You know how it fares with the superior individual who bears himself as though unmoved by feelings common to the average mortal. He does not inspire friendship, or admiration, or, for that matter, any feeling worth the having. Knowing the frailty of human nature, we suspect him of playing a double part. And so it is, surely, with the author who addresses us in the manner of one who is a stranger to the feelings that mould this mortal clay. We know better. We know full well that ‘the writer is not continually dwelling amongst the roses and lilies of life; he is not continually uttering generous sentiments and saying fine things. On him, as on his brethren, the world presses with prosaic needs. He has to make love, and marry, and run the usual matrimonial risks. The income-tax collector visits him as well as others. Around his head at Christmas drives a snow-storm of bills.’ Outside of his books he is pretty much the same as other men. And so, I say, we have greater sympathy with an author if he takes us into his confidence, allows us to bear a part of his burdens—to feel that he, too, is subject to human trials and difficulties.
It is interesting to note that authors themselves are of the same way of thinking. They, too, like to get at the hearts of men. Speaking of a visit paid to Coleridge at Highgate, Emerson complained that he was in his company for about an hour, but found it impossible to recall the largest part of his discourse, which was often like so many printed paragraphs in his books—perhaps the same—so readily did the great Coleridge fall into certain commonplaces.... ‘The visit was rather a spectacle than a conversation.’
And so, you see, we who desire at times to meet authors outside their books are in good company. And if we are not so fortunate as to play Boswell’s part, if we cannot sit at the feet of our heroes, if we cannot mourn or make merry in their company, we can, at least, approach them through the medium of a printed page. And that, I hold, is as good a way as any other—if not the best. Few are the books so deep in human interest as biographies of men of letters. This, it is said, arises from the pictures of comparative defeat which, in almost every instance, such books contain. ‘We see failure more or less—seldom clear, victorious effort. Like the Old Guard at Waterloo, they are fighting bravely on a lost field. In literary biography there is always an element of tragedy, and the love we bear the dead is mingled with pity.’
V
BOOKS THAT CAPTIVATE
If thought unlock her mysteries,
If friendship on me smile,
I walk in marble galleries,
I talk with kings the while.
Emerson.
THE world of books is full of friendly voices. Where is the book-lover who has not at times felt like a sulky guest in genial, well-disposed company? Many authors who await our attentions have no other desire than to entertain, to please, to delight, ‘All authors are not preachers.’ I confess, however, that for my part I like to be ‘preached at.’ But my preacher must be of the gentle, captivating type—one who employs the beckoning finger. I am willing enough to be led, but immediately adopt a proverbial stubbornness at the touch of a rod. This reminds me of a certain book-lover who declares that he is only influenced by authors who preach from his own pulpit. That is his way of saying that the authors who captivate him are the authors who touch a responsive chord in his nature, who view affairs from his standpoint.