low man, says
Browning's Grammarian--
That low man goes on adding one to one,
His hundred's soon hit:
This high man, aiming at a million,
Misses an unit.