Having made these observations to point out that the aristocracy and the press are at variance, let us now examine into the merits of authors, as mixing in society. And here I think it will be proved that it is more their misfortune than their fault that there should be a prejudice against them. They are overrated before they are seen, and underrated afterwards.
You read the works of an author—you are pleased with them, and you wish to become acquainted with the man. You anticipate great pleasure—you expect from his lips, in impromptu, the same racy remarks, the same chain of reasoning, the same life and vigour which have cost him so many hours of labour and reflection, or which have been elicited in his happiest moods, and this from a person who comes, perhaps, almost a total stranger into a large company. Is this fair or just to him? Did you find any of your other friends, at first meeting, play the fiddle to a whole company of strangers? Are not authors as reserved and shy as other people—even more so? And yet you ask them, as if they were mountebanks or jugglers with a certain set of tricks, to amuse the company. The very circumstance of being aware that this is expected of him makes the man silent, and his very anxiety to come up to your expectations takes away from his power.
The consequence is, that you are disappointed, and so are the company, to whom you have announced that “Mr So-and-So” is to meet them. Had you become intimate with this person you would perhaps have found the difference, and that he whom you pronounced as so great a failure, would have turned out equally amusing. At the same time there is some truth in the remarks of the “Désennuyée” that “some authors will not let out their new ideas, because they require them for their books.” But, as Bulwer observes, they must be but second-raters, as the majority of authors are.
In many instances they are punsters; but punning is not a standard of authorship; or, perhaps, there may be other second-rate authors present, and if so, they know that they are in the company of literary pickpockets.
To prove that this remark of the “Désennuyée” can only apply to second-rate authors, let us examine into the conversational powers of those who are first-rate. And here I can only speak of those whom I have known—there may be many others. Where could you find such conversationists as Coleridge, Charles Lamb, Sir John Malcolm, and many others, who are now gone? And among those in existence, I have but to mention Croker, Theodore Hooke, Professor Wilson, Bulwer, Lockhart, the Smiths, and, in the other sex, Lady Blessington, Lady Morgan, Mesdames Somerville, Austin, and Jameson.
Now these are all first-rate authors in their various styles; and I can challenge any one to bring forward an equal number out of the whole mass who are so powerful or delightful in society. And there is still more to be said in favour of authors. I know many whose conversation is superior to their writings; I will not name them as they, perhaps, would not consider this to be a compliment but it fully tends to disprove the remarks of the “Désennuyée” as to authors of talent reserving their thoughts for their hooks, for, on the contrary, when in company, they generally take the lead. Still, there is a difference arising from the variety of temperament: some, accustomed to mix constantly in society, will be indifferent whether they are acquainted with the parties present or not; others, more retiring, require to feel at their ease, and it is only in small coteries, and among friends, that their real value can be appreciated. Theodore Hooke is a proof of the former, the late Charles Lamb was of the latter. Some shine most when they have no competitors; others are only to be brought out when other men of talent are in company, and, like the flint and steel, their sparks are only to be produced by collision.
If I might be permitted to offer an opinion to the authors themselves, it would be, not to mix in general company, but confine themselves to their own friends. They would stand much higher in reputation if they adhered to this plan; above all, let them avoid what the author of the “Désennuyée” terms those “Skinnerian lion feeds” given by those who have no talent to appreciate, and who, to fill their menagerie, will mix you up with foreign swindlers, and home-bred ruffians. This is most humiliating and has certainly injured the fraternity.
I have but one more remark to make. Authors in England have little to expect from the Government and the aristocracy. Pensions and honours have been given, but until Sir Robert Peel set a more worthy example, they were bestowed for the support of political opinions, not as a reward of talent. That the aristocracy, with but a few exceptions, have not fostered talent, is most true; and they are now suffering from their want of judgment. They have shut their doors to authors, and the authors have been gradually undermining their power. To what extent this may be carried, it is impossible to say; but one thing is certain, that the press is more powerful than either king or lords, and that, if the conflict continue, the latter must yield to the influence of the former, who will have ample retaliation for the neglect to which they have been subjected.
What a superiority there is in England over France, and every other nation, in the periodical and daily press, especially in the latter! Take up the “Constitutionnel,” or “Journal des Débats” at Paris, and then look at the broad double sheets of the “Times” and other morning papers, with the columns of information and original matter which they contain. Compare the flimsy sheets, bad printing, and general paucity of information of the continental daily press, with the clear types, rapid steam power called into action, the outlay, enormous expenditure, and rapid information obtained by our leading journals from all quarters of the globe. I have looked with astonishment and admiration at the working of the “Times” newspaper by its beautiful steam-engine; it is one of the most interesting sights that can be beheld.
Nothing but the assistance of steam could, indeed, enable the great daily newspapers to accomplish their present task. When the reader calls to mind that the debates in the House are sometimes kept up till two or three o’clock in the morning; that the reporters, relieved every twenty minutes, have to carry all their communications to the office; that all this matter has to be arranged, put in type, and then worked off; and that, notwithstanding this, the double sheet of matter is on thousands and thousands of tables by nine o’clock the next morning, it is really wonderful how it can be accomplished. Saturday night appears to be the only night on which those connected with these immense, undertakings can be said to have any repose from year’s end to year’s end. What a life of toil what an unnatural life must theirs be, who thus cater during the hours of darkness for the information and amusement of the mass who have slept soundly through the night, and rise to be instructed by the labour of their vigils! It can be effected in no other country in the world. It is another link in the great chain of miracles, which proves the greatness of England.