THE LITERARY GUILD.
"The Guild of Literature and Art" will have already been heard of in America. It is an undertaking of several fortunate authors and their friends to make some provision for their unsuccessful brethren—for those who had the bad luck to be born before their time, as well as those who would apparently have done better by declining to be born at all. The world overflows with writers who would fain transmute their thoughts into bread, and lacking the opportunity, have a slim chance for any bread at all, even the coarsest. No other class has less worldly wisdom, less practical thrift; no other suffers more keenly from "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune," than unlucky authors. If anything can be done to mitigate the severity of their fate, and especially if their more favored brethren can do it, there ought to be but one opinion as to its propriety.
And yet I fear the issue of this project. The world is scourged by legions of drones and adventurers who have taken to Literature as in another age they would have taken to the highway—to procure an easy livelihood. They write because they are too lazy to work, or because they would scorn to live on the meager product of manual toil. Of Genius, they have mainly the eccentricities—that is to say, a strong addiction to late hours, hot suppers and a profusion of gin and water, though they are not particular about the water. What Authorship needs above all things is purification from this Falstaff's regiment, who should be taught some branch of honest industry and obliged to earn their living by it. So far, therefore, am I from regretting that every one who wishes cannot rush into print, and joining in the general execration of publishers for their insensibility to unacknowledged merit, that I wish no man could have his book printed until he had earned the cost thereof by bona fide labor, and that no one could live by Authorship until after he had practically demonstrated both his ability and willingness to earn his living in a different way. I greatly fear the proposed "Guild," even under the wisest regulations, will do as much harm as good, by aggravating the prevalent tendency toward Authorship among thousands who never asked whether the world is likely to profit by their lucubrations, but only whether they may hope to profit by them. If the "Guild" should tend to increase the number of aspirants to the honors and rewards of Authorship, it will incite more misery than it is likely to overcome.
However, this is an attempt to mend the fortunes of unlucky British Authors; and as we Americans habitually steal the productions of British Authorship, and deliberately refuse them that protection to which all producers are justly entitled, I feel myself fairly indebted to the class, by the amount of my reading of their works to which Copyright in America is denied. I meant to have attended the first dramatic entertainment given at Devonshire House in aid of this enterprise, but I did not apply for a ticket (price £5) till too late; so I took care to be in season for next time—that is, Tuesday evening of this week.
The play (as before) was "Not so Bad as We Seem, or Many Sides to a Character," written expressly in aid of the "Guild" by Bulwer, and performed at the town mansion of the Duke of Devonshire, one of the most wealthy and popular of the British nobility. On the former evening the Queen and Royal Family attended, with some scores of the Nobility; this time there was a sprinkling of Duchesses, &c., but Commoners largely preponderated, and the hour of commencing was changed from 9 to 7½ P. M. The apartment devoted to the performance is a very fine one, and the whole mansion, though common-place enough in its exterior, is fitted up with a wealth of carving, gilding, sculpture, &c., which can hardly be imagined. The scenes were painted expressly in aid of the "Guild," and admirably done. The Duke's private band played before and between the acts, and nothing had been spared on his part to render the entertainment a pleasant one. Every seat was filled, and, at $10 each and no expenses out, a handsome sum must have been realized in aid of the benevolent enterprise.
The male performers, as is well understood, are all Literary amateurs; the ladies alone being actresses by profession. Charles Dickens had the principal character—that of a profligate though sound-hearted young Lord—and he played it very fairly. But stateliness sits ill upon him, and incomparably his best scene was one wherein he appears in disguise as a bookseller tempting the virtue of a poverty-stricken author. Douglas Jerrold was for the nonce a young Mr. Softhead, and seemed quite at home in the character. It was better played than Dickens's. The residue were indifferently good—or rather, indifferently bad—and on the whole the performance was indebted for its main interest to the personal character of the performers. I was not sorry when it was concluded.
After a brief interval for refreshments, liberally proffered, a comic afterpiece, "Mr. Nightingale's Diary," was given with far greater spirit. Dickens personated the principal character—or rather, the four or five principal characters—for the life of the piece is sustained by his appearance successively as a lawyer, a servant, a vigorous and active gentleman relieved of his distempers by water-cure, a feeble invalid, &c., &c. It is long since I saw much acting of any account, but this seemed to me perfect; and I am sure the raw material of a capital comedian was put to a better use when Charles Dickens took to authorship. The other characters were fairly presented, and the play heartily enjoyed throughout.
The curtain fell about half an hour past midnight amidst tumultuous and protracted applause. The company then mainly repaired to the supper room, where a tempting display of luxuries and dainties was provided for them by the munificence of their noble host. I did not venture to partake at that hour, but those who did would be quite unlikely to repent of it—till morning. Thence they were gradually moving off to another superb apartment, where the violins were beginning to give note of coming melody, to which flying feet were eager to respond; but I thought one o'clock in the morning quite late enough for retiring, and so came away before the first set was made up. I do not doubt the dancing was maintained with spirit till broad daylight.