fountains that refresh, that wide and flowery and unfading world, evoked by the poets and scholars of the Past! "A populous solitude of bees and birds, And fairy-formed, and many-colored things." BYRON. Even as some ruined wretch loves to dwell and linger on the peaceful hours, that preceded some black, disastrous change, so I would fain bescrawl whole sheets of foolscap, rhapsodizing over the happiness of that long and quiet year. After the dire discomfiture detailed above, I hoped that inordinate ambition was dead within me. But the serpent only slept. To change the figure, my boat, torn loose from her moorings by that rhetorical storm, had already shot down the Rapids of the Phlegethon, and the brief calm that ensued was but the deceitful "smoothness of the torrent" before it took its final and tremendous leap. On revisiting the home of my childhood in the six weeks' vacation of '48, I found a portion of my time to lie heavy on my hands. One day, the editor of our village paper asked me to write something for his columns. I complied. I wrote a poem and a tale. They were published, and some people, who perhaps could not distinguish poetry from codfish, or sentiment from sauerkraut, praised them to the echo. "Hinc mihe prima mali labes." From that day I date my ruin. The itch for writing and the lust of praise shot like fire through all my being. Semper ego lector tantum"? I mentally exclaimed. 66 Shall I rank forever among the "fruges consumere nati"? Shall I always be omniverous, and not omnivomous also? No! I will turn producer. I have written and been praised. I will write again, and be praised yet more. I will plume my wings for a bolder flight, and perch in some of those periodicals which give direction to the national taste, and an "odor of nationality" to a writer's name. My "nom de plume" shall ring from the bayous of Texas to the wooded shores of Memphremagog, and, after enjoying my anonymous glory for a time, my muse shall come forth "confessa deam," and I will sit down in fullorbed resplendence on the green Aonian heights. Accordingly I conceived and papered down two little poems and a brief essay. I mailed them, and they were published in a popular magazine-I will not say whether the Knickerbocker, or the Southern Literary, or one of the Milliner's monthlies of Philadelphia. I have since continued writingas secretly as if it were a crime, as zealously as if it were a virtuefor various periodicals, yours included, as also for the newspapers of this and other cities. Some have been published, and many rejected; while most, worthy, it seems, neither to be "damned," nor yet forgiven, remain suspended "in Limbo Patrum," uncursed and unbeatifiedperhaps to be amended by the torturing scissors, perhaps to be purified in purgatorial fire. But ever since the safe delivery of my first-born bantling, and its public exhibition in all the pride of types and paper, I have become another man--the very antipode of my former self. With the aspirations of a book-wright, vanities and vices, whose name is "Legion," have peopled my intellectual realm. One short year agone and I was a quiet, unpretending student, unenvious, unselfish, whose thoughts and fancies moved in a sweet, spontaneous round of bookish reveries, and lazy, retrospective dreams. Then I could bury myself in a play or a poem, a novel or a history, and, drowning my individual consciousness in the sentiments of the author, or in the acts and passions of his characters, I could live long, blessed hours in that wild, imaginary world, which, though intangible, is no less real, and far more lovely than this visible and outward sphere. Then, too, my love and reverence for all that was grand or beautiful in that vast, ideal realm, were so absolute and so abstract, that they were almost holy. But now, how changed! how fallen! Heu, heu! Quid volui misero mihi? Floribus austrum The flowers of Fancy are withered by the breath of Care, and the feet of Jealousy and wild Ambition have roiled the clear springs of Thought. My spiritual firmament, erst so calm and pure, is now darkened by the gathering elements of cloud and storm, and its atmosphere is hourly riven with sharp, electric shocks. "Farewell, content! farewell, the tranquil mind!" I am no longer a "looker on in Venice." I have become a man of business-jealous, anxious, agitated, restless. No more do I worship Literature for her own sweet self, or bring my votive offering to the Muses from a pure and simple heart. I am now a priest at their altar, and offer sacrifice professionally, not like a private devotee, from genuine reverence, or unadulterated love, but that I may have my share of the fatness. Once, I was content to look on Genius in the silence of admiring awe, and I watched his kindling features and heard his fervent words, always with a beating heart and not infrequently with gushing eyes. Now I am an unfeeling rival of those, on whom I once looked as a wrapt spectator. I cannot pause to admire the beauty of their forms, the grace of their movements, or the marvel of their speed. I am myself in the stadium; I feel myself running neck and neck with them, and my care is not to be outstripped. My neck is stretched forward with inflexible rigidity, and my gaze is fixed, earnest and unswerving, on the goal of glory, that gleams before me through the dusty distance. I dare scarce wink, much less turn my eyes on my competitors, whether in fear, or wonder, lest that very movement deprive me of the laurel crown, or, more distressing still in this moneyloving, multi-scribbling age, lose me the "purse of gold." While I was merely a reader, I could accord to all authors, ungrudgingly, their rightful meed of praise. Now that I am myself an author, I regard them with a brotherly eye, that is, with the jealous leer of a member of the same brotherhood. In a word, I look on all writers, dead, living, or to live, as so many odious rivals, whose elevation is my abasement -whose riches are my loss-whose triumphs are my own disaster and defeat. For every passion of the human mind, and particularly its ca pacity of admiration, is of a limited extent. Men cannot be enthusiastic always. The world cannot open its eyes, and lift up its hands, and raise its voice in astonished eulogy of everything. The aggregate of excitability diffused among mankind, remains from age to age nearly unaltered. In the presence, for example, of great events, small incidents pass by unheeded, while, in default of overwhelming excitements, minor objects possess their share of attraction. The more numerous, then, the competitors for the world's applause, the smaller each one's modicum of praise; or, in scientific language, a÷<=>: i. e., the larger the divisor for this fixed dividend, the less the quotient. I cannot, therefore, but regard all authors, past, present, and to come, as rival luminaries, each contributing to "pale my ineffectual fire." More particularly, as the plebeian pauper has always eyed the opulent patrician with glances of jealousy and hatred, so am I forced to view with indignant antipathy the rich and noble aristocracy of mind. For had they not said and printed almost all the best things, which can be thought of, and that in the best possible manner, I should doubtless have said and printed many or most of them myself. I am envious of Addison, and jealous of Irving, I look upon Milton as the wearer of my predestined laurels, and Pope as the preöccupant of my rightful throne--but at Homer and Shakespeare I cast an eye of the bitterest malignance; for are they not the original and mighty reservoirs of most that is choice in language or beautiful in thought? By what right did these literary Nimrods overrun and subject the world of Imagination? Did the accident of primogeniture give these unscrupulous landlopers the privilege of "squatting" over all the wilderness of Feeling, and claiming a "pre-emptionary" right to a whole continent of wit? Our ancestors be hanged! What have they left to us but their miserable refuse-frivolous originality, or bald common-place, or barren imitation ? My chief reading is now in obscure or obsolete writers. I am less painfully affected with a sense of inferiority, and I can filch an occasional jewel with less risk of detection. The perusal of first-rate authors has ceased to be a pleasure. Their splendor pains my eyes, and I never consult them but for three objects--first, to discover, Delilah-like, the secret of their super-human power: second, to disguise their beauties, and pass them as my own: and, third, to make avowed quotations. In all these aims I am constantly fretted and baffled. The charm, that endows them with their beauty and their strength is subtle, elusive, impalpable as air. It is as real, yet intangible, as vital, yet unseizable, as the essence of the soul. It is the mystic principle, and uncounterfeited gift of GENIUS. As for their jewels, I cannot successfully steal them. Before they can be disguised beyond detection, they must be so fractured, discolored and disfigured, that their beauty and nobleness are gone. My only gain from them is in direct quotations. Here, again, I am wofully distressed. The most beautiful are the most obvious, and these have been quoted and quoted till they are worn to tatters. The less hackneyed are also less beautiful, and are seldom apropos" to the context. I have three large books filled with extracts 66 from various authors-pregnant.sentiments, and happy phrases. They are mostly new; but I find them hard to introduce. I have sometimes written a whole half-page, diverting the natural course of thought, for the sole purpose of finding a fair pretext to insert them. As an instance, I have vainly striven through a dozen articles dexterously to employ a line of Byron--certainly the most graphic and life-like in the world. Seeing no prospect of employing it appropriately, unless I were to write a Sternly" Sentimental Tour through France," I have determined to get rid of it at once, 66 apropos des bottes." So here I lug it in, head and shoulders; "By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone." But quotations embarrass me greatly in another way. I am afraid not to quote freely, lest my reading may be thought limited. Moreover if my own writing be dull, these "borrowings" may serve to embellish, enliven and enrich it. On the other hand, if I quote too largely, I may be thought unoriginal and unfruitful. The reader, also, may see too clearly the superiority of the woof over the warp-of the quotations over the context, and I may be miserably eclipsed by a blaze of my own kindling. An My miseries are not yet half recounted. Every circumstance surrounding the composition, publication and reception of my pieces is pregnant with anxiety, or vexation. In composing, I am wretchedly at a loss what to retain, and what expunge. I have read heedfully the rhetorical directions of Quinctilian, Blair, and Campbell. They only make "confusion worse confounded." They commend the fullness of Livy-they eulogize the condensation of Tacitus: which shall I adopt? I appreciate the strength of a vigorous brevity-I see the beauty of rotund completeness. If I strive for each, shall I miss of both? or can erring mortal hit the happy medium? I fear to say too much, lest it prove wearisome-I am loth to omit any idea, lest it be one which some man, woman, or child will especially admire. author's vanity generally leads me to insert all, and hence I fear my style is prolix and "stretchy" as caoutchouc. Then, too, I am often sadly puzzled between the love of immediate applause, and the desire of an enduring reputation. I am reluctant to write my very best in fugitive magazines, lest I have not good things enough remaining to furnish out the many larger works, either planned, or already on the stocks, and destined for immortality. In this fear, though not without a long struggle, I concluded to keep my best paragraphs out of this very article. The full description of my school days I have reserved, intending it to form nine graphic chapters in a Novel now commenced with the title of "The Life and Loves of Timothy Tickletoe, Gent :". A "vari-form" and pleasant picture of student-life I have retained for another novel to be called "The Yalensians," or "The Mysteries of New Haven." The numerous other points, in this piece lightly touched on, I have resolved to hammer out in extenso, and publish under the name of "Miseries of Authorship." The Messrs. Harper, by the way, have not yet replied to my note, inquiring whether they thought such a work would sell. But I am distressed on the other hand, to think that of the seven Metaphysical Treatises, five Histories, four Epics, eleven Novels, and nine Miscellaneous Gatherings, already commenced, or projected, it may be that not one will ever reach completion. The lamp of life may go out, or the light of mind be extinguished. Beside, they thicken so fast upon me, that they distract me, and obstruct each other. Then, too, is not a bird in the hand worth too, yes, a dozen in the bush? And may not my magazine articles, if bereft of my choicest thoughts, become flat, unreadable, and alas! un-praise-worthy. On reflection, therefore, I think that, if this article render your July "Literary" popular enough to call for a second edition, I will get you to publish the portions, here excluded, in an appendix. But after I have completed a piece to my satisfaction, I am more miserable than ever. I am intolerably anxious before its appearance, lest it be not published, and after its publication, lest it be not praised. An anonymous and unsuspected author, I lounge restlessly from room to room, hoping to hear a chance note of commendation from some one who has read and liked it. With beating heart and eager ear, I stray among public places, sit absorbed in reading-rooms, walk slowly and anxiously by groups of chatting students, and-shall I confess it ?I, at times, beneath the open college windows, enact the nocturnal eaves-dropper, listening with unutterable yearnings for some casual laudation. Alas! I am but seldom gratified. Oftener I hear the "civil sneer," the open laugh, or the cool, critical, damnatory sentence. More than once I have mistaken the allusion, and been made happy by encomiums, or wretched by censures, that had no reference to me. But what means this silent neglect of my numerous writings? Have men combined to persecute me by their indifference, or have the fates colleagued to keep far from my wishful ears those breezes of applause, which have become the very air I breathe, and the very life I live? It cannot be that my writings are unworthy of commendation. Oh, no! the thought would kill me. But this is a selfish age, stinted in its praise, unmeasured in its censure. Among collegians I have little solace. Some never read, and others cannot appreciate. Seniors are high, cold and careless. They are old warriors, and have "seen the elephant." They have been "through the mill," and have had all enthusiasm ground out of them. Many of them are in love, others have grown anxious and worldly, and the rest, wearied by three years application to books and sciences, turn their backs on magazines in general, and yours in particular, lazily reposing on their laurels, and "dreaming of days to come." Juniors are jealous. They are on the "quarter stretch," and the critical "distance post" looms full in view. Relative positions are on the point of ascertainment, and animosities and rivalries run high. In that the mysterious characters, brought by Cadmus into Greece, and among which may be named acquire a sudden and surprising interest. Juniors, then, cannot be expected to praise an anonymous writer, except year |