We have spoken of De Foe in prison, he who produced two hundred volumes, yet died insolvent. Dr. Johnson said there was never anything written by man that was wished longer by its readers, except "Don Quixote," "Robinson Crusoe," and "Pilgrim's Progress." The author of "Robinson Crusoe" says of himself: "I have gone through a life of wonders,and am the subject of a great variety of providences. I have been fed more by miracles than Elijah when the ravens were his purveyors. In the school of affliction I have learned more philosophy than at the academy, and more divinity than from the pulpit. In prison I have learned that liberty does not consist in open doors and the egress and regress of locomotion. I have seen the rough side of the world as well as the smooth, and have in less than half a year tasted the difference between the closet of a king and the dungeon of Newgate." "Talent is often to be envied," says Holmes, "and genius very commonly to be pitied; it stands twice the chance of the other of dying in a hospital, in jail, in debt, in bad repute."
The example of Robert Greene's life carries with it an impressive moral. He was well educated, taking his degree at Cambridge, England, and was a successful playwright and poet; but he was also improvident and reckless in his life, exhibiting more than the usual eccentricities of genius. He squandered his patrimony in dissipation, and died in great poverty. His last book, "The Groatsworth of Wit bought with a Million of Repentance," is a book both curious and rare.[121]
With all his dissipated proclivities, Henry Fielding had much more genius than Robert Greene. He too was constantly poor through his own recklessness. Lady Montagu, who was a kinswoman of his, said: "He was always wanting money, and would have wanted it had his hereditary lands been as extensive as his imagination." And yet he was a marvel of industry, ever slaving with the pen, writing often under excruciating pain, and producing his most famous work, "Tom Jones," as has been said, with an ache and a pain to every sentence. He was, as usual, very short of money when this work was finished, and tried to sell it to a second-class publisher for twenty-five pounds. Thomson the poet heard of this from Fielding, and told him to come to Miller the book-publisher. This individual gave it to his wife to read, and she bade him to secure it by all means; so the publisher offered the impecunious author two hundred guineas for it, and the bargain was closed, to the entire satisfaction of both parties.[122]Critics have remarked upon the similarity between Steele and Fielding, though attributing the greater genius and learning to the latter. They were certainly alike in one respect; namely, as regarded a chronic state of impecuniosity.
Fielding said of himself that he had no choice but to be a hackney writer or a hackney coachman for a living. His genius deserved a better fate. Owing to his poverty he was forced to throw upon the market many productions which he had much better have thrown into the fire. Fortunately, in literature it is the rule that the unworthy perishes, and only the good remains. Many of Fielding's works have a just and lasting fame, and no library is complete without them. In spite of his many imperfections, which made brusque Dr. Johnson refuse to sit at table with him, there was much that was fine and lovable in Harry Fielding,—truthful, generous to a fault, and with wit and wisdom marvellously combined. Gibbon, speaking of his own genealogy, refers to the fact of Fielding being of the same family as the Earl of Denbigh, who, in common with the imperial family of Austria, is descended from the celebrated Rodolph of Hapsburg. "While one branch," he says, "have contented themselves with being sheriffs of Leicestershire and justices of the peace, the other has furnished emperors of Germany and kings of Spain; but the magnificent romance of 'Tom Jones' will be read with pleasure when the palace of the Escurial is in ruins and the imperial eagle of Austria is rolling in the dust."
Justice, like the sword of Damocles, is ever suspended. Nemesis is not dead, but sleepeth. Sometimes old age seizes upon an ill-spent life, and gives us a striking example of the vicissitudes of genius. Dean Swift, the great master of biting satire andfelicitous analogy, possessing the rarest qualities of wit, humor, and eloquence, was yet so paradoxical and inconsistent withal, as to lie under the suspicion of madness half of his life. Ambitious, talented, ever seeking preferment, never satisfied, now a busy Whig and now a noisy Tory, he was a perfect brigand in politics, and his motto was, "Stand and deliver." Swift's bitterness, scorn, and subsequent misanthropy were the sequence of disappointment. "All my endeavors to distinguish myself," he wrote to Bolingbroke, "were only for want of a great title and fortune, that I might be used like a lord by those who have an opinion of my parts; whether right or wrong is no great matter." Coarse, sceptical, and irreligious,[123]he was arrogant where he dared to be, and cautious with his money, though having a reputation for charity. "If you were in a strait," asks Thackeray, "would you like such a benefactor? I think I would rather have had a potato and a friendly word from Goldsmith, than be beholden to the Dean for a guinea and a dinner." Heartlessly vibrating between Stella and Vanessa, to the misery and mortification of both, he finally married the former, only to separate from her at the church door. We arefain to abhor the man while we freely acknowledge the lustre of his genius, and to see only providential justice in his fate, when in the later years of his life, grown morose, misanthropic, and solitary, watched at all times by a keeper, his memory and other faculties failed him, and the great Dean became a picture of death in life. He made many enemies, and was bitterly criticised by his contemporaries, often not without ample justice. He has been stigmatized as "the apostate politician, the perjured lover, and the ribald priest,—a heart burning with hatred against the whole human race, a mind richly laden with images from the gutter and the lazar-house."[124]
At complete antipodes to this portrait is that of Richard Steele, the popular dramatist, essayist, and editor; the friend of Addison, and one of the wittiest and most popular men of his day. His also was an erratic career, alternating between vice and virtue; or, as he says of himself, always sinning and repenting, until he finally outlived his relish for society, his income, and his health. "He was the best-natured creature in the world," says Young; "even in his worst state of health he seemed to desire nothing but to please and be pleased." Worn out and forgotten by his contemporaries, Steele retired into the countryand left posterity to appreciate his genius. With a warm heart overflowing with love of wife and children, his checkered life was yet full of faults and careless blunders, many of which were directly traceable to strong drink. Little learned in books, but with a large knowledge of men and the world, he wrote with captivating simplicity and in the most colloquial style. Social and kindly in the extreme, his whole character is in strong contrast with the harshness of Swift and the dignified loneliness of Addison.[125]Somehow we forget about the sword of Damocles, and ignore Nemesis altogether in connection with the name of Steele; and while we do not forget his weaknesses, we recollect more readily his loving nature, his appreciation of beauty and goodness, and his warm sympathy and kindness of heart. It was Steele who said of a noble lady of his time, that to love her was a liberal education.
Dr. Johnson spent much of his early life in penury, wandering in the streets, sometimes all night, without the means to pay for a lodging. A garret was a luxury to him in those days.[126]Alas! what a satire uponlearning and authorship! Notwithstanding his powerful intellect, he was subject to such a singular and even superstitious dread of death, that he could hardly be persuaded to execute his will in later years. When Garrick showed Johnson his fine house and grounds at Hampton Court, the mind of the great lexicographer reverted to his special weakness, saying, "Ah! David, David, these are the things which make a death-bed terrible." When he and Garrick both became famous, they used to chaff each other about who came to London with two shillings, and who had two-and-sixpence. Johnson was a confirmed hypochondriac; hence the gloom and morbid irritability of his disposition. His disorder entailed upon him perpetual fretfulness and mental despondency. Had it not been for the wonderful vigor of his mind,—as in the case of Cowper, who was similarly affected,—he would have been the inmate of a mad-house. Macaulay says of Johnson grown old: "In the fulness of his fame, and in the enjoyment of a competent fortune, he is better known to us than any other man in history. Everything about him, his coat, his wig, his figure, his face, his scrofula, his St. Vitus's dance, his rolling walk, his blinking eye, the outward signs which too clearly marked his approbation of his dinner, his insatiable appetite for fish-sauce and veal-pie with plums, his inextinguishable thirst for tea, his trick of touching the posts as he walked, his mysterious practice of treasuring up scraps of orange-peel, his morning slumbers, his midnight disputations, his contortions,his mutterings, his gruntings, his puffings, his vigorous, acute, and ready eloquence, his sarcastic wit, his vehemence, his indolence, his fits of tempestuous rage, his queer inmates, old Mr. Levitt and blind Mrs. Williams, the cat Hodge and the negro Frank,—are all as familiar to us as the objects by which we have been surrounded from childhood."
The greatest talents are usually coupled with the most acute sensibility. Rousseau imagined a phantom ever by his side; Luther had his demon, who frequented his study at all hours. So realistic was the great reformer's imagination, that he was accustomed to throw at the intruder any article nearest at hand. The confusion thus caused may easily be conceived when on one such occasion he cast his inkstand, with its contents, at the supposed demon. Cowper's weird and fatal messenger will also be remembered. Tasso's spirits glided in the air,[127]and Mozart's "man in black" induced him to write his own requiem. But Johnson saw omens in the most trifling circumstances. If he chanced, in passing out of the house, to place his left foot foremost, he would return and start with the right, as promising immunity from accident and a safe return. Strange as it may seem, this eminent and profound man put faith in a long list of equally ridiculous omens in every-day life. He was a mostvoluminous and versatile writer, and excelled in delineating female characters; though Burke did say "all the ladies of his dramatis personæ were Johnsons in petticoats." Few persons with means so limited as his ever spent more for charitable purposes; and if his disposition was irritable, his heart was kind. "He loved the poor," says Mrs. Thrale, "as I never yet saw any one else love them. He nursed whole nests of people in his house, where the lame, the blind, the sick, and the sorrowful found a sure retreat." Now and then, throughout Johnson's life, we get a glimpse that shows us the man, not as the world at large knew him, but as his unmasked heart appeared. Does the reader recall the incident of his kneeling by the dying bed of an aged woman, and giving her a pious kiss, afterwards recording, "We parted firmly, hoping to meet again"?
Melancholy has been the very demon of genius, the skeleton in the closet of poets and philosophers. Burton composed his "Anatomy of Melancholy" to divert his own depressed spirits.[128]Cowper is another example. He says of himself, "I was struck with such a dejection of spirits as none but they who have felt the same can have the least conception of." He was tenderly attached, it will be remembered, to his cousin Theodora, who returned his love; but disappointment was the lot of both, as her parents, doubtless for good reasons, forbade the union. While the vastly humorous and popular ballad of "John Gilpin" was delighting the Londoners, and was being read to crowded audiences at high prices, the poor unhappy author was confined as a lunatic, and, to use his own words, was "encompassed by the midnight of absolute despair."[129]The poet, like the clown in the ring, when he appears before the public must be all smiles and jests, though concealing perhaps an agony of physical or mental suffering. We know little of the real aspect which the face of Harlequin presents beneath his mask. Be sure he has his sorrows, deep and dark, in spite of the grinning features which he wears. Who does not recall the words which Thackeray makes his old and faithful gold pen utter:—
"I've help'd him to pen many a line for bread;To joke, with sorrow aching in his head;And make your laughter when his own heart bled."
"I've help'd him to pen many a line for bread;To joke, with sorrow aching in his head;And make your laughter when his own heart bled."
Was there ever pleasanter or more genial reading than "Cowper's Familiar Letters," full to the brim with sparkling humor? Yet these were coined fromhis brain while in a state of hopeless dejection. "I wonder," he writes to Mr. Newton, "that a sportive thought should ever knock at the door of my intellect, and still more that it should gain admittance. It is as if Harlequin should introduce himself into the gloomy chamber where a corpse is deposited in state." He was one of the most amiable and gifted, but also one of the unhappiest, of the children of genius.
Christopher Smart, poet, scholar, and prose writer, was an eccentric individual, but of such undoubted ability as to challenge the admiration and win the friendship of Dr. Johnson, who wrote his biography. His habits finally became very bad, so that, delirium setting in, it was found necessary to confine him in an asylum. While there he wrote a very remarkable religious poem entitled the "Song of David," produced in his rational moments, which exhibited sublimity and power, and is still considered one of the curiosities of English literature. Smart improved in health and was discharged with his full reason restored, but was soon after committed to the King's Bench prison for debt; and there he died, poverty-stricken and neglected, in 1770. Samuel Boyle was a contemporary of Smart, and was possessed of equal genius whether with the pen or the bottle. Poor fellow! he got an indifferent living as a fag author, though he was capable of fine literary work. His poem entitled the "Deity" fully proved this. Ogle, the London publisher, used to employ Boyle to translate some of Chaucer's tales into modern English,which he did with much excellence and spirit, and for which he received threepence per printed line. The poor genius sank lower and lower, lived in a miserable garret, wearing a blanket about his shoulders, having no vest or coat, and was at last found famished to death with a pen in his hand. "Hunger and nakedness," says Carlyle, "perils and revilings, the prison, the cross, the poison-chalice, have in most times and countries been the market price the world has offered for wisdom, the welcome with which it has greeted those who have come to enlighten and purify it. Homer and Socrates and the Christian apostles belong to old days; but the world's Martyrology was not completed with them."
Richard Payne Knight, the Greek scholar and antiquary, was a remarkable genius in his way. His gift of ancient coins, bronzes, and works of art presented to the British Museum was valued at fifty thousand pounds. He was a poet of more than ordinary ability, and wrote, among other prose works, "An Analytical Enquiry into the Principles of Taste." He was for a number of consecutive years a member of Parliament. He had singular attacks of melancholy, and finally developed such a loathing of life that he destroyed himself with poison.
Poverty has nearly always been the patrimony of the Muses. "An author who attempts to live on the manufacture of his imagination," says Whipple, "is constantly coquetting with starvation." A glance at the brief life of Chatterton is evidence enough of thetruth of this remark. He began to write poems of extraordinary merit at an immature age, and when a mere boy came up to London to seek for literary employment as a means of support. He wrote sermons, poems, essays, and political articles with an ability far beyond his years. He was indeed a prodigy of genius, and probably would have stood in the front rank of English poets had he lived to maturer years. No one ever equalled him at the same age, and Tasso alone, says Campbell, can be compared to him as a youthful prodigy. His life in the metropolis was one of great hardship and deprivation, as he often suffered for want of the simplest necessities of life, and grew so emaciated in appearance from the lack of food that strangers, sometimes meeting him in the street, forced him to accept a dinner which he was too proud to ask for. All this while, with much more consideration for the feelings of the family at home than thought for himself, he wrote cheerful letters to his mother, and even sent small and acceptable presents to his sister, in order to content them for his absence. Seeking only expression for the divine afflatus within him, he had no thought of self, no care for the morrow. By degrees, young as he was, he sank into utter despondency, and was reduced to actual starvation. He was found at last upon his bed of straw, having taken his own life in a fit of desperation. At the time he swallowed the fatal poison he was not quite nineteen years of age.
George Combe, the English author, encountered afull share of the vicissitudes of genius. He was capable of much theoretical goodness, but was not practical in that respect. He wrote in his old age, "Few men have enjoyed more of the pleasures and brilliance of life than myself;" yet he died in the King's Bench, where he had taken refuge from his creditors, not leaving enough to pay the expenses of his funeral.
Many a child of genius has been compelled to prostitute godlike powers to repel the gnawings of hunger; as for instance Holzman, the sagacious Oriental scholar and professor of Greek, who sold his notes on Dion Cassius for a dinner. The record of this learned man's struggles with dire want form a pathetic chapter in literary history. He tells us himself that at the age of eighteen he studied to acquire glory, but at twenty-five he studied to get bread.
While these pages are preparing for the press, Dr. Moshlech, a scientist, and the master of ten languages, has died in the county almshouse of Erie, Pennsylvania. He was a Prussian by birth, and graduated with high honors from the University of Bonn; made medicine a specialty, and practised the profession for several years in Paris, but finally turned his attention to science, and afterwards to the languages. He numbered among his friends many illustrious men, chief of whom were Darwin and Victor Hugo. At the beginning of our late war he visited this country, and accepted a position as Professor of Greek and Hebrew in Bethany College, West Virginia, which he held buta short time, owing to the war excitement. He subsequently practised medicine in Ohio and Pennsylvania, and wrote for scientific publications. He was so much interested in his work that he neglected to make provision for his old age; and when he could no longer pursue his profession, this man, who had associated with the most learned men of Europe, was compelled to apply to a poorhouse for shelter and bread. Even after he entered the almshouse he prepared a number of young men for college, and lectured occasionally before the Erie Historical Society.
Few authors are so calm of spirit, or so assured of their position, as not to shrink from well-expressed criticism, and especially when it comes in the form of ridicule,—forgetting that although an ass may bray at a classic statue, an ass cannot create one.[130]So sensitive was even Newton to critical attacks, that Whiston, another English philosopher, and a personal friend of Sir Isaac, said he was quite unmanned when any declaration of his was called in question by the reviewers; and further, that he (Whiston) lost Newton's favor, which he had enjoyed for twenty years, by contradicting him on some point of his printed works; "for," he adds, "no man was of a more fearful temper." Some critics use the pen as the surgeon does the scalpel:they do not analyze, but they dissect. The flowers of the imagination, like the life of the body, vanish if too closely pressed. "Criticism," says Richter, "often takes from the tree caterpillar and blossoms together."[131]Thus was the heart of poor Keats crushed and broken by the malignant severity of Gifford in the "Quarterly Review." One would have thought that this captious critic, who by his own talent alone had worked his way from the cobbler's bench to the editorial chair of the "Quarterly," would have been more considerate towards a man[132]who, like himself, rose from humble associations. It only proved that the man who had successfully cast the slough of vulgar life, had still the heart of a clown. Gifford was indignant and sensitive beyond measure at a published criticism on his translation of Juvenal, which appeared in the "Critical Review;" and he put forth a sharp, angry answer, in the form of a large quarto pamphlet. No poet ever exhibited a more vivid perception of the beautiful, or greater powers of fancy, than Keats; but the bitterness of the criticism referred to was too much for his delicate health and sensitive nature,hastening, if it did not actually develop, the seeds of consumption, of which he died. Keats's father was a livery-stable keeper, and it is said that the future poet was born in the most humble quarters; but the irresistible fire of genius lighted his path, and had he lived past the noon of life, he would have carved his way to the highest fame. He finally went to Rome, in the hope of recuperating his failing health; but that was not to be. In the last day of his illness a companion who had called in, asked him how he was. "Better, my friend," he answered in a low voice. "I feel the daisies growing over me!" He died at Rome in his twenty-sixth year, Feb. 23, 1821. His body lies in the English burial-ground outside the gates of the ancient city, by the Appian Way, and near to the pyramid of Cestius. The simple slab that marks the spot interests one quite as much as many of the grand historical monuments of the Via Appia.[133]We all remember the touching epitaph from his own pen:—
"Here lies one whose name was writ in water."
"Here lies one whose name was writ in water."
As to the effect of criticism in general, we are told that Pope was observed to writhe in his chair on hearing the letter of Cibber mentioned, with other severe criticism on the product of his hand and brain. Thestrictures, deserved and undeserved, which were publicly made on Montesquieu are said to have hastened his death. Ritson's extreme sensitiveness to criticism ended in lunacy, and Racine is thought by many to have died from the same cause.
Surely disappointment tracks the path of genius. Thus Collins, the eminent lyric poet, whose "Ode to the Passions" has made his name famous and familiar in our day, did not live to enjoy his literary success; indeed, his death is known to have been hastened by long neglect. The last half of his brief life was darkened by melancholy,[134]and his home was a lunatic asylum. The money received from his publishers as copyright on his poems he voluntarily refunded, also paying the entire expense of the edition, after which he made a bonfire of the sheets. As we have seen in so many other instances, it was left for posterity to do Collins justice. In the course of a single generation, without any adventitious aid to bring them into notice, his poems have come to rank among the best of their kind in the language. Poor Collins! unfortunate in love, threatened with blindness, and harassed by bailiffs half his life, his career was one of unrest,unhappiness, and despair; death, the comforter of him whom time cannot console, gave the poet an early grave.[135]
Small was the portion of happiness that fell to the share of these men of genius; the lonely places they occupied were too lofty for companionship. "The wild summits of the mountains are inaccessible," says Madame Necker; "only eagles and reptiles can get there." We have seen how hard appears the fate of genius as a rule, and that its possession is often at the cost of great deprivation and unhappiness. Is it not difficult to recall an instance where a pronounced genius has also enjoyed the quiet beauty of domestic life? Wordsworth's remark, however, is applicable: namely, that men do not make their homes unhappy because they have genius, but because they have not enough genius. The conclusion would seem to be that we may envy talent, but must oftenest pity genius.
About half a century since, the well-known indiscretions of Shelley caused his name to be tabooed in London society, though in moral attributes he stood immeasurably above his friend Byron. Still, he was amenable enough to censure. His poetry is strikinglybrilliant; each line is a complete thought, and the whole sparkles like sunlight upon the sea. After being expelled from college he made a "Gretna Green" marriage with Harriet Westbrook, but eventually abandoned her with his two children,—the woman who had given up all for him, and who in her dark hour of sorrow and despair drowned herself.[136]We can describe Shelley's character no better than by comparing it to his longest poem, the "Revolt of Islam," which abounds in passages of surpassing beauty, but which as a whole is deficient in connection and human interest. It is as erratic as his own life.[137]There is so much of bad in the best, and of good in the worst, that few of us are willing to sit in judgment upon poor humanity. Time has softened the asperity of our feelings, and the productions of Shelley's genius are now justly admired. When, after his fatal accident, his body was washed on shore, a copy of Keats's poems was found in his pocket. His ashes now rest near those of his brother poet outside the gates of Rome. As a striking example of his remarkable sensibility, we may mention the effect upon him whenhe first listened to the reading of Coleridge's "Christabel"[138]in a small social circle. Says one who was present, "Shelley was so affected that he fainted dead away." He was consistent, and lived up to his convictions. While listening to the organ in an Italian cathedral, he sighed that charity instead of faith was not regarded as the substance of religion. The maintenance of his opinion cost him a fine estate, so constant and profuse were his charities towards impoverished men of letters and the poor generally.
The author of an "Elegy Written in a Country Church-Yard"[139]was absolutely a slave to diffidence and painful shyness,—a characteristic which led to bitter persecution while he was a young student; nor could he ever quite divest himself of this nervous timidity. Hazlitt says of Gray that "he was terrified out of his wits at the bare idea of having his portrait prefixed to his works, and probably died from nervous agitation at the publicity into which his name had been forced by his learning, taste, and genius." On the death of Cibber, the vacant laureateshipwas offered to Gray, but his sensitiveness led him to decline it.[140]
CHAPTER VII.
In these desultory chapters we have more than once seen that fame appeals to posterity; but in the instance of Byron it was contemporary, for he tells us he "awoke one morning and found himself famous." No man's errors were ever more closely observed and recorded than his; and we are still too near the period of his life to forget his foibles and remember only the productions of his genius. Byron, like Pope, was a sufferer from physical deformity, and much of the morbid sensibility of both arose from their common misfortune. Macaulay, speaking of Byron, says: "He had naturally a generous and feeling heart, but his temper was wayward and irritable. He had a head which statuaries loved to copy, and a foot the deformity of which the beggar in the street mimicked. Distinguished at once by the strength and by the weakness of his intellect, affectionate yet perverse, a poor lord and a handsome cripple, he required, if ever man required, the finest and most judicious training. But capriciously as Nature had dealt with him, the parent to whom the office of forming his character was intrusted was more capricious still. She passed from paroxysms of rage to paroxysms of tenderness.At one time she stiffled him with her caresses; at another time she insulted his deformity. He came into the world; and the world treated him as his mother had treated him,—sometimes with fondness, sometimes with cruelty, never with justice. It indulged him without discrimination, and punished him without discrimination. He was truly a spoiled child,—the spoiled child of fortune, the spoiled child of fame, the spoiled child of society." The author of "Don Juan" was actuated at times by a strange recklessness, and a desire to seem worse than he really was. He aped the misanthrope, assumed unfelt remorse, and affected singularity, in order to court notoriety. However capricious may have been his temper, he came rightly enough by it, since his mother was noted for the frenzied violence of her passion, being wholly without judgment or self-control, and in nearly every respect disqualified for performing a parent's duty.[141]Byron was also a victim of hypochondria only in a less degree than Johnson and Cowley; and this is his one genuine excuse for the excesses into which he sometimes rushed headlong. No matter in what light weconsider him, all must concede the fervor of his passionate genius; and therein lay his remarkable power, for man is at his greatest when stimulated by the passions. Enthusiasm is contagious, and infuses a spirit of emulation; while reason, calm and forcible, only wins us by the slow process of conviction.
The truest grandeur of our nature is often born of sorrow. Those who have suffered most have developed the profoundest sympathies and have sung for us the sweetest notes. It is the heart which is seamed with scars that compels other hearts. Charles Lamb, at one time himself confined in an insane asylum, lived to the end of his days with, and in charge of, an unfortunate sister, who in a fit of madness murdered her mother,—an experience sufficient to cast, as it did, an awful blight over his whole life; but it was the occasion in him of an instance of holy human love and pure self-denial seldom equalled. Poor Mary Lamb[142]knew when these mental attacks were coming on, and then her brother and herself, hand in hand, sought the asylum, to the matron of which he would say, "I have brought Mary again;" and presently,when the attack had passed, he was at the door of the asylum to receive her once more and take her kindly home. The domestic tragedy and his sister's condition caused Lamb to give up all idea of marriage, though at the time of the sad occurrence he was sincerely attached to a lovely woman. The court, after Mary's trial, consigned her to her brother's care. He wrote to his friend Coleridge, "I am wedded to the fortunes of my sister and my poor old father." The father died not long subsequent, but Mary survived Charles thirteen years, dying in 1847. With considerable ability as a versifier, Lamb will not be remembered as a poet; his fame will rest on his essays and his sagacious criticisms. The "Essays of Elia" are inimitable, full of the author's personality, exquisitely delicate, poetical, whimsical, witty, and odd. The only fault to be reasonably found with them is their brevity. We wish there were a dozen volumes in place of one. They are the pedestal upon which the fame of this gentle, charitable, and quaint genius will ever rest. Lamb's character was amiably eccentric, but always full of loving-kindness. The pseudonym of "Elia" has become famous, and was first assumed in the author's contributions to the "London Magazine." While his lovable disposition and pensive cast of thought tinge all his productions, there is ever a playfulness lurking just below the surface which is sure to captivate the most casual reader. During his life Lamb was looked upon by the world as possessing more oddity than genius; but now all joinin admitting him to be one of the fixed stars of literature.[143]What a significant fact it is that Lamb was so tenderly regarded by the galaxy of notable men with whom he associated! He was a schoolmate of Coleridge and intimate with him for fifty years. Southey, Hazlitt, Wordsworth, Godwin, De Quincey, Edward Irving, Thomas Hood, Leigh Hunt, and other men of literary fame were the warm and loving friends of Charles Lamb.
With all his æsthetic proclivities, "Elia" was of a sensuous nature. Besides roast pig, he had other favored dishes, not rare and luxurious, but special, nevertheless. He was particularly fond of brawn, and considered tripe to be superlatively appetizing when suitably prepared. He was also a connoisseur in all sorts of drinks; not that he was extravagant,—on the contrary, he was to a degree self-denying, and even with all his little generosities and his care of his sisterMary he managed to leave two thousand pounds, saved out of his always moderate income, to make that sister comfortable. He wrote to Wordsworth: "God help me! I am a Christian, an Englishman, a Londoner, a Templar. When I put off these snug relations and go to the world to come, I shall be like a crow on the sand." Lamb said that oftentimes absurd images forced themselves with irresistible power upon his mind,—such, for instance, as an elephant in a coach office gravely waiting to have his trunk booked; or a mermaid over a fish-kettle cooking her own tail![144]
Wordsworth—to whom we have already alluded more than once—was at times distressingly poor, and in such straitened circumstances that he and his family denied themselves meat for days together. Had it not been for the admirable influence of his sister Dorothy, who cheered his spirits and counteracted his morbid tendencies, his mind might have drifted into something like insanity. His disappointment was great at the comparative failure of his literary work, which brought him little in the way of pecuniary return during his life. A fortunate legacy and comparatively sinecure office, however, finally afforded him humble independence.
It seems gratuitous to refer to the natural weaknessof so pure and good a man as Wordsworth, but we have tried to be impartial in these pages. Grand and simple as our poet was, he had the element of vanity snugly stowed away among his attributes, yet ready to betray itself on occasion. It is related that sometimes when he met a little child he would stop and ask him to observe his face carefully, so that in after years the child might be able to say he had seen the great Wordsworth. "Wordsworth," says Charles Lamb, "one day told me that he considered Shakespeare greatly overrated. 'There is,' said he, 'an immensity of trick in all Shakespeare wrote, and people are taken by it. Now, if I had a mind, I could write exactly like Shakespeare!' So you see," added Lamb, "it was only the mind that was wanting!" The late James T. Fields, who was a hearty admirer and personal friend of the poet, said, "Yes, Wordsworth was vain; but think for a moment what he has produced, and how much he had in him to be self-conscious of!"
Colton, better known by hisnom de plumeof "Lacon," is a vivid illustration of the eccentricities of genius. Though he was a man whose personal character is entirely unworthy of our respect, yet no one can deny that he was endowed with marked and original powers. He comes before us in our day simply as the author of his remarkable Laconics, full of spontaneous thoughts happily expressed, and which will compare favorably with the apothegms of Bacon or the terse brevities of Rochefoucauld. Theeccentricities and irregularities of Colton are almost too extravagant for belief, and certainly will not bear rehearsal. At one and the same time a clergyman of fair repute and the secret companion of sporting-men and gamblers, he was always playing a double part. He was the author of several important pamphlets and some excellent poetry, and, when abroad, the well-paid correspondent of the London press. Notwithstanding the wit and consummate wisdom of the volume which made him famous, it must be admitted that he was incapable of appreciating what was grand and noble in principle. Deeply in debt, he fled to Paris to escape the importunities of his creditors, where he became a confirmed and undisguised gambler. Here at one time he realized such an extraordinary run of luck as to break a famous bank, becoming the possessor of nearly thirty thousand pounds. His experience was like that of nearly every one who becomes suddenly rich in a similar manner. He lost every penny of his winnings within a few weeks, and retired to Fontainebleau, where he ended his life by suicide.[145]In future generations, when his personal career is forgotten, his one remarkable literary monument will still remain, like the column of Luxor, imperishable.
It is known to every mathematician that the regular gambler must lose in the end, even though he may "break the bank" now and then. Even if the bank is honestly conducted, all the chances are against him. The theory of probabilities has become almost an exact science. Arago,—the famous French astronomer and natural philosopher,—when consulted by a gentleman who was infatuated with the terrible vice of gambling, told him, within a few francs, how much he had lost the preceding year. "But I must play," was the answer. "It is true that I find my fortune diminishing every year, as you have stated; but can you not tell me how, on a capital of five million francs, I may save enough to give me a decent burial in the end?" Arago, after learning the gambler's method of playing, and the sum he risked, told him that he must reduce the amount of his daily ventures to a certain small number of francs, and that, according to the law of chances, however cool and calm his playing, he would lose his five million francs in about fifteen years. Every body of stockholders in a faro bank can calculate on twenty per cent of their investment being returned to them yearly.
Could genius enjoy the advantage of being judged by its peers, it would stand a better chance for contemporary fame; but overshadowed, as it so often is, by foibles, waywardness, and those passions alike common to the humble and the exalted, it must pass through the crucible of time to fit it for sincere homage. Robert Burns, whose struggle with fatebegan almost beside the cradle, and whose youth was one ceaseless buffeting with misfortune, is an illustration in point. His productions are not of a character to set aside altogether the remembrance of his follies, though we are all inclined to treat the memory of the Scottish bard with indulgence and half reverence, while we hasten to acknowledge his great and unquestioned genius. Burns was sadly addicted to whiskey and tobacco, which led Byron, as we have already said, to call him "a strange compound of dirt and deity." The author of "Childe Harold" forgot the proverb about those who live in glass houses. Burns, from early youth, was subject to extraordinary fits of dejection, which amounted to a species of hypochondria, long before convivial society had inoculated him with the then popular vice of intemperance. He became finally an incongruous mixture of mirth and melancholy, while poverty with its attendant ills was seldom from his door. He writes to a friend: "I have been for some time pining under secret wretchedness; the pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, and some wandering stabs of remorse settle on my vitals like vultures when my attention is not called away by the claims of society or the vagaries of the Muse." Poor, ill-fated genius![146]By his follies and indulgences he as surely committed suicide in his thirty-seventh yearas did the starving, half-delirious Chatterton on his bed of straw.
Mrs. Dunlop, an early patroness of Burns, had in her family an old and favored housekeeper, who did not exactly relish her mistress's attention to a man of such low estate. In order to overcome her prejudice, her mistress induced the domestic to read one of Burns's poems, the "Cotter's Saturday Night." When Mrs. Dunlop inquired her opinion of the poem, the housekeeper replied with quaint indifference, "Aweel, madam, that's vera weel." "Is that all you have to say in its favor?" asked the mistress. "'Deed, madam," she replied, "the like o' you quality may see a vast in 't; but I was aye used the like o' all that the poet has written about in my ain father's house, and atweel I dinna ken how he could hae described it any other gate." When Burns heard of the old woman's criticism, he remarked that it was one of the highest compliments he had ever received.
The name of Thoreau suggests itself in this connection. He lived in a cabin erected by himself on the borders of Walden Pond, a voluntary hermit, frugal and self-denying, that he might enjoy a studious retirement. The intimate friend of Emerson and Hawthorne must have had fine original qualities to commend him. Known at the outset only as an oddity, he grew finally to be respected and admired for his quaint genius. He experienced a disappointment in love, which doubtless had much to do with his social peculiarities.[147]In business and the affairs of every-day life he was utterly impracticable. He supported himself during his college course at Cambridge by teaching school, doing carpentering, and other work. The restrictions of society were intolerable to him; he never attended church, never paid a tax, and never voted. He ate no flesh, drank no wine, never used tobacco, and though a naturalist, used neither trap nor gun. When asked at dinner what dish he preferred, he answered, "The nearest." "So many negative superiorities smack somewhat of the prig," says one of his reviewers. "Time," says Thoreau, in his fanciful way, "is but a stream I go fishing in. I drink at it, but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper—fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars." He worshipped Nature in all her forms, and depicted with a loving and exuberant fancy hills and water, with the myriad life which peopled them. He wrote several books which are read to-day with more of interest than when the author was alive.
Genius and inspiration are so nearly allied as to leave no dividing line, and the sublimity of martyrdom is often added to the column of fame. Joan of Arc, the most illustrious heroine of history, was born a poor peasant girl of Lorraine; but at the age of eighteen, impelled by an exalted enthusiasm, she commanded an army of devoted followers, and raising the siege of Orleans gave to Charles VII. a crown. At the age of thirteen she said she received commands from Heaven to go and liberate France; and with a confidence of Divine support she pursued her mission. No romancer would dare to imagine or portray so glorious a heroine; fiction could not equal the actual deeds that this pure and lowly girl accomplished.[148]That she was the agent of Divine Providence to bring about a great political object goes without saying; yet this maid of Domremy was burned at the stake.
Rachel, the child of poverty, the itinerant of the Parisian boulevards, infused with genius, suddenly became the idol of courts and of princes, being as devoutly worshipped by the lovers of art on the banks of the Neva and the Thames as on the shores of her beautiful Seine. How strange were the vicissitudes of this wonderful artist, this frail child of genius! An actress of transcendent dramatic power, she leaves us the souvenir of a splendid star of histrionic art extinguished when it burned the brightest. One day, when Rachel was thus singing and reciting on the publicstreet, a benevolent-looking man, with pitying eyes, was attracted, in passing, by the child's intelligent look, and put a five-franc piece in her hand. She took the silver with a grateful courtesy and watched him until he passed out of sight. A citizen who had seen the generous act said, "That was Victor Hugo;" and the child-actress remembered the name ever after. But little did the great poet anticipate what the pale-faced child was destined to become in that world of art of which he was so distinguished a disciple.
Edwin Forrest, our own famous tragedian, was in Paris in 1836, and was invited by the manager to see an actress who was to make her début at one of the theatres on a certain evening. The manager asked him, in the course of the performance, what he thought of the débutante. Forrest replied that he feared she would never rise above mediocrity, and added, "But that Jewish-looking girl, that little bag of bones, with the marble face and the flaming eyes,—there is demoniacal power in her. If she lives and does not burn out too soon, she will make a great actress." He referred to Rachel, then in her fifteenth year. We all know how that genius developed. Parsimony was a fixed trait of her character; she could not help it. "Is it any wonder," she once said to a friend, "that I should be fond of money, considering the suffering I went through in my youth to earn a few sous?"
It appears as if Nature scattered her seeds of genius to the wind, so many take root and blossom in sterileplaces, and also that she delights to add vigor and glory to her chance productions. Thus Adelina Patti, the greatest prima donna of her day, was once a barefooted child in the streets of New York. Kings and queens, spellbound by her glorious voice, have delighted to honor her; but her domestic life was wrecked at the moment of her greatest professional triumph. Complete success is granted to none. Some bitterness is sure to tincture our cup of bliss, for, after all, it is of earth and not of heaven. Perfection may exist with angels above, but not among mortals. The life of genius is beset with extraordinary temptations; the stimulating spur of praise, flattery, and high homage should be, but rarely is, counterbalanced by the curb of reason. We have already seen that great genius and true domestic happiness are seldom found under the same roof. The extraordinary development of certain faculties argues diminution in others; and where there are extremes, it is ever difficult to harmonize the various parts.
Miss Landon, the youthful and tender poetess and novelist, known to the world by her familiar signature "L. E. L.," coined the treasures of her brain to support those who were dependent upon her. In one of her letters she says, "My life, since the age of fifteen years, has been one incessant struggle with adversity." Her productions can hardly be said to bear the stamp of high genius, but they enjoyed a certain popularity and procured the much-needed money. The mystery of her early and mournful death is only known inheaven. She died from a dose of prussic acid, in her thirty-sixth year, which was also her bridal year.[149]
The infinitely sweet and touching poems of Mrs. Hemans were the outflow of a heart yearning for human affection and finding it not. Her domestic life also proved to be a marked failure. She separated from her husband after six years of married life, and never saw him again. Her genius was early developed; her poems were contributed to the London press at the age of fifteen.[150]She died at the age of forty-one, worn out by domestic unhappiness and ill health. She has herself said, "There is strength deep-bedded in our hearts, of which we reck but little till the shafts of heaven have pierced its frail dwelling. Must not earth be rent before her gems are found?" "It has been the fashion among youthful critics of late," says Epes Sargent, "to undervalue her productions; but not a few of these have a charm, a tenderness, and a spirit which must make them long dear to the hearts of the many." Her complete works, containing a tragedy entitled, "The Vespers of Palermo," are contained in six volumes. We may alsorecall the sad, sad life of Charlotte Bronté, the poor curate's daughter, whose orphaned childhood was so miserable, and whose youth was drudgery as a schoolteacher at sixteen pounds a year. Under the pressure of extreme ill health and a heart nearly broken with sorrow, this daughter of genius produced "Jane Eyre," a novel of such power, piquancy, and originality as to take the reading world by storm. She was finally married, but only to die in her bridal year. The three daughters of Rev. Patrick Bronté were each endowed with literary genius, which under happier circumstances might have developed into famous results. Charlotte wrote, as we have said, "Jane Eyre;" Emily wrote "Wuthering Heights," an almost equally popular novel; and Anne wrote the "Tenant of Wildfell Hall." The three unitedly published in 1846 "Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell," the sisters' respective pseudonyms.[151]The father's income was one hundred and seventy pounds a year, upon which to support a family of twelve persons. He was a man of more than ordinary culture and of much poetic talent. A volume of his poems was published in 1811, entitled "Cottage Poems." He survived his whole family. Many critics have pronounced "Villette," published by Charlotte a couple of yearsbefore her death, to be superior in construction and interest to "Jane Eyre."
It would seem that deep and thoughtful minds, like deep waters, must have a gloom in them, and that ideal life leads to turbulence of soul. Nathaniel Hawthorne, endowed by Nature with an acute and subtle intellect, always suffered more or less from a morbid sensibility. Even in his youth, like Burns, he was oppressed by fits of deep dejection, which gave his friends much anxiety. His order of genius was of the highest; of that there is no doubt. His style is simple, graceful, and forcible, with a power to awaken intense interest in the characters which he delineated. The "Scarlet Letter" is perhaps the best known and most popular of his several productions; and much of the same half-suppressed, feverish excitement is realized in its perusal as in a degree characterized Hawthorne himself. His most prominent trait as an author lay in his originality and power of analysis.[152]
Insanity is often the result of an overtasked sensitive brain wandering in the realms of fancy. Like a high-mettled horse, it sometimes throws the rider,—as in the instance of Cowper, Collins, and others already spoken of in these pages. Charles Fenno Hoffman, the ripe scholar, poet, and novelist, concededto be one of the best song-writers we have had in America, was bereft of reason and died the inmate of an insane asylum, where the last quarter of his life was passed. While yet a boy, Hoffman met with an accident so serious as to render necessary the amputation of one of his legs, and thenceforth he was obliged to go with a wooden one.
Béranger, like De Foe, was at one period the prime favorite of the Court, and presently was languishing within the dreary walls of the Bastile, where he wrote some of his most effective poems. Contemporary with Béranger was Alfred de Musset, a poet and littérateur of rare excellence, possessed of a flow of poetical genius characterized by passion, vivacity, and grace, notwithstanding that a morbid, misanthropic frame of mind consumed him in secret. His youthful liaison with George Sand is familiar to us all, and no doubt it left a weird influence upon his life. When De Musset received money he would squander it in the most reckless dissipation, then live on bread and onions until he earned another supply, to be lavished in the same manner. He was the intimate friend of the Duke of Orleans, Victor Hugo, and other notable men, but deliberately chose the debasing career of a drunkard, and died at the premature age of forty-seven, a victim to the demon of alcohol.
The grandmother of Alexandre Dumas the elder was an African negress. He enjoyed no educational advantages, until while yet a mere boy, actuated by a Bohemian spirit, which always influenced him moreor less, he wandered away from his native place (Villers-Cotterets, France), and sought a stranger's home in Paris. Many of the varied productions of this prolific and sensual novelist bear testimony to his African origin, in their savage voluptuousness and barbaric taste. Dumas was one of the greatest plagiarists of modern times, so that it was said by his critics that he introduced the sweating system into literature. But no intelligent reader can deny that he was a great genius,[153]—in evidence of which he possessed the thousand and one conventional characteristics of the race. At one time he would resort to all manner of expedients to dodge his creditors and escape arrest for debt, at another scattering gold with the most lavish and inconsiderate hand. Unlike Lamartine, he failed entirely in politics, but certainly was for years the most popular novelist in France. Dumas was frequently in the receipt of large sums in gold from the many popular books which he wrote. When this money was received it was placed in a pile upon the table of his sitting-room, and if appealed to in behalf of a charity, or asked for aid by an impecunious caller, he sent the parties tohelp themselvesas long as the pile of napoleons lasted! Such reckless disregard of reasonable care for money seems almost incredible; but thisstory is authenticated by his son, the present popular author and dramatist, Alexandre Dumas.
The life of Douglas Jerrold is still another example of the mutability of fortune; at first call-boy in a theatre, then a sailor, and finally a printer's apprentice, he became at last a famous dramatist, essayist, wit, and humorist. The anecdote of his first contribution to the press is perhaps not too familiar to repeat. He was a youthful compositor in a publishing office, where he ventured to drop anonymously into the editor's box a contribution consisting of a criticism on "Der Freischütz." He lay awake that night thinking of his venture, and the next morning was rendered half frantic with joy when his copy was handed to him to be put into type by his own hands. Appended to the copy the editor had written a note, asking the anonymous author for further contributions. Jerrold became a prominent member of the brilliant coterie which made "Punch," that daring wag, a great moral and political power. Many of his best sayings—flashes of wit like those of Wycherley, Congreve, and Sheridan—rarely found their way into print, being uttered in small social circles, or in the society of the London clubs, where he was rather feared for the keenness of his satire, as he was no respecter of persons. As a dramatist Jerrold is best known by those popular plays, "The Rent Day" and "Black-Eyed Susan,"[154]the latter being still considered the best nautical drama on the stage. Good-fellowship, as it is falsely called, was the bane of Jerrold's life; and though he realized a most liberal income, he died poor and grievously in debt. During the last years of his life he was editor of "Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper," from which he received one thousand pounds per annum, besides an income of a very handsome amount for other and various literary work.
Charles Dickens, whose early career was not without its severe discipline, and who was indisputably one of the greatest literary geniuses of modern times, certainly shortened his life by free living. He was extravagantly fond of the pleasures of the table, and a constant participant in convivial occasions.[155]Undoubtedly his domestic infelicity was largely attributable to a habit of overstimulating, besides which, brandy and continuous literary effort are incompatible with each other. His later works will not compare favorably with his earlier ones. "Our Mutual Friend" was not worthy of his reputation; and the half of "Edwin Drood" which was published was not of a character to make an intelligent reader desire more. At fifty-eight his brain was failing. Both Dickens and Thackeray were really sacrificed to the Moloch of conviviality. The latter was not only a remarkable novelist, but is entitled to distinct fame as a poet. He was a man of noble impulses, and charitable to a fault. He inherited a small fortune, in the expenditure of which he was very lavish, at one time giving the impecunious Dr. Maginn five hundred pounds,—an unfortunate brother author who appealed to Thackeray when he was in a strait; and no needy man was ever refused by the author of "Vanity Fair."
There are few objects which if held up against a strong light, will not betray some defect. A perfect emerald was perhaps never seen, and almost as rare is a perfect diamond; the magnifying-glass is pretty sure to detect some flaw in the gem, be it never so small. So the microscope applied to genius is apt to discover those imperfections of humanity from which no mortal is entirely exempt. Washington said it was lamentable that great characters are so seldom without blot.[156]Edgar A. Poe, whose genius has so lately received public recognition, was left an orphan at a tender age, thus lacking the moral influence and training which might have prevented the blight of his after years. His father was a law-student, and his mother an actress named Elizabeth Arnold. Heaven had breathed into his soul the fire of a master-spirit, but at the same time endowed him with a morbid sensitiveness which rendered his imagination weird and gloomy. He became the victim of strong drink, and was thereby marked for an early grave, dying, after an erratic career, in a public hospital. He was an editor, critic, and poet, wielding a most witty but bitterly sarcastic pen. When penniless and in absolute want, he wrote to a friend, with a supreme contempt of the very sinews of war for which he was suffering: "The Romans worshipped their standard, and the Roman standard happened to be an eagle. Our standard is only one tenth of an eagle, one dollar, but we make all even by adoring it with tenfold devotion." Even in boyhood Poe developed a wild, unruly disposition, being expelled from the University of Virginia, and afterwards from the West Point Academy. The writer of these pages knew Poe personally, and employed him as a regular contributor to a paper which the writer was editing. Poe's literary reputation rests mainly upon one remarkable poem, "The Raven." Mr. Lowell's portrait of the author of "The Raven" is both concise and true,—"three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge." He was unquestionably a man of genius, but wrong-headed from very childhood.
We must worship our literary heroes and heroines from afar: indeed, this will apply with force to all notables; intimacy is pretty sure to disenchant us. "The love or friendship of such people," says De Quincey, "rather contracts itself into the narrow circle of individuals. You, if you are brilliant likethemselves, they will hate; you, if you are dull, they will despise. Gaze, therefore, on the splendor of such idols as a passing stranger. Look for a moment as one sharing in the idolatry, but pass on before the splendor has been sullied by human frailty." Admiration is the offspring of ignorance; even where familiarity does not breed contempt, it blunts the keenness of our homage, since to those that know them best, authors quickly come down from their pedestals and become only men and women. One of Byron's biographers lays it down as a rule to avoid writers whose works amuse you; for when you see them they will delight you no more, though Shelley, he admits, was an exception. Mr. Emerson thought the conditions of literary success almost destructive of the best social powers. We are told by Lockhart that Scott could not endure, in London or Edinburgh, the little exclusive circles of literary society; he craved the company of men of business and affairs. "It is much better to read authors than to know them," says Horace Walpole. Speaking of young Mr. Burke, he says (in 1761), that although a remarkably sensible man, "he has not worn off his authorship yet, and thinks there is nothing so charming as writers, and to be one. He will know better one of these days." Even Byron hated authors who were all author,—"fellows in foolscap uniform turned up with ink." Miss Mitford, in the ripeness of her experience, wrote that authors "as a general rule are the most disappointing people in the world;" muchpreferring persons who loved letters to those who followed the profession of authorship. Sir Egerton Brydges, the prolific writer of sonnets, novels, essays, letters, etc., says: "I have observed that vulgar readers almost always lose their veneration for the writings of the genius with whom they have had personal intercourse."
We have spoken several times of the remuneration realized by authors for their literary productions, and perhaps a few more words upon this subject may be of interest to the general reader.
In the reigns of William III., Anne, and George I., literature, however excellent, could not find a sufficient market to fairly requite its authors. Intelligent, cultured men could not realize remunerative incomes by their pen; so the political chiefs of those days came forward and extended official patronage to them in a manner which was often princely and munificent. Thus Congreve, scarcely yet twenty-one years of age, was given a place under Government which made him independent for life. Rowe, poet and dramatist, author of "Tamerlane," was made under-secretary of state, and finally became poet-laureate, in 1714. Hughes, the poet and dramatist, also held a lucrative Government office; he was the author of the "Siege of Damascus," a drama, singular to say, which was played for the first time on the evening of his death. Ambrose Phillips, an author of similar character, was made judge of the prerogative court of Ireland. Locke, the English philosopher, philanthropist, andvoluminous writer, was the recipient of liberal Government patronage. Newton, it will be remembered, was made Master of the Royal Mint. Stepney, the poet, of whom Dr. Johnson said, "He is a very licentious translator, and does not recompense the neglect of his author by beauties of his own," was honored by various appointments, as also was Matthew Prior, of whom the same critic heartily approved. Gay was made Secretary of Legation at five-and-twenty,—he whom we have seen come up to London and begin life as a mercer's clerk. Montague is another illustrious example of those geniuses who may be said to have enjoyed at least a degree of sunshine as well as of shadow. His poem on the death of Charles II. led to his various appointments and his earldom. Steele was made Commissioner of Stamps, and Swift came very near being made a bishop.[157]Addison was appointed Secretary of State, and Dr. Johnson was the recipient of a pension. The reader can easily add instances to such as we have enumerated as those most readily presenting themselves. In our own day excellence in literature is much more remunerative, and in a legitimate business way. Good books sell, and authors receive fair royalties thereon; but even among us instances of official recognition for literary meritare not wanting. We recall in this connection Bancroft the historian, as Minister to Germany; Lowell the scholar and poet, Minister to the Court of St. James. Hawthorne, Irving, Everett, Motley, Bayard Taylor, Howells, and others, have all been officially recognized in a similar manner.
CHAPTER VIII.
Egotism in eminent characters is often amusing to us, but extremely undignified in them. It is almost always the betrayal of weakness,—the tongue of vanity. He who talks of himself, however humble the words, exposes a proud heart. Still, as Emerson says, "there are dull and bright, sacred and profane, coarse and fine egotists." Carlyle was an egotist of the first water, and so were many other famous authors. Demosthenes expressed his pleasure when even a fishwoman pointed him out in the streets of Athens. Margaret Fuller once wrote: "I have now met all the minds of this country worth meeting, and find none comparable to my own "! The admiration point is ours; the words evince most insufferable vanity. No wonder Emerson complained of her "mountainous me," or that Lowell called the whole of her being a "capital I." Even the gentle, undemonstrative Hawthorne was obliged to denounce her vanity; and yet Margaret was a woman full of kindly human instinct and of remarkable culture. Dickens was vain,[158]egotistical, and selfish,—traits which grewupon him as he advanced in years. Thackeray, in his frank, open way, acknowledged his delight at being recognized by street gamins as the author of "Vanity Fair." Hans Andersen, like Dante, confidently predicted his own future greatness. Kepler declared that "God has not sent in six thousand years an observer like myself." Buffon's vanity was proverbial and ridiculous; and yet the man was not ridiculous according to Pope's idea, that "every man has just so much vanity as he lacks understanding," for we all know that Buffon was a profound naturalist and scholar. "I am the greatest historian that ever lived," wrote Gibbon in his private diary; and Goethe said, "All I have had to do, I have done in kingly fashion." Albert Dürer, in reviewing his own work, wrote, "It cannot be better done." Though he had in his day many admirers, and has even some at the present time, we confess that his pictures have no attraction for us. However, he has unquestionable merit as an engraver, and was court painter to Charles V. Ruskin's conceit peeps out everywhere in his writings. Nothing could be more egotistical than Disraeli's (Beaconsfield) novels. George Sand boastfully betrays her own liaison with De Musset in her popular story of "Elle et Lui." "I shall be read," says Southey, "by posterity, if I am not read now,—read with Milton, and Virgil, and Dante, when poets whose works arenow famous will only be known through a biographical dictionary."[159]Most of the eminent men among the ancients were superlatively conceited and vain. Plato quoted the oracle which pronounced him great; Cæsar frequently commends himself, and so does Cicero. Pliny puts himself on record as one of this class when he wrote to Venator: "The longer your letter was, so much the more agreeable I thought it, especially as it turned entirely upon my works. I am not surprised you should find a pleasure in them, since I know you have the same affection for every composition of mine as you have for the author." "A modern instance" occurs to us here. When a certain distinguished lady asked Lord Brougham, the great English orator and author, who was thebestdebater in the House of Lords, his lordship modestly replied, "Lord Stanley is thesecondbest, madam." That some people who despise flatterers do not hesitate to flatter themselves, is an axiom to the truth of which we must all subscribe.