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“The stranger much of various life had seen,
Been poor, been rich, and in the state between;
Had much of kindness met, and much deceit,
And all that man who deals with man must meet.”—Crabbe.
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There has been much written against my opinion, as frequently
stated in the preceding volumes of this work, that those who entirely depend upon the
pursuits of literature for subsistence and fortune are in a worse position, generally, than
any other class who bring similar talents and attainments into the market, and address
their abilities to other professional avocations. It is evident, therefore, that there is
much to be said on both sides, with regard to the question at issue rightly understood; but
I think I have been met quite unfairly, when the argumentum ad
hominem has been applied to me, and my own career instanced as a
proof that literary encouragement and reward were in my case more than commensurate to my
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But still I contend for the rule that suffering is the badge of all our
tribe; and that the literary man and woman are, from the causes I have enumerated, more
exposed to be preyed upon than any other class of the community; all that I have described
respecting myself being meant as an illustration of this sad fact as deeply affecting even
what was in itself a prosperous career. If I, so favoured, was nevertheless a victim to
literary casualties, what, I inquired, must be the fate of many of higher claims, but not
so fortunate in their development and results. And, further, that although the “Literary Gazette” was, during a
considerable portion of my thirty-four years, a highly remunerative publication, taking the
average of the whole period, and the heavy burden (debt, the old man of the mountain,) laid
on my shoulders in the first four or five
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With this brief and simple re-assertion of my principles and objects, I leave the knotty subject to the feelings of the multitude who have too much reason to agree with me and the judgment of the few who contend for the opposite opinion. I shall only fortify myself on an authority which few will question, as that of one whose benevolent love of his fellow creatures and unceasing efforts to serve them will carry infinitely greater weight with it than a hundred pages of argument from almost any other source. What Charles Dickens thinks of the condition of the literary man, may be gathered from his dedication of “Pickwick” to another distinguished author, entertaining similar sentiments in common with him and me.
“If I had not enjoyed the happiness of your private
friendship, I should still have dedicated this work
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“Many a fevered head and palsied hand will gather new vigour in the hour of sickness and distress from your excellent exertions; many a widowed mother and orphan child, who would otherwise reap nothing from the fame of departed genius but its too frequent legacy of poverty and suffering, will bear, in their altered condition, higher testimony to the value of your labours than the most lavish encomium from lip or pen could ever afford.
“Besides such tributes, any avowal of feeling from me, on the question to which you have devoted the combined advantages of your eloquence, character, and genius, would be powerless indeed. Nevertheless, in thus publicly expressing my deep and grateful sense of your efforts in behalf of English literature, and of those who devote themselves to the most precarious of all pursuits, I do but imperfect justice to my own strong feelings on the subject, if I do no service to you.
“These few sentences would have comprised all I should have had to say, if I had only known you in your public character. On the score of private feeling, let me add one word more.
“Accept the dedication of this book, my dear Sir, as a
mark of my warmest regard and esteem—as a memorial of the most gratifying
friendship I have ever contracted, and of some of the pleasantest hours I have
ever spent—as a token of my fervent admiration of every fine quality of your
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I think I may yield the argument, if my opponents will only admit that the examples are all unfortunately on my side.*
Our views of life, at different periods, have a prodigious effect upon our minds, and mould our ideas to wonderfully divergent conclusions. I will endeavour to sketch a retrospect; and in this, by experience, have some not most desirable advantage over those who argue from more limited and sanguine years.
Take the buoyant age of Twenty, and its competency to pronounce judgment. Its world is one glow. “Youth at the prow and pleasure at the helm.” Every other Twenty is a sworn and stanch friend. The look-forward is full of hope. The past is an impressionless cloud of certain preparations to fit you for a glorious start in whatever course you are destined to pursue. You believe in all appearances. Men do delight you, and women too; for you have seen no ghost to warn you of the perfidy and crime that may beset your very nearest ties and dearest interests. It is the vision of the morning; and you are not awake to the realities of life. To such, even middle age is an impertinency with its wisdom, and old age a croaker with its experience.
Pass on two lustra, and at Thirty something of the vision is dispelled—something of the tug has been felt—something of disappointment encountered; but still there
* See Appendix A. |
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But what says the poet, over two lustra more?—
At Forty man suspects himself a fool—* |
Two lustra added, at Fifty, however fortunate, and yet blessed with health, man is aware that he has turned the corner stone of his existence, and plodded over the largest portion of his pilgrimage here. How different, then, are the aspects about him! He has now to live for others more than for himself; whereas up to a not far by-gone period, he lived more for himself than for others. There is a glimpse of the grave—a serious consideration of
* The fellow maxim that “Everybody is a fool or a physician at forty,” led to a neat retort where two of my distinguished contemporaries were concerned. Upon an occasion when Lord Stowell and Sir Henry Halford were dining at the same table, Sir Henry repeated the proverb, rather applying it to some hygeine remark of his lordship, who very quietly inquired, “May not a man be both, Sir Henry?” |
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Two lustra more, and all these trials are aggravated and all the anticipations become more certain of speedy fulfilment. The most cheerful cannot enjoy the diminished good which remains as they did of yore. The man of Sixty is no more the man of Twenty or Thirty than he is a creature of another species. I do not mean to assert that there may not be many things for him still to enjoy; but they are altogether of a different sort, and he is altogether a different being. He sees matters with different eyes and in different lights—he judges of matters with different sentiments—he acts from different impulses. Credulities, follies, passions, vices, generosities, liberalities, virtues, are all more or less modified; as they have, in fact, been at every one of the stages at which I have paused; and now let me advance for a finale.
Two lustra more, and glance at the span providentially assigned to human life—the three score years and ten of the Bible limit. To possess little impaired faculties at that age is to be one of a great multitude. Of those who were born about the same time, death has removed nearly all, and some few linger on in decrepitude and pain, humbly desirous of the same inevitable end, as soon as it may please God to give them rest. The game is played—the flame is flickering in the socket—the look-back is wearisome. All the earth can afford is poor and frivolous; there is but one object that can deserve attention. Need I say what it is?
Now, this is the usual panorama in which man plays his many parts; though
there are a multitude of exceptions, caused by all the circumstances of health, and age,
and
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An Ape and a Lion, a Fox and an Ass, Will show how the lives of most men do pass: They are all of them Apes to the age of Eighteen, Then bold as Lions till forty they’ve seen, Then cunning as Foxes till three score and ten, And then they are Asses, and no more men.* |
* I have not ventured on the second verse, descriptive of the other sex, who are figured under the symbols of the dove, sparrow, parrot, and crow; and not very complimentarily. |
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A literary character—I need not mention names—on a visit to Bath, was
pressed into a hospitable engagement with a resident gentleman who had a penchant for
cultivating the acquaintance of such celebrities. He had also the peculiarity of using the
above expression in and out of season, and often with ludicrous effect. His guest being
seated at an excellent plain dinner, the Amphytrion
most unnecessarily would apologise for its deficiencies. Bath, to be sure, was one of the
best markets in England, and he endeavoured to get everything good; but the fish, he
feared, was not that most fashionable in town at present; and the roast mutton was a very
homely joint, &c. &c.; but he hoped Mr. —— would excuse the deficiencies, for he is
most welcome to the fare “such as it is!” A smile rewarded this first
ebullition, which was almost converted into a burst of laughter when the wines came within
a similar category. “This sherry is direct from Cadiz, but not, I am afraid, of
the highest quality; and the other was only humble port, a kitchen wine with high
people; but I have had it in bottle nine years, and I hope you will be able to drink
it, Sir, such as it is!” Everything went on in the same manner till Mr. ——,
unable to keep his countenance much longer, pretended an urgent engagement in order to get
away early in the evening. His host regretted this exceedingly, and said, “I am
indeed very sorry that you are obliged to leave us so soon, and the more so as I can
assure
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A speedy exit was the consequence, and no breach of manners committed, unless a stifled laugh in the street could be overheard; and with this brief introductory Chapter I proceed to my narrative, such as it is.
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