On this point we have only to remember the melancholy experience of Robert Burns, who, after having been flattered and feasted by certain individuals who were, in an ephemeral sense, influential for the time being, either through their rank or their wealth, was afterwards shamefully neglected by them, and finally, notwithstanding the various social attentions and courtesy he had at one time received, he was left, when ill and dying, in such extremity as to be compelled to implore his publisher for the loan of five pounds! What had become of all his wealthy and “influential” friends? Why they were exactly where all “influential” persons would be now in a similar case—“otherwise engaged” when their help is needed. Nothing can well be more deplorable than the position of any author who depends for success on a clique of “distinguished” or “society” persons. He or she has exchanged independence for slavery—the nectar of the gods for a base mess of pottage—and the true “happiness” of the Life Literary for a mere miserable restlessness and constant craving after fresh excitement, which gradually breeds nervous troubles, and disturbs that fine and even balance of brain without which no clear or convincing thought is possible. Again, authors who deliberately prostitute their talents to the writing of lewd matter unfit to be handled by cleanly-minded men and women need never hope to possess that happy and studious peace which comes from the
Pure intent to do the best
Purely—and leave to God the rest.
For the highest satisfaction in the Life Literary is to think that perhaps, in a fortunate or inspired moment, one may have written at least a sentence, a line, a verse, that may carry comfort and a sense of beauty to the sorrowful, or hope to the forlorn; while surely the greatest pang would be to know that one had cast the already despairing soul into a lower depth of degradation, or caused the sinner to revel more consciously in his sin.
But are there no drawbacks, no disappointments, no sufferings in the Life Literary? Why, of course there are! Who would be such a useless block of stone, such a senseless lump of unvalued clay, as not to ardently wish for drawbacks, disappointments, and sufferings? Who that has a soul at all does not pray that it may be laid like glowing iron on the anvil of endurance, there to be beaten and hammered by destiny till it is of a strong and shapely mould, fit for combat, nerved to victory? And I maintain that such drawbacks, disappointments, difficulties, and sufferings as the profession of Literature entails are sweeter and nobler than the cares besetting other professions, inasmuch as they are always accompanied by never-failing consolations. If the pinch be poverty, the true servant of Literature can do with less of this world’s goods than most people. Luxury is not called for when one is rich in idealism and fancy. Heavy feeding will not make a clear, quick brain. Extravagant apparel is a necessity for no one—and genius was never yet born of a millionaire.
If the “thorn in the flesh” is the petty abuse of one’s envious contemporaries, that is surely a matter for rejoicing rather than grief, as it is merely the continuance of an apparently “natural law in the spiritual world” acting from the Inferior upon the Superior, which may be worded thus: “Whosoever will be great, let him be flayed alive!” Virgil was declared by Pliny to be destitute of invention; Aristotle was styled “ignorant, vain, and ambitious” by both Cicero and Plutarch; Plato was so jealous of Democritus that he proposed to burn up all his works; Sophocles was brought to trial by his own children as a lunatic; Horace was accused of stealing from all the minor Greek poets; and so on in the same way down to our own times.
Pope went so far as to make a collection of all the libels passed upon him, and had them preserved and bound with singular care, though I believe no one now knows where to find these scandalous splutterings of Grub Street. Swift is reported to have said to the irate author of the “Dunciad”: “Give me a shilling and I will ensure you that posterity shall never know one single enemy against you excepting those whose memory you yourself have preserved.” Herein is a profound truth. The malicious enemies of a great author only become known to the public through the mistaken condescension of the great author’s notice.
Milton’s life was embittered by the contemptible spite of one Salmasius. Who was Salmasius? we ask nowadays. We do not task who was Milton. Salmasius was the author of the “Defensio Regi” or Defence of Kings, a poor piece of work long ago forgotten, and he was the procurer of foul libel against the author of “Paradise Lost,” one of England’s greatest and noblest men. What small claim he has to the world’s memory arises merely from his viciousness, for not only did he make use of the lowest tools to aid him in conspiring against Milton’s reputation, but he spread the grossest lies broadcast, even accusing the poet of having a hideous personal appearance—“a puny piece of man; a homunculus; a dwarf deprived of the human figure; a contemptible pedagogue.” When the despicable slanderer learned the fact that Milton, so far from answering to this description, was of a pleasing and attractive appearance, he immediately changed his tactics and began to attack his moral character—which, as even Milton’s bitterest political enemies knew, was austerely above the very shadow of suspicion. It was said that the poet’s over-zealousness in answering the calumnies of Salmasius cost him his eye-sight, which, if true, was surely regrettable. Salmasius died dishonoured and disgraced, as such a cowardly brute deserved to die; Milton still holds his glorious place in England’s literary history. So it was, so it is, so it ever will be.
Greatness is always envied—it is only mediocrity that can boast of a host of friends. “When you have resolved to be great,” says Emerson, “abide by yourself, and do not weakly try to reconcile yourself with the world.” It is impossible to quote one single instance of a truly great man existing without calumniators. And the Life Literary without any enemies would be a shabby go-cart; or, as our American cousins put it, a “one-horse concern.” Some lines that were taught to me when I was a child seem apposite to this subject, and I quote them here for the benefit of any struggling units of the Life Literary who may haply be in need:—