Chapter Twenty Eight.
A man must serve his time to every trade,
Save censure.—Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skill’d to find or forge a fault,
A turn for punning—call it Attic salt:
Fear not to lie, ’twill seem a lucky hit,
Shrink not from blasphemy, ’twill pass for wit,
Care not for feeling,—pass your proper jest,
And stand a critic! hated, yet caress’d.
Byron.
The survey was continued. One morning, after a fatiguing walk from point to point, occasionally crossing from one islet to the others in the boats, the party collected under a projecting rock, which screened them from the rays of the vertical sun, and the repast, which had been brought from the ship in the morning, was spread before them. The party consisted of Captain M—; Pearce, the master; the surgeon, who had accompanied them to explore the natural productions of the reef; and the confidential clerk of Captain M—, a man of the name of Collier, who had been many years in his service, and who was now employed in noting down the angles taken with the theodolite.
Tired with the labours of the morning, Captain M— did not rise immediately after their meal had been despatched, but entered into conversation with the surgeon, who was looking over the memoranda which he had made relative to the natural history of the reef.
“Do you intend to write a book, Mr Macallan, that you have collected so many remarks?”
“Indeed I do not, sir. I have no ambition to be an author.”
The clerk, who was very taciturn in general, and seldom spoke unless on points connected with his duty, joined the conversation by addressing the surgeon.
“It’s a service of danger, sir, and you must be prepared to meet the attacks both of authors and reviewers.”
“Of reviewers I can imagine,” replied Macallan; “but why of authors?”
“That depends very much whether you tread over beaten ground, or strike into a new path. In the latter case you will be pretty safe from both, as the authors will be indifferent and the reviewers, in all probability, incapable.”
“And why, if I enter upon a beaten track, which, I presume, infers a style of writing in which others have preceded me?”
“Because, sir, when a new author makes his appearance, he is much in the same situation as a strange dog entering a kennel preoccupied by many others. He is immediately attacked and worried by the rest, until, either by boldly defending himself or pertinaciously refusing to quit, he eventually obtains a domiciliation, and becomes an acknowledged member of the fraternity.”
“Why, Mr Collier,” observed the captain, “you seem to be quite au fait as to literary arrangements.”
“I ought to be, sir,” replied the clerk, “for in the course of my life I have attempted to become an author, and practised as a reviewer.”
“Indeed! And did you fail in your attempt at authorship?”
“My work was never printed, sir, for no bookseller would undertake to publish it. I tried the whole town; no man would give himself the trouble to look over the MS. It was said that the public taste was not that way, and that it would not do. At last I received a letter of introduction from an old acquaintance to his uncle, who was a literary character. He certainly did read some parts of my performance.”
“And what then?”
“Why, sir, he shook his head—told me with a sneer that, as an author, I should never succeed; but he added, with a sort of encouraging smile, that, from some parts of the MS which he had perused, he thought that he could find employment for me in the reviewing line, if I chose to undertake it.”
“My pride was hurt, and I answered that I could not agree with him, as I considered that it required the ability to write a book yourself to enable you to decide upon the merits of others.”
“Well, I must say that I agree with you,” replied the captain. “Proceed in your story, for I am interested.”
“My friend answered,—‘By no means, my dear sir; a damned bad author generally makes a very good reviewer. Indeed, sir, to be candid with you, I never allow any gentleman to review for me, unless he has met with a misfortune similar to yours. It is one of the necessary qualifications of a good reviewer that he should have failed as an author; for without the exacerbated feelings arising from disappointment, he would not possess gall sufficient for his task, and his conscience would stand in his way when he was writing against it, if he were not spurred on by the keen probes of envy.’”
“And he convinced you?”
“My poverty did, sir, if he did not. I worked many months for him; but I had better have earned my bread as a common labourer.”
“Reviews ought to pay well, too,” observed Macallan; “they are periodicals in great demand.”
“They are so,” replied Captain M—; “and the reasons are obvious. Few people take the trouble to think for themselves; but, on the contrary, are very glad to find others who will think for them. Some cannot find time to read—others will not find it. A review removes all these difficulties—gives the busy world an insight into what is going on in the literary world—and enables the lounger not to appear wholly ignorant of a work, the merits of which may happen to be discussed. But what is the consequence? That seven-eighths of the town are led by the nose by this or that periodical work, having wholly lost sight of the fact, that reviews are far from being gospel. Indeed, I do not know any set of men so likely to err as reviewers. In the first place, there is no class of people so irascible, so full of party feeling, so disgraced by envy, as authors; hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness seem to preside over science. Their political opinions step in, and increase the undue preponderance; and, to crown all, they are more influenced by money, being proverbially more in want of it than others. How, then, is it to be expected that reviews can be impartial? I seldom read them myself as I consider that it is better to know nothing than to be misled.”
“And, if it is a fair question, Mr Collier,” continued Captain M—, “in what manner were you employed?”
“I am almost ashamed to tell you, sir—I was a mere automaton, a machine, in the hands of others. A new publication was sent to me, with a private mark from my employer, directing the quantum of praise or censure which it was to incur. If the former were allotted to it, the best passages were selected; if condemned to the latter, all the worst. The connecting parts of the review were made up from a commonplace book, in which, by turning to any subject, you found the general heads and extracts from the works of others, which you were directed to alter, so as to retain the ideas, but disguise the style, that it might appear original.”
“Are you aware of the grounds of praise or abuse?—for it appears that those who directed the censure did not read the publications?”
“The grounds were various. Books printed by a bookseller, to whom my master had a dislike, were sure to be run down; on the contrary, those published by his connections or friends were as much applauded. Moreover, the influence of authors, who were afraid of a successful rival in their own line often damned a work.”
“But you do not mean to say that all reviews are conducted with such want of principle?”
“By no means. There are many very impartial and clever critiques. The misfortune is, that unless you read the work that is reviewed, you cannot distinguish one from the other.”
“And pray what induced you to abandon this creditable employment?”
“A quarrel, sir. I had reviewed a work, with the private mark of approval, when it was found out to be a mistake, and I was desired to review it with censure. I expected to be paid for the second review as well as for the first. My employer thought proper to consider it all as one job, and refused—so we parted.”
“Pretty tricks in trade, indeed!” replied Captain M—. “Why, Mr Collier, you appear to have belonged to a gang of literary bravos, whose pens, like stilettoes, were always ready to stab, in the dark, the unfortunate individuals who might be pointed out to them by interest or revenge.”
“I acknowledge the justice of your remark, sir; all that I can offer in my defence is, the excuse of the libeller to Cardinal Richelieu—‘Il faut vivre, monsieur.’”
“And I answer you, with the Cardinal—‘Je ne vois pas la necessité,’” replied Captain M—, with a smile, as he rose to resume his labours.